Between Two Worlds

By J.R. Evans

It's 1918 in Tombe Grove, and the rich, educated, and mysterious Maddox Brothers find themselves in the center of a town squabble about a nearby cave rumored to contain either an incredible treasure or the seed of evil itself. After unnerving events, it's decided that the cave must be sealed. On the eve of its sealing, the Maddox Brothers hold a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lamplight Publishing
• Release date: Mar 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218160517

J.R. Evans

J.R. Evans lives in Lubbock, Texas and has been writing stories since she was a young girl. She enjoys reading fantasy and adventure and has often found inspiration in books such as Peter Pan, Treasure Island, and looks up to authors such as Stephen King and C.S. Lewis. She has always enjoyed stretching the art of writing and pushing it beyond the typical genre of limitation.J.R. Evans is completing her bachelor's in political science and worked as a paralegal before making her way into the publishing industry. She has dabbled in all areas of writing including young adult, flash fiction, short stories, middle grade, and children's books.Her favorite hobbies include quotes, art, music, martial arts and attending the ballet. J.R. Evans's greatest mission in life is to impart the "perfect" story using the power of the written word.Instagram: @j.r.evans_

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Part 1

Tombe Grove, 1918

One

The day began as expected for Jack Bedeau. He rolled out of bed and dressed in his traditional pattern of T-shirts and khaki pants. He drank his coffee black and read the paper. He lived a simple and transparent life, an ordinary life filled with ordinary pleasures.

Once every drop of brew had been consumed, he would cross over to the cracked mirror and give himself a fresh shave. The hair on his head shimmered with light streaks of gray. His beard though, remained like always, black as a crow’s feathers. Jack appreciated the hair not only for its originality, but also because the hair covered most of the dark freckles on his cheeks.

He imagined the age of sixty had crept in by now, but after so many years it was easy to lose track. Jack studied his reflection. He turned his head to the left and to the right, and would often say to himself, Well, I surely have lived some life.

Jack humbly regarded himself as a respected man. The townspeople would call him Jack or Ol’ Man Jack. The name had been given to him by his closest friend, but with Tombé Grove being such a small town, the name stuck.

He owned a small diner that stood in the center of the town square. People traveled from all around, including New Orleans, to sample his mouth-watering gumbo. The secret passed from generation to generation and the recipe kept the citizens of Tombé Grove always in line for more.

He lived in a tiny loft above the diner. Most wouldn’t consider it to be elegant or spacious, but according to Jack, the space appeared refined and favorable. Most importantly, the little loft was his, and was proof of his accomplishments. This mattered most of all to Jack and his family, of course.

When he first acquired the diner, the building was worn, rotting, and beneath even Jack’s standards, but it shone with potential, and Jack was smart enough to realize that where there was possibility, opportunity frequently followed.

Inside the diner were twelve tables. The tables were built from the smooth bark of maple trees, and at each table sat four chairs made of the same. The corner of the room housed a small rectangular window that looked out upon the square.

Beneath the window were two wooden booths. Each of these booths sat four, but they were usually reserved for a specific kind of person. People such as the rich Mr. Brady, whom some referred to as the town banker. Jack didn’t necessarily believe in reserving tables, but he would never say otherwise to anyone other than himself.

This particular morning transpired no different from any other morning. Jack slowly descended the stairs that ran from his loft down to the kitchen. He listened as the sharp click of the lock slid forward and the rusty door swung open with a bang. The sound of the high-pitched bell filled his ears and echoed through the diner, calling to his neighbors, telling them he was officially open.

Immediately, he felt the thick Louisiana breeze and his nostrils filled with a wave of nostalgia. The morning air sprang forward, and the sun beamed with such force that his skin stung and his eyes watered. The day would be full of scorching temperatures.

Green trees surrounded the town square. They stood tall and mighty, like their only purpose was to grow and protect the square that ran one mile in four directions. Along each side of the square were different shops of a unique variety. Jack thought each business and boutique held an originality that couldn’t be found anywhere else other than the confines of Tombé Grove.

