Post by lee on Apr 27, 2022 4:26:32 GMT
Web Of Evil Comics Presents: Death On The Bayou
The old gentleman sat on the only solid piece of a rotting log, his back against a cypress trunk. Closed eyes gave the impression of someone oblivious to the dangers lurking in the swamp, yet his ears twitched at every little sound. From the beating of nearby dragonfly wings to the soft bursting of bubbles from a turtle emerging from the water, nothing escaped his notice. Near his feet, resting against a moss-covered rock, was a weathered cane pole; a piece of cork floated motionless at the black water. Beside his fishing pole sat a bullseye lantern that appeared to be as old as its owner.
At his side lay a blue tick hound, its hair as white as its master's. Despite the bones scattered around it, the old dog was emaciated to the point had anyone been witness to the animal's condition would have sworn the poor beast was starving to death.
It was late evening and the sun had already sunk below the top of the western treeline. Despite the growing darkness, neither man nor beast made any move save for the twitching of their ears. After a moment of listening, the old man spoke.
“Boat coming,” he said. “Awful late to be coming into the swamp this far.”
The dog sniffed, but refused to raise its head.
“I reckon you're right, Blue,” the old man said. “Smells like trouble is coming.”
Moments later, the sound of voices grumbling and paddles disturbing the black waters in an awkward attempt to guide the boat drew closer. The old man pulled a matchbox from the center pocket of his overalls and lit the lantern. The dog sniffed again.
“Of course them folks will see it,” the man replied. “Can't have strangers wandering around our swamp in the dark. Hard telling what they might stir up.”
After another moment, the voices became clearer and more distinct.
“I don't reckon them folks is from around here,” the old man said, still not bothering to open his eyes. “Sounds like some of them German fellows we encountered after the war.”
“Ein Licht,” someone said.
“Of course it is a light, Dumkopf,” someone responded. “We all see it.”
The bow of a small row boat pushed from the darkness and into the light given off by the lantern. One man jumped out and pulled it closer to the land, allowing the others to step out on dry ground.
“Hallo,” said the man who had made it known the light was obvious to all. When he stepped to where he could see the light's owner, he smirked. “Look, a mongrel and his dog.”
At this, three other men laughed.
“Look here, Blue,” the old man said, ignoring the insult. “Last time there were soldiers in gray in these swamps, them Yanks had them running for their lives.”
The Germans went silent save for the leader. “Listen old man. We are looking for a prison, left over from the days of your “Civil War”. If you tell us where it is, we will be sure you get the first choice of cells.”
The other Germans began to laugh again.
The old man laughed, too.
“Oh, do you find that amusing?” the German leader asked.
“Foolishness,” the old man replied. “Plumb foolishness to look for it. 'Tis death if you find it.”
“Listen, old man,” the German said, no more humor in his voice. “Do you know where it is?”
“Hear that, Blue? He wants to know if we know where Silas Prison is,” the old man said.
The German lost his patience. “Look at me, you fool, and answer the question.”
For the first time, the old man lifted he face. “I cannot look at you,” he said, “but I do see you.”
The German took a half-step back, then stopped. “You...you mock me. I should take your tongue.”
The old man chuckled, then opened his mouth.
In the light of the lantern the German could see the man had no tongue, merely a mouth filled with live coals and maggots. He heard the gasps of the three men under his command.
“I will answer your question,” the old man replied. “And then you will do what I ask you not to do.”
“Where is the prison?” the German asked again, this time with less bluster.
The old man pointed toward the water, then in the direction the Germans had been rowing. “A mile more and you would be there. You could not have missed it.”
“Then, why light the lamp?”
“To warn you not to go,” the old man said.
“Why would you care?”
“Silas Prison is a place of ghosts. What the living have deserted, the dead have reclaimed.”
“Ghosts?” one of the soldiers whispered.
At this, Blue craned his neck and howled. It was long, mournful howl that seemed to call to the darkest parts of the swamp.
“Make it stop,” one of the soldiers said. “Make it stop!” He drew his pistol and fired at Blue.
The howling stopped as the hound's head dropped to the ground.
