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“He mentioned that.” A look of concern claims her expression as she pushes to her feet. “Listen, be careful around him, okay? He’s pretty on the outside, but that man will eat you up and spit you out. They don’t call him Rougarou for nothing.”

“Rougarou?”

“’Round here, it’s what we call werewolves.”

Ha! Is that ever fitting for the man who, for whatever reason, brings to mind the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.

“Rumor is, back when he was a boy, he was bitten by a wolf in the woods. Apparently, his daddy scared it off with a gun. Only problem is? Ain’t too many wolves on Chevalier, so it’s hard to say whether it’s true, or not. Some say it might’ve been someone’s pet, others called him a liar. Either way, the man’s got a darkness in him.” She slips her bag over her head and across her body. “I’d keep my distance, if I was you.”

“You knew him back then?”

“Oh, right. I forgot, you used to have a fancy private tutor.”

Private tutor. Confused, I mentally weed through my memories for a face, but the only one I remember is my father’s. Sitting at the table for hours while he taught me math, the constellations, writing. We’d venture into the woods some days, where he’d teach me about nature and life. I’ve no recollection, at all, of a tutor, or any formal schooling.

“Yeah, you didn’t go to the public schools like the rest of us lowly folks,” she teases. “He was two grades higher than Marcelle.” Which would put him about seven years older than Brie and me. “Was a time he was captain of the football team. Chevalier’s golden boy. But then something happened. He changed. Everything about him changed.”

“What happened to him?”

“No one knows. All hearsay. Rumors.”

“Well, I’m proof you can’t always trust the rumors. Anyway, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to go.” One thing I know for certain about the guy is he won’t appreciate my being late.

“No, it’s okay. I have a policy of avoiding that place on my day off, but if you need a ride, I can drop you off.”

“No, that’s okay. I can drive.”

“Well, I’ll get going.” She pulls a piece of paper from her purse and jots down a phone number, which will be essentially useless, and an address. “In case you decide to sleep somewhere less … creepy. Here’s my address. It’s a little cramped, with Marcelle and JayJay, but we’ll make room for you.”

“I’ll keep in touch. I promise.”

“Good. I know where you live, if you don’t.”

We part on a hug, and I wait for her to leave before I scramble down the driveaway, remembering I parked my truck in the woods.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots, while I make my way down the long drive, watching the tail lights of Brie’s car grow distant. The woods have always been a place of comfort for me, the sounds of animals and insects something of a kinship. But there’s something about this house and these woods. I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, but an invisible malevolence hangs on the air, adding a sharpness to the surrounding trees and brush.

I click on the flashlight as I veer off the trail and into the belly of the woods, where the beams of moonlight can’t reach. Sticky humidity clings to my skin like a thick soup just waiting to be lapped up by the endless swarm of mosquitos ever present on this island. I have no doubt I probably look like a hot mess right now. In the distance, my truck sits undisturbed, and my muscles prod me to hurry and get inside. Not to sound like a pansy, or anything, but I sure as hell wouldn’t camp out here. The northern woods of Michigan can be a pretty scary place, if one factors in all the dangerous animals lurking about, but nothing like this. Louisiana woods just have a ghostly atmosphere about them, but this stretch in particular carries some kind of bad omen. A thought I won’t dwell on too much, for fear it’ll throw me down an unwelcome rabbit hole.

Once at the truck, I throw back the door and perform the obligatory sweep over the back seat. I’ve watched enough horror flicks, with something hiding behind the unwitting driver, that it’s worth a couple more seconds of hair-raising anticipation before climbing inside. Shutting out the creepy surroundings, I click off the flashlight and fire up the truck.

The headlights pop on.

An object flashes ahead of me, through the windshield, snapping my attention there.

In the beam of the truck’s lights, a cluster of fallen brush flickers with movement.

I wait, palms gripping the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles burn.

Heart kicked up, I think back to the story Brie told me, about the woman running through the woods at night.

I don’t know why that’s the first thing to pop in my head, because I surely don’t care much about ghost stories, but this one felt more personal to me.

A flicker of white leaps through the air and lands midway between the truck and the brush from where it was hidden. A white rabbit with eyes that glow in the unforgiving light. It stands upright on its haunches, with something clutched in its paws held to its mouth. Red drops slide down its snow white fur, and I squint to see it holding something bright red. Like a piece of meat.

What the hell?

I screw my eyes shut, certain that this is just some strange hallucination, the residual effects of mixing one of my sleeping pills with alcohol.