Swamp of Shadows - Chapter 1

Texas gets unbearably hot in the summer, the kind of heat that clings to your chest like thick molasses and makes you drowsy at midday. Damn, it was
getting dark soon and there I was, trying to pry my sweaty behind off the vinyl seats of my ’70 Plymouth Barracuda. I wriggled around the steering wheel like a trapped bug on flypaper, my backside wetter than a nun at a Mardi Gras
parade. Insurance documents were strewn all over the backseat. I was as late as a debutante who missed her own coming – out party. Even later. “Late” didn’t even begin to describe it. I was in a world of trouble, like being tossed around by a grizzly bear. What a mess, let me tell you. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.
I adjusted my tie in the rear – view mirror, smoothed down my bushy sideburns and handlebar mustache. I took one last swig of Jim Beam from my hip flask,
twirling it like a gunslinger. I also had to straighten my class ring, from Bowie High Football 1965. That beauty was solid silver and set with my mother’s
birthstone. Exquisite craftsmanship. I was really proud of that little ring, but sometimes it was a bit embarrassing.
My knuckles still ached from the fight the night before. It was more like getting my butt kicked; I was way too drunk. I stumbled around like a complete idiot.
Damn. I made a pass at another man’s girl. The black eye wasn’t great for my
business, so I wore some oversized aviator sunglasses I picked up in Tokyo.
They were pretty cool, made me look like a mustachioed Elvis Presley. I was
trying to be smooth, but who was I kidding? I looked terrible and felt even
worse – but that wasn’t saying much. Probably why my ex – wife took the kids to California with Brad. Brad? Who names their kid Brad? Hell, she wasn’t
perfect, but she was better than that slimy guy. Then again, at least he was there for her.
Yep, I was a no – good, broke – down loser – an old – fashioned relic, drowning in alcohol, spending my days pretending to be an insurance salesman, lugging a suitcase around. At first, I went door – to – door, but then I moved on to cold
– calling. Yeah, I’m that guy; the one you hate getting calls from when you’re
watching a rerun of Cheers and munching on that frozen pizza. People can be real jerks when they’re hungry. Like wild dogs fighting over scraps in a
dumpster. Sometimes you get lucky, though. That’s why I was sitting in the car, sweating like a pig. I had an insurance policy to sell.
His name was Tom Wilson. Yeah, Wilson – you know, like the family from Home Improvement? A wealthy out – of – towner, he built a vacation house or some business. I don’t know why anyone would take a vacation here. Frankly, I’d
rather build something in the Bahamas, soak up some sun, maybe get some of that island charm. But hey, whatever floats your boat, Tom.
It was a lousy job, but it was steady work with all the hypochondriacs in the
world. There were a lot of new people in town too, working at the Fort Worth Canned Soup Factory. People coming and going. You could talk most of them into buying any policy with the right scare tactics. I wasn’t really a doomsayer, but it paid the bills. And back then, when I was ringing doorbells for money – when the sun went down, man, it was pitch – black.
So there I was, standing at Tom Wilson’s door, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sweat stain on the back of my short – sleeved dress shirt, which was two sizes too small. He lived in an old, two – story country house, painted white,
probably built in the 1940s. It had those classic Southern columns and
overgrown vines hanging from the dilapidated balcony. It looked like the place was being renovated; most of the second floor was covered in plastic tarps,
flapping in the wind, glinting in the twilight.
Damn, I was late. Tom was probably just about to sit down and watch TV. The door opened really fast and there stood Mr. Wilson, barely four feet tall, kind of scrawny, with beady little eyes. He had slicked – back brown hair and a
toothy grin.
“Good evening, Mr. Wilson, I’m from Bowie Insurance. First of all, I’d like to
apologize for being so late. The traffic was a nightmare,” I said. Traffic? Man, after about ten years of making excuses, you run out of good ones. Traffic in a
town like Bowie was as likely as finding a vegetarian in a steakhouse. But then again…
“Ah, yes, Mr. Johnson, is it? No need for apologies. We can get started right away,” Tom said with a thick accent. He sounded British, maybe Scottish.
“Of course, sir. I have your plan right here in my briefcase. All you need to do is sign a few forms and we’ll have this place insured,” I said, tapping the suitcase and praying I hadn’t left any forms in the backseat of the Barracuda.
Tom smiled with his lips tightly pressed together. He was wearing a tight, red spandex one – piece suit with white stripes. Man, I hoped he worked out. You know, did some cardio? Clothes like that could get a guy in trouble in Texas.
“Yes, yes. Come right in. You can see I’m having a lot of work done. The
contractor’s been a pain in the neck for weeks. I’m really annoyed with him. I might have to hire a new company,” Tom said.
