Louisiana Ghost Stories Iii: Trilogy

By Jesse L. Wimberly

When a ten-year-old boy is invited to attend a big fight that attracts cockfighters and gamblers from all over the area to a pit in Carencro, he is so excited that he barely sleeps a wink the night before. But can the tender-hearted boy come to grips with the consequences that come with a cockfight surrounded by Old South voodoo rituals?

In a collection of short tales, Jesse Wimberly once again leads others on an imaginary journey through horror and the supernatural world as he introduces diverse characters, each experiencing seemingly unimaginable events. When the police chief of New Orleans receives word that the bloody body of a young woman has been found in the street, he begins an investigation that leads him down a dark path that leaves him with more questions than answers. When Esther’s boyfriend breaks up with her just before her high school prom, she commisions help from her hairdresser—and two voodoo dolls—to instigate a vengeful plan.

Louisiana Ghost Stories III shares ten more chilling, macabre tales of horror from a master storyteller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665739870

Jesse L. Wimberly

J. Lee Wimberly is the author of Broken Chains, Body of Deceit, and Louisiana Ghost Stories: Tales of the Supernatural from the Bayou State, Louisiana Ghost Stories II: Lagniappe, Waterproof, and A Prayer for the Penitent. He resides in St. Tammany Parish, Louisiana, with his wife Alysha, a recording artist.

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Copyright © 2023 Jesse L. Wimberly.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Interior Image Credit: Jesse L. Wimberly

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3986-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3988-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3987-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020901308

Archway Publishing rev. date: 3/21/2023

CONTENTS

1. The Cockfight

2. The Vampire Brothers

3. Straight-Razor Totin’ Woman Blues

4. The Voodoo Doll

5. The Nanny

6. The Original Lover’s Lane

7. The Photograph

8. The Costume

9. Gumbo

10. Congo Square

The COCKFIGHT

But I never got to see who had

Won the fight, that cottonmouth

Farmer he shot out the light

Took everybody’s money and the

Sheriff’s wife, so welcome to a

Louisiana cock fight.

—John Nitzinger

I remember that day like it was yesterday, even though it’s been seventy-five years. I was just a young boy of ten then, still in grammar school, as they called it, but working on my daddy’s rice farm the rest of the time. Daddy raised a few gamecocks and would enter them in the fights from time to time in Carencro, a few miles up old Highway 98 from our farm in Broussard. Once a year, they held a big fight that attracted cockfighters and gamblers from all over the area to the pit in Carencro. I was very excited that year because my father promised to bring me with him. This was the first time I’d been allowed to go with him, and I hardly slept a wink the night before.

That morning we loaded up two of his roosters, in different cages of course, and made the hour drive to Carencro. When we arrived around noon the parking lot of the pit was almost full of pickups. I could smell the wonderful aroma of a huge pot of jambalaya, which was cooking outdoors. Daddy paid his entrance fee, and that also got us two tickets for the jambalaya, which we wasted no time in devouring. Then Daddy registered his chickens and we waited for the draw to see whose roosters they would be fighting.

Daddy knew I was tenderhearted and didn’t want our roosters to be killed in the fighting, so he took some extra time to explain things to me. Son, I know you tenderhearted, but believe me, there’s only three things a rooster wants to do. One is eat, another is make more chickens, and the final thing is fight. It’s in their nature, just like it’s in the nature of a mule to be stubborn or in a snake to bite. There’s no stopping it, and if them two were in the barnyard together with plenty of feed and hens, they would still fight to the death. So, what they’s doing here is just what they’d be doing anywhere else. You understand?

I nodded that I did, but I still hated to see either of them killed or injured. Dead or severely injured meant the same thing: stewed chicken that night. A minor wound would be treated, but a severe one was an immediate death sentence followed by a trip to the pot. To make matters worse, since this was the grand finale of the season, any birds that survived one-on-one combat would be entered in the battle royale at the end of the day. The battle royale was when every surviving rooster was put in the pit together, and the last one standing was the winner. Usually, even the winner was so badly injured that he also became that night’s entree. Stewed chicken was the specialite de la maison in many households on the night of a cockfight.

The matches began around two in the afternoon, and by that time the food had been eaten and the liquor was flowing. A large chalkboard like the ones at my school was set up in the corner of the barn where the pit was located. A fat man in overalls was sweating as he wrote down bets the owners and gamblers placed on the chickens. Some chickens actually had a handicap sheet and the odds were given and taken on these veteran fighters.

The first match of the day involved a miner blue versus a claret, and both roosters were fitted with the long gaffs on their spurs. There would be no tie. The handlers held the birds so they could peck at each other’s combs, which was a call to fight, and then they placed them apart in the sand pit. The birds eyed each other for just a moment, and then attacked each other in a flurry of feathers, metal gaffs flashing. In just a few flurries the claret was down, bleeding in the sand. His owner picked him up and took him out of the ring, probably dispatching him and throwing him on ice for that night’s supper. The winner seemed to have come out relatively unscathed, and his owner retrieved him and presumably collected his winnings. We would see him later in the Battle Royale.

The fights resumed about every thirty minutes, which was the time it took to resupply everyone with liquor and take the bets. Soon it was Daddy’s turn to fight one of our jets, which are so named because of their jet-black feathers. He would be pitted against a white hackle, the ultimate contest between black and white. I couldn’t look at the fight and only heard the shouts of the crowd as the roosters battled in the now bloody sand of the ring. Our jet must have won, because I saw Daddy collect him and his winnings and head out to our truck and the cages. It seemed he had survived for the Battle Royale, but our next entry wasn’t so lucky. I resolved then and there that I would not be eating chicken that night, no matter what happened to me.

