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A Crying Shame
A Crying Shame
A Crying Shame
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A Crying Shame

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Each night they emerged from the murky depths of the swamp to claim another victim—a lovely, innocent, fertile female who would be carried off in huge hairy arms and plunged into a nightmare world of terror. Her screams would echo in the darkness. Her face would contort in the throes of horror and pain. But once taken, each became a mother of an unholy child, a link in the chain of madness and evil, a spawn to carry on the devil's name!
DON’T MISS THESE WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE THRILLERS!
The Devil’s Kiss
The Devil’s Heart
The Devil’s Touch
The Devil’s Cat
The Uninvited
Them
LanguageEnglish
PublisherLyrical Press
Release dateJun 23, 2015
ISBN9781616507855
A Crying Shame

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This was wicked creepy. I love creatures with my horror and you get some new ones in this story.I tried to visualize them and came up with a cross between a bigfoot from the movie Sasquatch and the vampire creatures in Priest. Probably not even close but that’s scary enough for me.I know the blurb mentions these monsters emerging from the swamp to kidnap human females and impregnate them. That sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But the author manages to pull it off, giving you a believable enough explanation for their actions and how it works.That’s not even the tip of the iceberg. These creatures have super strength, are savage, and hungry. And we are on the menu.Great characters too. Lots to like. And so many to pity when the creatures really get cranked up. A horror story wouldn’t be good without some killing off of likable characters and there’s some of that for sure. Don’t count on your favorite making it to the end. Lots don’t. This is home invasion on a whole new level.For all of you horror fans, come and get it!

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A Crying Shame - William W. Johnstone

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Prologue

I’m going to call the police." She walked to the telephone.

You know that. Have to be the sheriff’s department."

Paul, damn it, I’m scared!"

He sighed, returned her gaze for a few seconds. Then he shrugged and returned to his evening paper. He looked at but was not really reading the print.

About forty-five minutes! What kind of sheriffs department do we have in this parish?"

Also understaffed, underpaid, underequipped. They do the best they can, Linda."

And I’m constantly bothering them with crank calls, huh? Go ahead, Paul, say it."

He kept silent.

I’m cold. The air conditioning is too low."

Then adjust it to your liking, Sis."

You’re very condescending this evening, Paul," she accused him.

Just trying to get along."

Paul, don’t you even care what’s out there ... making that noise? My God! It’s been going on every night for ... oh, hell ... days!"

Nights," he corrected.

Paul . . . sometimes you make me so ..." She stamped a foot in anger.

and I don’t care what it is." The note of deception was definitely in his voice.

This is the third or fourth night, Paul. And it’s happened many times before. Paul ... I’m scared!"

Linda, if it will make you happy; if my going out into the goddamned rain will please you. If—above all else—it will shut you up ... I will go outside and look around. Will that satisfy you, Linda?"

Paul—"

I’m sorry I snapped at you, too." He started for the front door. Her voice stopped him.

Take a gun, Paul."

A gun, Sis?"

Yes. Please, Paul? You brought an arsenal up here with you. You must have had some reason for doing that. And it would make me feel better knowing you’re armed."

All right." That pawing sound was repeated. Both of them looked at the door; neither made mention of the strange noise. Paul went to a gun cabinet, pulling out a double-barreled twelve-gauge, breaking it down, loading it with three-inch magnums. Shotgun loaded, he went to the door. Wind and rain greeted the opening, the rain dampening the hall floor. The night yawned dark and wet past the now-lighted porch.

I’ll be back in a minute," he told her.

That was the last thing Paul Breaux ever said to his sister.

Be careful."

She sat down in a chair, watching her brother close the door behind him, shutting out the sounds of the storm, muting them. She felt her skin prickle; it seemed to crawl with a life all its own. She rubbed her forearms. Dread, she guessed. Fear. Linda was not superstitious, was not afraid of the dark ... of graveyards. But she dimly remembered her visits to her grandmother, way down in the swamps of south Louisiana, years back, when she was but a small child. Her grandmother refused to live in New Orleans, choosing instead to stay at the old home place. Her grandmere used to tell her stories of the beasts that prowled the swamps and bayous; stories of the catachmar, the loup-garou.

But, she sighed, that had been a long time ago. Her grandmere had been dead for years, and all those stories were just tales to frighten a child. Nonsense. She didn’t really believe in all that.

Or did she?

A scream ripped the stormy night—a yowling sound. Not human. No human could make a sound like that.

She sat still and perfectly straight in the chair. Paul’s shotgun boomed, shattering the darkness, the blast matching the thunder that rolled about the plantation house, on the edge of the Crying Swamp. The shotgun roared once, then again. Wind and rain whipped the house by the mysterious swamp, the largest swamp in all of north and north-central Louisiana. Thousands and thousands of acres. It was named the Crying Swamp because many people had heard strange noises coming from the moss-hung gloom, floating plaintively over the black water. A sobbing sound, echoing through the tall, huge, ancient cypress. And over the years, so the stories went, people had gone into the swamp ... and never returned. No trace of them ever found. No one to tell what had happened.

