R. B. Wood is a recent MFA graduate of Emerson College and a writer of speculative and dark thrillers. Mr. Wood recently has appeared in Crystal Lake Publishing's Shallow Water's anthology, as well as online via SickLit Magazine & HorrorAddicts.net, and in the award-winning anthology "Offbeat: Nine Spins on Song" from Wicked Ink Books. Along with his writing passion, R. B. is the host of The Word Count Podcast—a show of original flash fiction.
R. B. currently lives in Boston with his partner Tina, a multitude of cats, and various other critters that visit from time to time.
Bayou Whispers, the latest supernatural, southern gothic thriller from speculative fiction writer R.B. Wood is the story of no-nonsense strong female protagonist and New Orleans native, Jeannine LaRue, the sole survivor of her family after the devastation brought on by Hurricane Katrina. In the aftermath of the storm, she believed she'd been saved, but soon found herself held hostage and sexually exploited, rescued months later by sheriff's deputy Curtis Jones.
Twelve years after Katrina, Jeannine is a new attorney who returns to New Orleans to save her old friend Curtis Jones-now a local thief and trafficker of stolen goods-after he is arrested for the murder of Jeannine's captors, whose bodies have recently been found. But Jeannine discovers more than she bargained for when she uncovers a family mystery that includes ghosts, dark voodoo magic, and an unholy alliance with an ancient evil Haitian god.
Wood's action-packed supernatural thriller tells the tale of Janine, a woman returning to her hometown of New Orleans to join forces with a one-time cop who rescued her from the ravages of Hurricane Katrina years before. With ghost ships, voodoo and Haitian gods, there is plenty of supernatural mayhem to keep you on the edge of your seat. – Tricia Reeks
"Wood wrote a compelling tale steeped in New Orleans flavor and dark magic. The characters are colorful, likable, and altogether a triumph."
– Mercedes M. Yardley, Stoker Award-winning author of Little Dead Red"Bayou Whispers is a haunting, touching novel that blends the horrors of everyday life with that of the supernatural. Tapping into the tension and setting of films like Angel Heart and True Detective, this is a hypnotic story told from a place of loss, community, and resolute hope."
– Richard Thomas, author of Disintegration and Thriller Award nominee, Breaker"Wood's Bayou Whispers is a sublime cocktail of horror, supernatural thriller, and urban fantasy, where the mythos of voodoo clashes with the modern day. Fans of Jim Butcher and the Marvel Cinematic Universe will love this."
– Todd Keisling, author of Devil's Creek"The secrets in BAYOU WHISPERS unwind like a line of music. But it's the music that plays just before the monsters jump out."
– Sarah Read, Stoker award-winning author of The Bone Weaver's OrchardPROLOGUE
31 October 2005
Orleans Parish, Louisiana
ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT that year, no little ghosts or goblins wandered the streets in search of candy. No laughter rang out in what was left of the Lower 9th Ward neighborhood. Two months after Katrina had ravaged this place, it still resembled a war zone, covered in debris and stagnant pools of foul-smelling water from the levee breach.
As midnight approached, a young teenager—naked, dirty, covered in mosquito bites, and with a nasty leg wound wrapped in crusted-over grey rags—stumbled from a copse of trees. She was thin, so very thin, weighing barely eighty pounds.
The muddy and cracked streets before her sat dark and empty; human detritus littered the roads and yards, and the skeletons of ruined homes bore unintelligible spray paint that looked more like the desperate scratching of a fluorescent wild beast than symbols from a nameless insurance company or traumatized recovery workers.
It was a city of the dead, a city of the damned.
Right foot, left foot drag. One step at a time. The pain didn't matter. It can't matter.
Jeannine had been walking for what felt like forever, almost in a trance, placing one bloody foot in front of the other. Moving forward was the only thing that mattered.
Keep moving. Those white guys might be following. Keep moving.
Right foot, left foot drag.
She walked through glass and rusted nails, around junked appliances and damp, moldy couches. A dog barked once in the distance.
A patrol car sat watch at the end of the street, engine idling. Jeannine approached, fear causing each step to hesitate. The light of a burning cigarette brightened as the occupant of the vehicle, still in shadow, took a long drag.
