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The following is based on a report in the New York Post...
April, 1:15 am.
Along Chef Menteur Highway, the air reeked of saltwater rot and long-buried secrets. In the hollowed-out shell of a once-bustling corner store, Keddrick Demon Jones Jr. crouched by the back fence, eyes scanning the empty street. He was tall—too tall for his frame—but it didn’t matter. After the storm swept through, it stripped away any hope of a quiet life, leaving hunger and frustration to gnaw at him from within.
He glanced over his shoulder, made sure the street was empty, then slid the mask over his face—a moldy, cracked thing he’d found in a voodoo shop’s forgotten chest. Dark and tattered, it resembled no man, more beast: a rougarou, a shapeshifter cursed to haunt the night.
When the mask settled in place, something stirred within. From his backpack, he pulled the crowbar and crept to the shattered door. Inside, cold emptiness pressed in as he moved with quick, practiced motions—smashing glass, rifling drawers, and stuffing valuables into black plastic bags, scavenging the easy pickings of a forgotten world.
“You won’t get caught,” Keddrick muttered, but his voice sounded hollow, distant, as if it came from somewhere deeper. The mask pulsed against his skin, the stench of old leather filling his nostrils.
As the crowbar struck the register, the mask’s edges curled, tightening around his skull. With a sharp, quick tremor coursing through him, his breath hitched—not from bodily unease, but something deeper. Something else had awakened. Something old.
When the alarm screamed, Keddrick didn’t flinch. He moved faster, grabbing the last bag of cash, bolting for the exit. “Not today,” he muttered again, but his focus slipped.
Near the fence, he heard it—claws scraping concrete. Not his. As his heart pounded fiercely, he pressed on, unable to pause. Against his face, the mask pulsed, while his trembling hands betrayed his resolve. The stolen bags dragged at him.
He ducked beneath the fence, stumbling into the alley. As he ran toward Stemway Drive, the darkness seemed to close in, curling at the edges of his vision. Something followed, breath hot on his neck. He turned—nothing. Only moonlight, filtering through thinning trees.
“Dream,” Keddrick whispered, wiping sweat from his brow. But the mask—the thing behind it—wasn’t listening. It waited. Every step dragged him deeper into the myth.
At the end of the street, the bags were gone. The hunger, the feeling of being hunted, hadn’t faded. It had only begun.
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Exciting news! Cumberland Chronicles has officially launched on Books2Read! If you're a fan of supernatural, horror, or weird stories, I’d love for you to give it a read. If it’s not quite your style, a quick share would go a long way in helping me connect with the right audience. Thank you for the support!
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