“Sorry to hear that, sir. You know what? I’ll make a few calls if you want. I know some guys in town who do renovations,” I said, talking out of my hat. You have to seem helpful. Clients like someone who can solve problems, especially
someone who cares. Not that I really did. Hell, I didn’t care about tomorrow. I only cared about making enough money to drink myself back to my younger days. Maybe stock up on a few cartons of menthol cigarettes from the corner store.
Tom led me through the door into the house. It was a nice place, the walls
decorated with some fine porcelain, looked like a collection. There were faces painted on them, like ordinary people you’d see around town. One guy looked like this old geezer named Fred who worked at a bagel shop in the mornings. I used to bum cigarettes off him whenever I was nearby. The old guy looked like a scarier version of myself – meaner, older, fatter. Anyway, I’d go in there
sometimes after a long night, order myself a plain bagel. That old coot would give me a hard time: “You ever been in a burning building, boy? You ever wet your pants in a fire?” The old guy served on the USS Oklahoma. He survived the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor. That must have been a tough experience. Anyway, the guy’s face on the wall looked just like him. Exactly the same.
“I make them myself. I like capturing people’s faces,” Tom explained. “Alright, we can sit in the kitchen. Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Johnson?” Tom eyed the sweat stains under my arms.
“Oh, that would be great, sir. And call me Jack, all my friends do,” I said. Jack Johnson, named after my uncle Mike “Jack” Johnson – a semi – pro baseball player in Texas until he was arrested for indecent exposure. It happened when I was a teenager. He was a great ball player, almost signed a few times. It’s funny how nobody remembers that -just him running past a senior center with his… well, you know.
“Jack. Hmm, interesting name,” Tom said. He opened the old – fashioned refrigerator and poured me a glass of orange juice. He must be into healthy food, which explained the tight clothes. Damn, the orange juice went down smooth and tangy.
“Nice place you’ve got here, sir,” I said. Making small talk is the way to keep them interested. People buy the salesman, not the product. Hell, I know I
would. There was this one time in Seoul…
“Yes, well, once the place is finished. It’s a vacation home, really, a place to get away from it all,” Tom said, waving his arm around. The kitchen had a granite countertop in the middle, but it looked like all the cabinets still needed to be
installed. Cereal boxes and cans of that Fort Worth Soup lined the open shelves. That Brit didn’t have much taste, but that’s how it is over there, right? Bad food. Crooked teeth.
“Where are you vacationing from?” I asked.
“London, actually. I’m a banker there,” Tom said, sounding a bit arrogant. “Yeah, I bet that job is really stressful,” I said.
“Oh, yes. It’s a killer. But I have my porcelain painting. And I used to play a lot of rugby in the spring,” Tom said, flicking his fingers in a strange way.
I took a big gulp of orange juice. “Yeah, rugby, that’s like football, right?”
Tom picked up the policy folder.
“Well, Mr. Wilson, should we get on with the paperwork so I don’t take up any more of your time?” I said, putting the old suitcase on the kitchen table,
opening it up, and putting his policy next to a vase of daisies. The orange juice was really hitting the spot.
“Yes, I’d like to go over some of these if you don’t mind,” Tom said.
“Not a problem. Take your time and look them over. Sometimes they’re a bit complicated, but then again, so are those claim adjusters,” I said, forcing a laugh.
“Yes,” Tom said abruptly, hardly paying attention. Those Brits are all business, no nonsense.
A few minutes passed and I started feeling the urge to pee. I had an unusually small bladder. I’m talking about the size of a pea. I can’t even finish a cup of tea before I start feeling like I’m about to burst. It was a nightmare when I was a
kid. My ex – wife never let me forget it. She used to call me Jimmy Jumper,
because I was like the little kid in my daughter’s Brownie troop who wet herself
at every meeting. Poor thing, it must have been a nervous habit. My ex – what a witch.
“I don’t see earthquake damage covered here,” Tom said.
“It’s there – right under fire damage,” I said. The guy was a stickler, but I didn’t really care. All I could think about was the orange juice. My insides felt like they were swelling up. And my kidneys were screaming. I really had to pee.
Tom just sat there, flipping through the pages, left to right, like a hyperactive secretary. He was really thorough.
“Uh, excuse me. Can I use your bathroom?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. The toilet is upstairs, to the left, two doors down,” Tom said.
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I said, running up the stairs as fast as I could. The stairs creaked and groaned like an old horse.
The second floor was in pretty bad shape. The broken drywall left big holes.
The dirty, blue paint was peeling, sagging from the neglect and the humid Texas air. You could tell it was being worked on. Tools were scattered
everywhere; there was even a new, shiny paint sprayer coiled up with about twelve gallons of brown wood sealer. I held my breath and walked into the bathroom.