"Help," croaked Jeannine. Her voice strained, rough. Insects chirped. Frogs called to their mates. No one heard her.
Right foot, left foot drag.
The person in the car took another pull, a dot of orange light flaring, then fading.
"Help!" she called, louder this time. The insects and the frogs stopped. The patrol car's dome light winked on as the door opened.
Jeannine screamed.
She screamed as the cop ran toward her. She screamed as the cop took off his own shirt to wrap around her. She screamed as the cop carried her to the car.
"Jesus H. Christ! Randy, call for an ambulance!" yelled the cop.
The cop's partner, still inside the car, got on the radio.
Jeannine continued to scream until her vocal cords tore. She tasted blood.
"You're safe, honey," said the cop for the seventh time. Jeannine finally heard him.
He stayed with her until the ambulance arrived and then rode with her to the hospital. He spoke to the doctors on her behalf. He sat with her in intensive care while Jeannine, clean for the first time in months, slept. He watched her tossing, turning, and moaning softly.
Randy, the cop's partner, arrived at the hospital. He'd taken care of the paperwork and had brought a po' boy and a coffee. The sandwich was left untouched.
For the next hour, the partners sat a silent vigil over Jeannine.
The first cop must have drifted off because he woke with a start when someone placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Officer Jones?" asked a man in scrubs. "I'm Doctor Broussard. Can we talk outside for a minute?"
The cop looked to his partner and he nodded back at him.
"Go," said Randy. "I'll be here."
Jones followed the doctor into the hallway.
"Officer, we can't find any of . . . " He glanced at a clipboard. " . . . Jeannine's family. I wanted to let you know that in the morning, and assuming she's still stable . . . " The doctor let his words drift off as he swallowed hard.
Jones noticed the man's youth, how inexperienced he must've been before Katrina hit. The doctor looked like some of the baby-faced soldiers Curtis had met during the war—young men, children, really, who grew up quickly in the face of tragedy and death.
Jones put his hand on the doctor's shoulder.
"Yes. Sorry," said Dr. Broussard. "It's been a long couple of months of giving out bad news."
"I understand," said Jones automatically. "Just hit me with it, Doc."
"She . . . Jeannine . . . we are going to have to remove her leg. The infection is too severe and there is gangrene."
"Do what you have to," said Jones impassively.
"But without parental . . . "
"Will the surgery save her life?"
"Yes."
"Take her leg, then." Jones's left eye twitched once.
Doctor Broussard nodded. "I'll need you to sign."
A moment later, Jones returned to Jeannine's room.
"Well?" asked Randy.
Jones slumped into a chair. "They're going to take it in the morning."
Suddenly, Jeannine sat up, ice-blue eyes wide, unblinking.
It was those eyes that had thrown him. This young teen—he'd met her once before the storm. He didn't recognize her at first, as she practically crawled from the bayou, filthy and emaciated. The last time Curtis had seen her—she'd been covered in blood.
She had brown eyes then. He remembered them—unblinking and staring into a nightmare of unimaginable horror.
"Jane Doe" was Jeannine LaRue. Jones was sure being a child of mixed-race parents was hard enough to grow up with in this town, but this young woman had experienced far more and far worse than her fourteen years had prepared her for.
Jones knew who she was now; she had been returned unlike so many of those in the missing persons reports.
The details of so many lost souls broken down into height, weight, and hair color.
"You all right, Jeannine?" he asked.
She looked at Jones, eyes unfocused from the drugs the doctors had pumped into her.
"Papa Nightmare is here!" she said in a frantic whisper. "Papa Nightmare!"
"Shhh. It's all right, honey. You are safe now. I'm here and I won't leave you."
Jeannine blankly looked at Jones. He gently helped her lie back down.
"Right foot, left foot," she muttered as her eyes fluttered once before closing.
The drugs took a lasting hold, and Jeannine's breathing slowed. She spoke occasionally, nonsense words mostly. Jones held her hand for the rest of that night.
"You're safe," he whispered again. "I promise."
