The Legend of Ghost Dog Island

By Rita Monette

Behind Every Legend Lies the Truth.

Moving is nothing new for ten-year-old Nikki Landry. Her father relocates their raggedy old houseboat several times a year in search of better crabbing spots. However, their latest move has brought her to a mysterious bayou where she feels something is watching her from a nearby island.

Nikki l

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirror World Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781987976007

Rita Monette

Rita Monette was born and raised in Southwest Louisiana. After retiring from her "real" job as an administrative assistant for the State of Michigan, Rita began doing what she always wanted to do...write and draw. Her stories are set in the beautiful, yet mysterious, bayous and swamps of her home state. The Mystery on Lost Lagoon is the fourth book in her Nikki Landry Swamp Legend series, which is based on her childhood. Rita now lives with her husband, four lap dogs, and one lap cat, in the mountains of Tennessee.

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The Legend of Ghost Dog Island

Rita Monette

E-BOOK EDITION

The Legend of Ghost Dog Island © 2015 by Mirror World Publishing and Rita Monette

Edited by: Gail Dowsett

Cover by: Wicked Cover Designs

Published by Mirror World Publishing in September, 2015

All Rights Reserved.

*This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons is entirely coincidental.

Mirror World Publishing

Windsor, Ontario

www.mirrorworldpublishing.com

[e-mail]

ISBN: 978-1-987976-00-7

For Dylan, whose passion for books sparked my passion for writing for children.

Cajun French Words

Welcome to the bayous of Louisiana. While you’re here, learn to speak a little Cajun. Here are some Cajun words used in the book, (how the natives say them), and what they mean. Watch out for that Rougarou and the Ouragon!

Bonjour (bon jor)—good morning

Bonsoir (bon swah)—good evening or good night

Cher (shah)—dear

Etoufee (ay too fay)—gravy dish made of crawfish, usually served over rice

Gris gris (gdee gdee)—magic spells

Mais (may)—but or well

Merci (mer see)—thank you

Ouais (weah)—yeah

Ouragon (oodaga)—hurricane

Pirogue (pee rog)—small boat pointed at both ends used to navigate the bayous

Roux (roo)—mixture of wheat flour and oil, used to make gumbo

Rougarou (Roo garoo)—werewolf, said to live in Louisiana bayous

Tee or tite—short for petite or little.

´Tite fille (teet fee)—little girl

Chapter 1 - Louisiana Legends

I’m going to hate Morgan City, I complained to my dog Snooper, no matter what Papa says.

My beagle laid his head on my lap and gazed up at me with his watery eyes. He pretty much agreed with me on everything.

I sat on the deck of our old flat-bottomed houseboat as it glided through the winding bayous. Papa’s fishing boat, filled with baskets of line and crab crates, trailed behind on its rope. We were leaving Pierre Part…Lydia…far behind. I rolled the legs of my overalls up and dangled my feet over the edge.

Nicole Landry, keep your feet out of that filthy water, Mama hollered from the doorway of the small living area of our floating home. She wiped her hands on her stained apron, then fixed the comb that held her long dark hair in a pile on top of her head. Mama was born and raised in New Orleans, but left the big city for a life in the bayous with Papa. She never looked back. At least that’s what she always told folks.

They ain’t in the water, Mama. I held my legs up so she could see they were dry.

She opened the patched screened door and shooed a fly out, before closing it and going back inside.

I twirled the end of my long black braid. Moving to a new place always gave me a lump in my throat as big as a bullfrog. But I wasn’t going to cry this time. I was ten years old after all.

I’d lived in that same house since the day I was born—as Mama always tells it, the coldest morn’ of 1946. But I couldn’t rightly recall how many times it got tied up to a new dock. Mama liked to say Papa never let the grass grow under his feet. But I could hardly think of a time when his rubber boots ever touched grass.

Papa grew up in Morgan City, and he said folks there were mighty friendly. But it seemed to me, most city dwellers weren’t too welcoming to my kind, being from the wrong side of the levee and all. And the city was where I’d have to go to school.

And, as for making friends with any kids there, no way. I shook my finger in Snoop’s face. Just to up and leave ’em behind anyway.

He managed a tiny whimper, as if I was fussing at him.

I thought about Lydia standing on the Belle River Bridge waving goodbye. My eyes burned, and I squeezed ’em shut. I felt in my pocket for her note. I’d read it at least a hundred times since she’d handed it to me, right before I went stomping down the ladder from her tree house. She’d scribbled down her post office box address and write me, then signed her name with the little heart over the i like she always did.