“Ah, my poor Blue,” the old man said. “I sure wish you wouldn't have done that.”
The soldier jerked toward him and squeezed the trigger. The old man's head snapped back and he crumpled to the ground beside his beloved Blue.
“Why did you do that?” the leader demanded.
The soldier could only stare at the bodies before him.
“Don't hold it against him, Leutnant,” another soldier said. “Honestly, I would have done it myself had he not drawn his weapon first.”
The lieutenant thought for a moment. He looked at the old man's body, then started back to the boat. “Schnell. He said we are only a mile from our goal. There is no reason to remain here.”
* * * * *
Twilight in the swamp was scarcely better than its midnight. In this hour just before the dawn silence was all that prevailed; it was as though Mother Nature herself had decreed all living things be still and wait.
The old man sat on the only solid piece of a rotting log, at his side lay his old blue tick hound. A faint sound—the only sound—reached his ears causing them to twitch.
A boat, the same one that had passed by the previous evening, drifted slowly into view, propelled by some unseen force. The lone passenger, a German soldier, stared through eyes reddened by madness. Scratches covered his face and blood dripped from his nose and chin. His uniform hung from him in tatters, as though some great feline had released its fury upon him. His mouth opened and closed, yet no words crossed his lips.
The old man drew a matchbox from the center pocket of his overalls, he struck a match and an old bullseye lantern flared to life. The hound sniffed in reply.
The soldier's head turned slowly toward the light, the last vestiges of sanity falling away. In less than a heartbeat he was on his feet, the boat rocking precariously. He drew a pistol that now only existed in his mind and fired it at the pair, his hand bucking with every imaginary shot. “Make it stop!” he screamed over and over. Once the boat began to drift beyond the light of the lantern, the man sat back down, pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and turned his eyes back to the darkness beyond the bow.
Alone again, the old man extinguished the lantern. He turned his sightless eyes toward the back of the German's boat and began to cackle. Blue craned his neck and howled along with his master.
As the early morning mist began to rise to meet and be obliterated by the coming sun, both man and beast began to sink back into the damp earth and moss of the swamp. An odd feeling of contentment seemed to permeate the morning air.
The old gentleman sat on the only solid piece of a rotting log, his back against a cypress trunk. Closed eyes gave the impression of someone oblivious to the dangers lurking in the swamp, yet his ears twitched at every little sound. From the beating of nearby dragonfly wings to the soft bursting of bubbles from a turtle emerging from the water, nothing escaped his notice. Near his feet, resting against a moss-covered rock, was a weathered cane pole; a piece of cork floated motionless at the black water. Beside his fishing pole sat a bullseye lantern that appeared to be as old as its owner.
At his side lay a blue tick hound, its hair as white as its master's. Despite the bones scattered around it, the old dog was emaciated to the point had anyone been witness to the animal's condition would have sworn the poor beast was starving to death.
It was late evening and the sun had already sunk below the top of the western treeline. Despite the growing darkness, neither man nor beast made any move save for the twitching of their ears. After a moment of listening, the old man spoke.
“Boat coming,” he said. “Awful late to be coming into the swamp this far.”
The dog sniffed, but refused to raise its head.
“I reckon you're right, Blue,” the old man said. “Smells like trouble is coming.”
Moments later, the sound of voices grumbling and paddles disturbing the black waters in an awkward attempt to guide the boat drew closer. The old man pulled a matchbox from the center pocket of his overalls and lit the lantern. The dog sniffed again.
“Of course them folks will see it,” the man replied. “Can't have strangers wandering around our swamp in the dark. Hard telling what they might stir up.”
After another moment, the voices became clearer and more distinct.
“I don't reckon them folks is from around here,” the old man said, still not bothering to open his eyes. “Sounds like some of them German fellows we encountered after the war.”
“Ein Licht,” someone said.
“Of course it is a light, Dumkopf,” someone responded. “We all see it.”
The bow of a small row boat pushed from the darkness and into the light given off by the lantern. One man jumped out and pulled it closer to the land, allowing the others to step out on dry ground.
“Hallo,” said the man who had made it known the light was obvious to all. When he stepped to where he could see the light's owner, he smirked. “Look, a mongrel and his dog.”
