The full moon lit the Bayou with an eerie glow as the truck pulled off West of HWY 3235. The beaten path here was pocked full of pot-holes and jutting stone. Puddles were deep, as the wetlands had bled over the road in recent rains, until a mile in where the road was dry as a desert. Grass here did not grow. Trees wilted and withered, and wild-life had long ago forsaken this place.
Harry brought the pickup to a halt, and exited the cab swilling a flask of whiskey.
“We’re here!” he announced.
“Smells like rot!” Jack added.
“Nothin’ good is in this place – Not even the rain falls here!” Zeke said.
Witch’s Valley was not so much a valley, but rather a swampy marshland. The urban myth of the Lady of the Island spoke of voodoo and witchcraft louring men to her cabin where she would sacrifice them; and for who knows what!
“I can’t say as I like this place, Harry!” Billy said.
“Is it me – or is it cold here?” Jack added, “I can see my breath, for Cripes Sakes.”
“It’s voodoo,” Zeke’s voice was ghostly.