Hmph! I told Snooper. She’s crazy if she thinks I’m gonna write her after what she did.

Lydia Hebert was my best friend in the whole world…until yesterday. It wasa lot easier to leave while I was still mad at her. But now it felt like an empty hole inside me.

As the propeller stirred up smells of rotting seaweed and dead fish, I stared out into the swamp. A cypress tree all draped in silver moss stared back at me like a crooked old woman dipping her hair into the muddy bayou. Its twisted limbs reached out to me. I shuddered.

Papa loved telling legends about those swamps…and what might be living out there. I was pretty sure most were just old Cajun stories with no truth to ’em at all. But they sure could give you the willies.

"What do you suppose lives up in that swamp, Snoop?"

He opened one eye. It took a lot to rile that beagle. He was the laziest hunting dog there ever was.

But, everything looked pretty ordinary to me. A white egret stood in the tall grass holding a small fish. Its dinner squirmed to get free. The high-pitched song of cicadas rang through the trees. A gray snake with brown blotches slithered off the bank and zig-zagged toward the boat.

I jerked my feet up under me.

A huge alligator blinked his bulging eyes sideways at us from a half-sunk log, the gray mud on his back all dried and cracked from the hot sun.

Look at the size of that thing, Snooper. It could gobble you up before you could let out a yelp.

Snooper shook his head, flopping his ears, as if he understood.

The swamp to the north began to break up into islands. I pointed to a large lake in the distance. Look at all that water. You can hardly see the other side.

Then a strange feeling crept over me, like something was watching me. I darted my gaze toward the big island up ahead of us. The branch of a palmetto bush sprang up, kinda like somebody had been holding it down.

Did you see that, boy?

My dog sat up straight and mustered a low growl.

Maybe it’s the Rougarou, I whispered and rubbed the creep bumps off my arm.

That legend had been used to get Cajun children to mind their parents since before my great grandpa was a kid. But I was getting too old to believe in that werewolf tale anymore.

Probably just a squirrel. I stroked the hair on Snooper’s back. We’ll be past that island shortly, anyway.

But as we got closer, the houseboat took a sudden turn south, into a narrow inlet on the mainland, and pulled up to a ragged pier.

I glanced around. I guess this is home. A small shack sat back a-ways into the trees to the right. Didn’t look like anybody’d lived there for awhile. On the left, a small house with a big, screened-in back porch sat real close to the bayou, with a fishing boat tied up to a small dock. Straight ahead, a dirt levee followed the edge of the bayou. It stood like a snaky wall between the bayou folks and the city folks, so the water would stay on our side, where it belonged.

"Bonsoir, Jacques!" A man with baggy dungarees and a stained T-shirt waved to Papa from the muddy bank. His mop of black hair looked as if it’d never been combed, and his scraggly beard hung down to his chest.

I leaned over the deck rail to watch Papa and him slosh in and out of the water. They spoke in Cajun French while they worked at getting the houseboat tied up. I couldn’t understand Papa’s other language, but people always used a lot of hand motions when they went to talking it. The man pointed at the bayou and held his arms out as if to say something was big. Were they talking about crabs or gators…or something else?

As I strained my ears for a single word of English, something shiny caught my eye. It bounced in the tiny waves near the water’s edge, stuck in the roots of a cypress tree. I balanced my way down a narrow board on what was left of the broken dock and jumped onto the muddy bank. As I got a closer look, I saw it was a bottle. I grabbed hold of a vine that hung from the tree and, with a long stick, dragged the bottle to where I could reach it. I rubbed some of the mud off on my pants leg. It was a dark shade of blue, kinda like Lydia’s eyes. It sure would look nice in the window of her tree house. I poked it in my back pocket.

When I looked up, I saw my papa and the man pull away in a rusted old van, the back hatch and bumper completely gone. One of the rear tires wobbled as it headed up and over the levee.

Where’d Papa go? How could he just leave without telling me where he was going? Who was that strange man anyway? The lump in my throat swelled even bigger. I ran with my bare feet across the rough wooden deck and threw open the screen door.

Mama stood in the kitchen part of the front room, unwrapping and putting away her fragile cups. My little brother Jesse lay sound asleep in Papa’s old brown chair.

Mama, where’d Papa run off to with that man?

That’s Tee Joe. She pulled a strand of damp hair behind her ear. They went back to Pierre Part to get your father’s truck.