At this, three other men laughed.
“Look here, Blue,” the old man said, ignoring the insult. “Last time there were soldiers in gray in these swamps, them Yanks had them running for their lives.”
The Germans went silent save for the leader. “Listen old man. We are looking for a prison, left over from the days of your “Civil War”. If you tell us where it is, we will be sure you get the first choice of cells.”
The other Germans began to laugh again.
The old man laughed, too.
“Oh, do you find that amusing?” the German leader asked.
“Foolishness,” the old man replied. “Plumb foolishness to look for it. 'Tis death if you find it.”
“Listen, old man,” the German said, no more humor in his voice. “Do you know where it is?”
“Hear that, Blue? He wants to know if we know where Silas Prison is,” the old man said.
The German lost his patience. “Look at me, you fool, and answer the question.”
For the first time, the old man lifted he face. “I cannot look at you,” he said, “but I do see you.”
The German took a half-step back, then stopped. “You...you mock me. I should take your tongue.”
The old man chuckled, then opened his mouth.
In the light of the lantern the German could see the man had no tongue, merely a mouth filled with live coals and maggots. He heard the gasps of the three men under his command.
“I will answer your question,” the old man replied. “And then you will do what I ask you not to do.”
“Where is the prison?” the German asked again, this time with less bluster.
The old man pointed toward the water, then in the direction the Germans had been rowing. “A mile more and you would be there. You could not have missed it.”
“Then, why light the lamp?”
“To warn you not to go,” the old man said.
“Why would you care?”
“Silas Prison is a place of ghosts. What the living have deserted, the dead have reclaimed.”
“Ghosts?” one of the soldiers whispered.
At this, Blue craned his neck and howled. It was long, mournful howl that seemed to call to the darkest parts of the swamp.
“Make it stop,” one of the soldiers said. “Make it stop!” He drew his pistol and fired at Blue.
The howling stopped as the hound's head dropped to the ground.
“Ah, my poor Blue,” the old man said. “I sure wish you wouldn't have done that.”
The soldier jerked toward him and squeezed the trigger. The old man's head snapped back and he crumpled to the ground beside his beloved Blue.
“Why did you do that?” the leader demanded.
The soldier could only stare at the bodies before him.
“Don't hold it against him, Leutnant,” another soldier said. “Honestly, I would have done it myself had he not drawn his weapon first.”
The lieutenant thought for a moment. He looked at the old man's body, then started back to the boat. “Schnell. He said we are only a mile from our goal. There is no reason to remain here.”
* * * * *
Twilight in the swamp was scarcely better than its midnight. In this hour just before the dawn silence was all that prevailed; it was as though Mother Nature herself had decreed all living things be still and wait.
The old man sat on the only solid piece of a rotting log, at his side lay his old blue tick hound. A faint sound—the only sound—reached his ears causing them to twitch.
A boat, the same one that had passed by the previous evening, drifted slowly into view, propelled by some unseen force. The lone passenger, a German soldier, stared through eyes reddened by madness. Scratches covered his face and blood dripped from his nose and chin. His uniform hung from him in tatters, as though some great feline had released its fury upon him. His mouth opened and closed, yet no words crossed his lips.
The old man drew a matchbox from the center pocket of his overalls, he struck a match and an old bullseye lantern flared to life. The hound sniffed in reply.
The soldier's head turned slowly toward the light, the last vestiges of sanity falling away. In less than a heartbeat he was on his feet, the boat rocking precariously. He drew a pistol that now only existed in his mind and fired it at the pair, his hand bucking with every imaginary shot. “Make it stop!” he screamed over and over. Once the boat began to drift beyond the light of the lantern, the man sat back down, pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and turned his eyes back to the darkness beyond the bow.
Alone again, the old man extinguished the lantern. He turned his sightless eyes toward the back of the German's boat and began to cackle. Blue craned his neck and howled along with his master.
As the early morning mist began to rise to meet and be obliterated by the coming sun, both man and beast began to sink back into the damp earth and moss of the swamp. An odd feeling of contentment seemed to permeate the morning air.
