Zeke steered his swamp boat up-river towards town; Harry poised on the bow. The morning paper flapping in the passing breeze.
“Says here, they’re gonna re-open the South-Road near Witch’s Valley,” said the young man.
Zeke, the older bayou-man, thumbed his nose, sweat already glistening off of his dark skin,
“You ask me. They be best to keep that road shut fo’ ever. That place be cursed wit somethin’ unnatural!”
“Ever thought of going there?” Harry asked.
“Oh sure, when i was stupid, and 10 years younger,” Zeke tapped his temple, “Only I got brains enough to stay away from places that don’t concern me,”
“Let’s go, tonight!” Harry said, accent thick with Louisiana drawl.
“Are you crazy, boy? No one goes down there, no more,” Zeke barked, “Not after that summer,”
“That was 15 years ago. Besides,” Harry jabbed a finger at his old friend, “No one believes in that Voodoo crap.”
Zeke’s throat grumbled, “Tell that to ol’ man Lafleur,” Zeke’s head bobbed, “There ain’t no good to come outta Witch’s Valley.”