“Jesus Christ!” I took one step into the bathroom and almost fell through a huge hole in the linoleum. My heart started pounding. That’s not good when you drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney.
“Watch your step, Mr. Johnson!” Tom called from the kitchen. “There’s a big gap in the floor – the old bathtub fell through.”
It was dark outside. I watched the moon rise over the oak tree in the yard. The big dent in the hood of my Barracuda glinted in the moonlight. I unzipped my pants.
“What the – huh?” I turned on the light and saw two porcelain bowls shining under the fluorescent lights. Hell, I already had my… you know.
“Uh, oh yes, uh, Mr. Johnson? Use the toilet on the right. The one by the hole isn’t installed yet. I should have had it removed weeks ago!” Tom called.
I didn’t answer. I just aimed and let it go. I peed like a champion and let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like it. That quick pee. Better than a big meal and a movie.
Life has a way of knocking everyone down. We all get tired, beaten up by our own problems. It feels good to fight back. But don’t get too cocky, because life will just come back and hit you harder. When my ex – wife took the kids – I was a mess for years. But leaving the military? That was like finding a pot of gold.
Things were simpler in the military. Sleep, drills, and food. Things got done.
Out here, a man can’t even fix the holes in his bathroom, let alone the hole in
his heart.
I fidgeted with my tie. It was an ugly thing, looked like a checkerboard or
something. I looked at my face in the mirror. Really looked. I had to take off the aviator sunglasses – I didn’t want Tom to think I was one of those “I wear my sunglasses at night” hipsters. Ah, hell. I looked like a Chihuahua with a black eye. Thanks to that muscle – bound guy at the bar. He didn’t like the way I was talking to his girl. Who would? She was a looker, though. Big, brown eyes, nice figure, smooth, tan skin. I tell you, if I was in my own bathroom, I might have… well, you know.
I fixed my mustache with the little comb I kept in my wallet, next to my
daughters’ pictures. I kissed their photos. Lily and Lucy, both eight years old – I hadn’t seen them in fifteen months. I washed my hands, frowning at my
reflection. I dried my hands on a lacy towel with a Snow White pattern. Cute.
The moon looked really pretty, like a big, white eye in the Texas sky. It looked like it was winking at you after a few drinks of Jim Beam.
I heard a glass break downstairs. I figured I should help clean up, since he was such a nice guy. I peeked through the hole in the bathroom floor. “Hey, Mr. Wilson, I’ll be right down.”
I looked down into the upside – down kitchen from the ceiling. The daisy vase was in pieces, water and glass everywhere. I stepped over the hole towards the door when I saw a fast – moving shadow in the living room below.
“Hey, Mr. Wilson, you might want to keep that dog away from the glass. You know how dogs are, they don’t know what’s good to eat,” I said.
A commotion broke out downstairs: crashing, banging, breaking.
“Tom? Are you okay down there?” I whistled for the dog. “Come on, boy. Get out of the house!”
The noise stopped. There was complete silence. I could hear my blood
pounding in my ears, like a helicopter over a jungle. The crickets outside
stopped chirping. I opened the door and started walking down the hall. The
poor guy probably had a heart attack. Hell, he’d be lying there in his red
spandex suit, gasping for air. I’d have to give him CPR or something. “You’re supposed to give them aspirin, right?” I asked myself. Heavy footsteps came up from downstairs.
Damn, what a scare. I thought Tom was a goner for sure. Jesus Christ, I thought.
The banister creaked, I didn’t remember it creaking before – but it definitely was then, kind of growling too. Stupid dog, I thought. “Get out of here!”
Angry sniffing followed my scolding. Meanwhile, all I could think about was Tom, my client, lying in the kitchen of his brand – new vacation home,
surrounded by insurance papers, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
Then I froze. My stomach dropped and I felt my heart stop. Everything I’d ever done wrong in my life, all the shady things, came rushing up my throat like bad chili and spilled onto the staircase, a flood of vomit, orange juice, and booze. I heard the guys I left in Vietnam screaming in the jungle. “I want to go home, Jack! I want to go home!” And as I retched, my whole world turned upside – down – because standing in front of me, eight feet tall, glaring and showing
long, white fangs, was the real, no – kidding, Werewolf. Dark fur covered its rippling muscles and its teeth snapped like a chainsaw.
So, I said the first thing that came to mind: “Oh, shit.”
Keeping calm was out of the question when you’re about to be torn apart by the devil’s own hound. I jumped into the bathtub, slammed the curtain shut,
and prayed. The monster on the other side scratched and howled. Its claws
scraped against the metal, trying to get in. I braced myself, barely avoiding the hairy hands that were punching through the curtain like it was paper. I heard myself scream, like that little kid with the small bladder. I was a dead man. I
knew it. Goddamn Werewolves. You never think it’ll happen to you.