Storyteller's Cabin
			-2- When Chancy came to, he was lying on a dank, mildewed old chaise in the middle of a dank mildewed old room. And three women were fussing over him. Well, at least they looked like women. Kinda. They were are tall and thin, like paper fold herons, and dressed in ragged finery at least sixty years out of date. And their eyes were very, very bright - and their teeth were very, very sharp. At first, Chancy was enjoying all the attention. Then he actually started listening to what the sisters were saying and the enjoying stopped right fast. Their voices were dry and rustley, like mice scampering through old newspapers. They'd been in that decaying house ever since Daddy died and the swamp rose, and they were right lonely... ...And right hungry. And Chancy he remembered that mosquitoes ain't the only things that drink blood. But Chancy could think fast when he had to, and he thought fast now. "Ladies," he said with a courtly cough, "I am flattered by your attention, but there are three of you, and I'm right poorly. But out in that swamp is a boat with a lantern, and three of the finest men it is my privilege to know. And while I am loathed to share, whatever are friends for?" The sisters looked at each other and tittered and suddenly they were gone, like herons flying off into the night. Having effectively taken care of Black Mountain Kincaid and his brothers, Chancy Fox tipped his hat over his eyes and went to sleep. Later, he thought he heard screams coming up outa that swamp, but it was probably a dream. As day started to break, there was a dry rustling like birds with paper wings, and the sisters were back. Now instead of being tall and thin like herons, they were round and blotted like ticks and not paying any attention to Chancy. But Chancy was paying attention to them. They disappeared into the bowels of the house and Chancy waited until the sun was up full, broke three legs off a chair, and went hunting. He found them in three separate rooms, lying in three separate coffins, and without so much as a thank you, he drove a chair leg through each of their hearts. Black blood erupted all over the place, but Chancy didnāt mind. And when they were dead, they were really dead. Now if Chancy had been as smart as he thought he was, he would have found his dingy and gotten far, far away from there. But he figured ladies like that would have jewels or some such, and it took him a while to find them. But find them he did, even though it took him all day. Night was falling when he finally headed down the crumbling steps and the deep cavernous voice rumbled at him out of the night. "Evenin', gambler." And Chancy Fox turned and stared at the tall bulky figure of Sheriff Black Mountain Kincaid looming in the dark, his two giant brothers on either side of him. "Evenin', Sheriff," Cahncy answered. "Heard you was dead." "That's strange, gambler. Heard the same thing about you." And the Sheriff smiled and his brothers smiled. And their eyes were very, very bright, and their teeth were very, very sharp. And Chancy Fox remembered a few other things about bloodsuckers. He didn't even bother to scream as they closed in on him, their blood-soaked clothes rustling like paper wings. Hungry for the Gulf, the Dark River flows broad and wide after River Bend. The marshlands appear as the riverbanks fade. But if you go far enough into the marshes... The swamps begin. - THE END - Find out where this story came from in our cultural background page. What did you think of this story? Think you have a better one? Sound off on our Message Boards.
Return to top

Home | Feature Stories | Archives | Bookshop | Credits | FAQs | Site Map | Write to Us © 1997-2006