Down the street from Jack stood Miss Matty’s Clothing Boutique. Across from Miss Matty was the Lilah Dubois Flower Shop. Next to the flower shop sat an ice cream parlor, and every afternoon around three, children would line up to fill their stomachs with a tasty treat.

On the left side of Jack came the Barrel Bar. The bartender was Jack’s finest friend, Mr. Bellevue. Mr. Bellevue started the nickname Ol’ Man Jack, and after a long day Jack liked to sit down and have a drink with his friend.

Unlike the diner, the bar carried a modern sensation. The establishment contained a long cedar strip of wood where the liquor overflowed. Cherry maple ran along each wall of the interior, and the hours were open all night long. This often led to drunken fights among men and friends, yet Jack found an unusual excitement about the bar with no capacity to explain why.

On the edge of the square stood a small school for the children, and next to the school sat a sheriff station. Last, but not least, directly behind the sheriff station, came the most important building in town, the church.

Despite being small, the benches never failed to seat all who attended. The church had been designed with a white steeple that lifted above the front door, and its iron bell clanged every Sunday morning like clockwork. In Jack’s opinion, the church procured a new symbolism of hope, not to mention a profound promise of unity the town could aspire to accomplish one day.

Jack breathed in the pleasurable scene. He let the blissful air soak into his lungs as he did every morning. He not only appreciated his town and his place in Tombé Grove, but figured it appreciated him just as much.

When he first arrived, Jack thought of the empty town like a blank sheet of paper. The only real sophistication in the area at the time was the Lilah Dubois Flower Shop and a small neighborhood made up of cypress trees, so Jack fixed up the diner. Then came the bar, the sheriff station, the school, and finally—the representation of a growing civilization itself, the church.

In Jack’s opinion, there was no reason to venture beyond the town square. In fact, if someone endeavored to violate the bounds of the impetuous town line, they should be considered a reckless fool. Anything located past the limits of the town belonged to the unnerving murky waters of the bayou and whatever resided within it. No, Jack possessed all he needed exactly where he was.

He was about to head toward the kitchen when a soaring howl caught his ear. Jack turned once again to the open door. He squinted against the bright pavement and scanned the street for answers. The square appeared to be empty. Were his ears playing tricks on him?

Help!

Jack heard another cry from the distance. He couldn’t deny the sound this time. It was the sound of anguish and pain. He used his hand to shield the sun from his eyes. He could make out a broad shadow, a large silhouette of a man moving toward him.

Hello? Jack called in appropriate politeness.

Help me! The silhouette groaned and hobbled toward Jack.

Jack ran toward the distressed man, soon realizing it was none other than Zachary Woods. He was a big fellow, young, early twenties maybe, and if it had not been for Mr. Woods’ fiery red hair, Jack might never have recognized him at all.

His red hair sprang wildly in every direction. A line of blood dripped from his left temple and covered the left side of his face. A massive gash tore across his right arm, and dirt sat crustily against his skin. Circular bite marks ran across his neck, and his right eye bulged like it might come popping out of its socket any second, while his left eye twitched with a clear and crazed sense of fear. Mr. Woods was undeniably bewildered, and Jack’s stomach sank, his instincts screaming at him to go back to his diner and lock the door.

Mr. Woods, sir? What happened to ya? Jack asked.

They all dead! Mr. Woods cried. He grabbed Jack’s shirt and fell to the ground.

Who, sir? Who’s dead? Someone get the doctor! Jack hollered.

That place ain’t right, Ol’ Jack! That place ain’t right!

What ain’t right, sir? What did ya see?

Jack never spent much time with Mr. Woods. Jack knew Mr. Woods was from Tombé Grove, born and raised. He was familiar with his reputation for getting into trouble and saw him a few times at the Barrel Bar, but Jack considered Mr. Woods to be an acquaintance. The only real information Jack kept up with was that he sometimes worked for the infamous banker, Mr. Brady.

A few times, Jack witnessed Mr. Woods and some other young men huddled together with Mr. Brady at the Barrel Bar. They always sat at the same round table in the corner. This was a private table where Mr. Brady often conducted business. Everyone understood when Mr. Brady did his business, he should be left alone. No one had a clue what the business pertained to, but there were rumors.