Papa had told me lots of stories about his old friend Tee Joe and some of the crazy stuff they did as kids. Like taking a boy from town out into the Atchafalaya swamp, telling him they’d seen the Rougarou, then leaving him there until after dark. He always laughed when he told it, but I didn’t think it was funny at all.

But, Mama, he’ll be gone all night. I felt like I was going to explode from holding back all them tears. I hate it here already! I snatched the straw hat from my head and slammed it on the floor.

Nicole Landry, you pick that up and stop all this nonsense. Mama put her hands on her hips like she did when she got real serious.

Jesse sat up and rubbed his eyes. Papa’s gonna be gone aw night?

"All, Jesse, all." I emphasized the l sound by poking out my tongue.

He’ll be home shortly. It’s not that far by road. Mama turned back to getting her kitchen in order so she could start supper.

This place is awfuw, Jesse chimed.

My brother was only four and peskier than a fly at a crawfish boil. He had a habit of repeating everything I said, only he couldn’t say his l’s, no matter how many times I corrected him.

IEEEOWWWOOOO-oooooooo! The eerie sound started off loud and sharp, then trailed off almost to nothing.

I jumped to my feet. "What was that?" Bumps big as balls from a chinaberry tree popped up all over my skin. Snooper raised his head and made a low growl in his throat, like he wanted to bark but was afraid to. Jesse grabbed hold of Mama’s legs and buried his face in her apron.

Mama stopped for a second, looked toward the window, then back at me. Her face went kinda pale. Then she turned her attention to Jesse. It’s more than likely some wild dog howling at the moon.

I hurried to the kitchen window. I didn’t see no moon. Why, it wasn’t even dark yet. All I saw was willow branches blowing in the breeze. If that was a dog, it was the weirdest sounding one I’d ever heard. But Mama…

She gave me a hard stare like she didn’t want to talk any more about it in front of Jesse. I traipsed to my tiny bedroom, with Snooper at my heels, to wait for Papa to get home. I couldn’t wait to tell him about the sound. I plopped down on my small bed, which fit snugly against the wall. Ouch. I reached behind me and pulled the bottle from my back pocket. I turned it over in my hands, then shook it. There was something inside. Probably mud. I tried twisting the cap, but it was rusted shut. I’ll get the top off and clean it out later, I assured Snoop.

I lay back holding the bottle in my hand, pondering on where it might have come from. My dog jumped onto the bed and put his head on my chest.

Propping my dirty bare feet against the wall, I began tracing the faded flower design on the dingy wallpaper with my big toe. I closed my eyes and imagined someone from long, long ago putting a letter in a blue bottle and tossing it into the water. I’d read someplace that people used to do that in ancient times. Maybe there was a note inside…

RAP RAP RAP. I jumped at the sound against my door. I must have drifted off to sleep.

Tadpole! You need to get in here and eat supper. Papa was home.

Papa usually called me Tadpole, unless he was being serious. He said when I was born I didn’t amount to nothing more than a tadpole. I sometimes wondered if I ever would.

I sat at the table to Mama’s hot biscuits and cane syrup.

We’re eating light tonight. Mama wiped sticky syrup from my brother’s face and hands. I’ll need to get some groceries so I can cook a proper meal.

I reached across the table toward the pan of biscuits.

Nikki, go clean up before you eat. Mama waved her hand at me. You’ve got mud all over you. She looked me up and down. And how am I ever going to wash those pants if you have them on all the time?

I rubbed my hand across the front of my overalls. "They don’t look that dirty." I scraped my chair back and went to the small wash tub Mama kept near the door so we wouldn’t bring all that bayou mud in the house, like it ever did much good anyway.

After scrubbing the mud off my hands and arms, I went back to

Reviews for The Legend of Ghost Dog Island

[clarissajohal · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

If you are a fan of mystery novels similar to Trixie Belden or Nancy Drew, you will love this book. Rita Monette is a very gifted story-teller and her illustrations are beautiful. Her gift for capturing the essence of the Louisiana bayou and its Cajun people, adds a wonderful layer to this story. The characters are well-developed and the mystery is intriguing enough for adults. I felt for the lead character, Nikki Landry. Nikki is initially reluctant to make friends because her family has a history of moving. She does make friends, however, and hears of the legend of Ghost Dog Island. Nikki and her new friends decide to explore the island (because what kid wouldn’t?) and uncover pieces to a long ago mystery which may have started the legend. But when Nikki’s dog Snooper disappears, the legend becomes all too real for her. Nikki and her new friends are not only plunged into a mystery, but must find her dog before it's too late.