The final bout concluded, and the Battle Royale was to be next. During the intermission for libations and betting, the door to the barn swung open. Everyone turned to see who had entered. I saw a rather small man, dressed all in black and wearing a wide-brimmed black hat with a round crown. The hat had a band made of dark snake hide, and my first guess was that it was from a cottonmouth moccasin. I’d sure seen enough of them in the rice fields to know one when I saw it. All doubt was resolved when I saw the dried head of the cottonmouth staring from the front of the brim. The snow-white mouth shone in stark contrast to the muddy-colored diamond hide, which circled the brim. There was also a large rooster-tail feather stuck in the band, signifying the owner was a cockfighter. His clothes were odd in that he was very well dressed for this neck of the woods, but his clothes seemed old fashioned. He had a double-breasted coat with what looked like military buttons on each side, large lapels, and short tails. He wore black trousers tucked into black boots. I could see he had a large sheath knife tucked into his right boot for easy access and an old-fashioned double-barreled derringer in his waistband. Finally, and most importantly, he had a large rooster tucked under his arm, sleek and coal black.

Aiiiiiieeeeee! he screamed at the top of his lungs.

If anyone hadn’t noticed him before, now they certainly did. The mysterious stranger began to speak in broken English interspersed with French.

Mes ami, he shouted. Des parieurs ici?

I guess with the way he made his entrance, his strange figure, and what was almost a shouted challenge, it drove the barn to silence.

Maybe I make mistake. Maybe no gamblers here, he said with derision, all the time stroking his rooster gently with his free hand.

The spell must have been broken because the master of ceremonies called back to him in French. Beaucoup. Mais nous devons voir la couleur de votre argent, he challenged, advising that there were indeed plenty of betting men here, but they had to see if he had money to gamble with.

Regarde ici mon ami, the man answered as he pulled a leather pouch from his coat and dumped out what looked to be several dozen gold coins. "There’s ten thousand of your American dollars. Louis d’ors, doubloons, double eagles. Check them and see, mon amis."

The barn went absolutely silent as this strange man displayed his gold. No one seemed to want to challenge the veracity of his claim as to his purse’s authenticity.

Who wants to fight my Azazel? he asked.

If it was possible, the room grew even quieter. My daddy explained to me later that Azazel was supposedly only a myth and didn’t exist. He was supposedly an undefeated rooster owned by none other than Old Scratch himself. If this was that Azazel, then his handler was surely Lucifer, and judging from the stranger’s appearance, I was ready to believe it.

Je vais donner des chances, he offered. Maybe you find your manhood then.

Someone spoke up from the back and the spell he had cast was broken. "How much, etrangere?"

"Dix a un, if it helps you stand up when you pee," he said.

His insults began to take their toll on the crowd, and there was some angry murmuring in the back of the barn.

You show up here with your rooster when all of ours have fought. That’s not fair, said a voice from the back.

"We are not here to fight one on one, mon amis. We here for the Bataille Royale. My Azazel against the field. Last chicken standing takes the money. Ten to one on my rooster, dix a un, mes amis, dix a un," he repeated in a low, sinister voice.

The entire time this repartee was unfolding, I was watching his rooster carefully. The chicken gave off an aura of malevolence that was almost tangible. It didn’t help that it never blinked, not even once during the time I observed him, and his eyes were bright red, glowing like coals in a fire pit.

Ten-to-one odds and the field against one rooster produced the stranger’s desired results. Before long, there was an accumulated thousand-dollar bet against the stranger and his rooster. That meant a loss would cost him his entire purse of gold coins.

"Bien, bien, maybe there are some men here," he taunted, taking a leather flask out of his pocket and drinking deeply from its contents. I thought I smelled rum, but it could have been any spirit. I was entirely sure it wasn’t water.

The bets were laid, the glasses were filled, and the stage was set. The Battle Royale was about to commence. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Not only did everyone in the room want to win the stranger’s money, but each person also wanted to put this man’s arrogant self in his place with a loss. After all, who was he to come into their town with his insults and pride?

The day’s activities had left six roosters able to fight in the main event, and the rooster he called Azazel would make seven. The owners of the roosters stepped into the pit and held their chickens at the ready. The stranger stood in the pit opposite of them as if the battle lines had already been drawn, Azazel against the field. On the command of the referee, the handlers deposited their birds and climbed out of the pit. The stranger set his rooster down, smiled, and uttered but one word, tuer, which meant kill in French, and that’s just what he proceeded to do.

After the usual preliminary circling, the local chickens seems to put their past differences aside and form a united front against Azazel. It was as if they sensed they had to work together to defeat this newcomer. But united or not, Azazel began to make short work of the field. In less than a minute, all of the local roosters had been defeated—and none were wounded. All of them were dead, having fallen swiftly under the flashing spurs of the jet-black rooster.

The stranger retrieved his bird and stroked it lovingly, cooing, Bien joue, mon petit.

The odds keeper brought the thousand-dollars cash over to the stranger and reluctantly handed it to him. "Probably best if you leave right now, etrangere," he said coldly.

"We leave when we ready, mon amis, and not before, the stranger replied, not at all intimidated by the prospect of staying there with dozens of angry men who had just lost their hard-earned money to a complete stranger. He allowed his hand to lightly graze his knife and pistol. Azazel wants a drink, and he’s earned it."

With that he walked over to the bar and ordered two rums. The bartender poured two shot glasses of the amber liquid and set them in front of the stranger and his rooster. The man drank his down in one