One rumor stated Mr. Brady, with the help of Mr. Woods, brought young men over from New Orleans for the exploration of a nearby cave. Jack didn’t know if the rumor held true, but the cave made quite a reputation for itself.

Some claimed such a place was to be avoided at all costs. Some said if you dared to enter you might never come out. Others were unwilling to speak about the cave at all, saying such talk only brought bad luck. The cave’s exact location remained a mystery, but Jack guessed the entrance lingered deep within the bayou.

Jack never considered himself to be a superstitious man. Yet, as Mr. Woods lay on the ground blubbering, he wondered what frightening thing held the power to make a grown man act in such a way, not to mention his injuries were rather peculiar.

Mr. Woods, sir, look. The doctor’s here now, and the sheriff, ya see? Jack said.

Indeed, the doctor had arrived, along with the sheriff and the entire town.

Tell ’em what happened to ya. Tell ’em what you told me. Jack shook Mr. Woods to get his attention.

That place ain’t right. That place ain’t right, Mr. Woods mumbled to himself.

Let me through, the doctor said as he pushed through the crowd. The doctor was a bald man, shaped similar to a bowling ball. Jack sometimes wondered about his medical advice, but everyone called him the best doctor in town. However, no one seemed to considered he was the only doctor in town, but who was Jack to argue? He wasn’t a doctor by any means.

Let me have a look, the doctor wheezed, clearly out of breath from the walk over. He scanned Mr. Woods from head to toe, picked up his arms, and nodded to himself every once in a while.

Looks like gator bites. The fool must’ve gone swimmin’ in the swamp, the doctor announced loudly to the crowd.

Gators, sir? Jack asked.

Reptiles of the swamp, boy, the doctor retorted.

Jack frowned and peered down at the bites. He’d never seen an alligator with circular teeth.

Let’s get him to the hospital. The doctor ushered Mr. Woods to his feet.

Jack pondered on the events as they loaded Mr. Woods into a nearby automobile. The crowd appeared just as scared and shocked as Jack.

He turned his attention to Miss Mary Mouchette. She was a curly-haired woman whose husband had recently died of what the doctor had called ‘unknown causes’, but Jack always thought it was the liquor that got him. The man died suddenly, leaving her and her four children with nothing except bad memories and a stack of gambling debt.

He often worried for Miss Mouchette but worried more after he had seen her and Mr. Brady canoodling at the Barrel Bar. He had even seen them come out of the supply closet together. Miss Mouchette’s cheeks had been flushed, and she was in the process of trying to button her shirt. Jack imagined she made a deal with Mr. Brady to atone for her late husband’s debt.

He never talked to anyone about what he’d seen, and never planned to. He figured the news might be a shock to people, such as Mrs. Brady. Miss Mouchette covered her mouth with her gloved hand, her eyes filled with tears.

Jack switched his eyes over to Mr. Brady and his wife as they stood together. Mr. Brady was a short man with oversized glasses and reminded Jack of a mouse. He wore a tailored suit, and although it appeared expensive, it swallowed the man. He had no facial hair, and his cheeks were round like a small child’s, which was an oddity for a man his age.

Mr. Brady dabbed the top of his head with a small white handkerchief. Jack recognized this wasn’t a sign of grief or shock for Mr. Brady, but a continual impulse. Jack caught the man repeating the behavior on multiple occasions. People in town said Mrs. Brady married the man for no other reason than his money, but who could tell?

Jack half expected Mr. Brady to step forward. He thought perhaps Mr. Brady would shed some light on the day’s occurrences. Unfortunately, Jack’s expectations of people were often higher than they should’ve been. Mr. Brady did not step forward. If he had been using Mr. Woods or any other men for business, he didn’t say a word about it.

Jack continued to scan the crowd. He caught sight of Mrs. Dubois, Chip who ran the ice cream parlor, Mr. Rooney the town’s blacksmith, the pastor, and some others.

Jack’s eyes froze. His heart thudded in his chest. Standing before him was none other than the three Maddox Brothers.

Two

Jack huffed. The Maddox Brothers stood like they belonged to the crowd. He knew them to be brothers only because they had once introduced themselves as such. The men looked young, early twenties maybe. Oddly, they never appeared to age. He would catch glimpses of them over the years, but their appearance never faltered. In fact, the brothers reeked of oddity and strange circumstance, and the times they were spotted in town could be counted on one hand. He couldn’t recognize which of the brothers to be the eldest, but Julian Maddox usually did the talking.

On the rare occasion they were spotted in town, they wore elegant black suits and top hats. Julian walked with a thin wooden cane and with every tap of the tip, his curly blond hair bounced around his ears. Jack figured they came from money, not only from the way they dressed but because they walked with a confidence that shouted cultured and educated. Also, they owned a massive estate located on the outskirts of the Tombé Grove town limits.

Jack had never seen the estate personally, mainly because it presided beyond the town square, but Mr. Bellevue swore up and down one of the brothers said the house had been passed down in the Maddox family for generations. The only hard fact around was the brothers lived in Tombé Grove before Jack built the diner.

He wasn’t certain where their money came from, or why such an esteemed and sophisticated family of gentlemen would choose to settle in a town like Tombé Grove, but no one ever bothered to question the men, except Jack.

He didn’t understand why he had such a distaste for the brothers. They never proved unkind or unpleasant. He guessed his reasons stemmed from the vigorous mystery surrounding them. Jack never did like things he couldn’t understand.

Julian in particular left a strong impression. He had what Jack liked to call the crazy eyes. His eyes would dance and dart back and forth and slant slightly when a mischievous thought entered his mind. Then, when he spoke, his arms would flourish fancifully, as if an orchestra only he could hear were playing.

But the most notable characteristic was his laugh. His laugh rang like a nervous tic or something similar to a deranged hyena. He would speak and without warning burst into a fit of musical laughter for no apparent reason. Sometimes, the sound echoed through the square or across the Barrel Bar.

Jack watched as Julian whispered into his brother Simon’s ear. Simon’s eyes sprang alive, and his lips pursed together to hide a smile. Then the one Jack knew to be Augustus frowned, rolled his eyes and stretched his neck toward the scene, clearly ignoring his brother.

Jack switched his gaze back to Julian. Julian abruptly returned his stare, then tilted his head and grinned with such an exaggerated sense of friendliness, Jack wondered if perhaps the man had lost his sanity.

Thankfully the sheriff interrupted. Nothing to see here. Go back to work. Go on.

What happened to that Zach Woods? We deserve answers, a man named Mathew Cain roared from the crowd.

After the passing of Mr. Mouchette, Mr. Cain inherited the infamous title of town drunk. He held a bad habit of incoherent rambling and would often break out in fits of rage for no apparent reason. He shouted a lot and could be found most days passed out in the alley behind the Barrel Bar.

Mr. Cain was well known for his particularly apparent mustache. It was giant, white, and fluffy, and Jack often found himself unable to look away from its lively mannerisms. Sometimes, the caterpillar shaped stash would lift itself and titter from side to side, leaving Jack to wonder if it was real hair or some sort of fake contraption. Mr. Cain was a big man, not wide, but muscular, and owned a belly that hung over his tight pants like dough.

Just an accident, ya hear? No need to get all worked up, the sheriff said, waving his hand.

Liar! Margaret Ardoin wailed.

Margaret was a small elderly woman. She was Creole in and out, through and through. Her family had moved to Tombé Grove before it became a town. Some said, including Margaret herself, the Ardoin family were the ones who built the town and gave it the name Tombé Grove.

The Ardoins lived in a cabin deep within the bayou but could often be found in town or at Jack’s diner. Margaret always told Jack how much she enjoyed his gumbo, and she proved it, too, by coming once a week. Jack wouldn’t call them friends, exactly, but he liked Margaret. He enjoyed the charisma she often brought with her visits.

"This town never did learn how to listen. I told y’all seventy years ago. I told y’all the day my sweet brother