Paul screamed in pure anguish; Linda jumped to her feet, trembling in fear, her breathing shallow. Her skin felt cold and clammy. The shotgun came crashing through the big picture window. The heavy weapon had been bent double. It landed at her feet amid a shower of glass.

Paul!" she screamed.

A growl greeted her call.

She ran to the window; the wind lashed through the broken glass whipping the drapes, popping them as a blacksnake whip in the hands of a master. She jerked the drapes apart. A face and form out of hell stood on the porch, staring at her, slobbering a thick drool from animal lips.

She screamed, her frightened cry seeming to anger the creature. It reached for her, through the broken glass, its paw grabbing at her.

Linda jerked back, away from the awfulness she was seeing through unbelieving eyes. But she knew it was real ... true. She turned, in her haste banging her shin against a planter. Plants tumbled to the now-wet floor. Ignoring the pain in her shin, she ran in a panic down the hall to the office. She jerked open a drawer of the desk, her hands fumbling, sweaty, nervous. She pulled out a .32 automatic pistol. She could hear the ... whatever in the name of God it was ... beast ... snarling and pawing on the porch. She didn’t know what to do; where to run; her legs felt useless, numb from fear. Her skin was cold-feeling, and the sweat that dripped from her face was sticky.

The beast howled in the stormy night, its cry the sound of the hunter who has cornered prey. There followed the sound of more glass breaking, shattering and falling to the floor.

The lights went out, plunging the room in the great old house into mind-chilling, nerve-screaming darkness. A hard rip of lightning, sulfurous in its charge, cut through the night.

That ... thing was in the house. Linda could sense its presence; could feel the evil slowly searching for her in the unfamiliar darkness of the mansion. She could hear it sniffing the humid air, and she could smell its awful odor as it tracked her through the house, following her female scent through the hall, past the guest bedrooms on the lower level of the plantation house, to the office. Its bare feet scratched the hardwood floor; its toenails clicked, then caught, pulling at the fabric of the carpeted office entrance. It stopped just inside the door.

Linda jacked a round into the pistol by rote; she had been trained well in the use of weapons.

What do you want?" she screamed the question.

Dear God—leave me alone!"

Growling filled the room in reply.

The stench of the beast drifted into the closed room, almost overpowering her with its odor.

Leave me alone!" she warned, her voice shaky.

The beast was moving, stalking her, a couch separating the upright man/creature in vague human form from the woman, terrified, rooted to her spot by fear. She raised the pistol just as a flash of lightning cut the night, momentarily illuminating the office.

And she witnessed the creature, saw it in all its hideousness: the huge head, the malformed grotesqueness of the half-human, half-animal body, covered with hair; the dangling arms, the fangs that dripped stinking slobber from apelike lips, the hot yellow eyes that seemed not to blink.

It roared at her, its breath fouling the air. The beast lifted its arms, holding out its hands—almost, it seemed to Linda, beckoning to her.

I’ll kill you," she cried, tears of fear and stark terror staining her cheeks.

The creature leaped for her. She began firing, the muzzle spitting lead and flame. The beast howled at the slugs that tore its flesh.

The last thing Linda remembered was the sound of her own screaming as the beast reached for her.

Chapter One

That was one hell of a storm we had last night, eh?"

Oui," Deputy Wagner said, with an accent that caused Mike to cringe.

Roy, don’t ever cross the Fain River and attempt to speak French. My coonie cousins over there will be laughing all the way to supper."

How alse kin ah practice ma coonass talk?"

The small room was still echoing with laughter as the sheriff took his coffee into his office. He was chuckling and shaking his head, thinking: Hopeless—the man is hopeless. He wants to learn Cajun French so badly, but he’ll be a rolling-hills redneck till the day he dies.

He looked up as his chief deputy walked in.

bad language" used in the department. Joe had once tried to initiate a morning prayer service in the department. For a week he had tried very hard. For a week nobody showed up. Joe still groused about that.

How you this morning?"

Quiet night, Sheriff," he said.

Joe then proceeded to bring Mike up to date on the night’s activities. Mike had never asked for this verbal report; indeed, he would have much preferred to scan the arresting reports himself. But it was something Joe felt he should do. And he did—every morning. He would call Mike at home on the weekends, except that the last time he did that, Mike was entertaining a lady, and was unusually blunt with his chief deputy. Profanely so. It never happened again.

Glad to hear it was quiet. Well, Joe ... if it was that quiet, perhaps then we can dispense with the—"

One fight; nobody wanted to press charges. We rolled on all the calls ’cept one. A call came in at nine-forty-one. From the Breaux house. Something prowlin’ around outside, she said. The dispatcher said she got uppity with her."

Who got upset with whom?"

Never has liked us around here. Makes that plain as the nose on your face. She thinks that—"

I know all about it, Joe. You’ve told me often enough. I have your feelings about Linda Breaux branded in my brain. I hear them in my sleep. Why didn’t a deputy respond to her call?"

Dispatch says she couldn’t raise nobody. Said she tried several times. When the Breaux woman didn’t call back, Alma figured whatever it was out there had gone away."

Alma knows better than that shit!"

I think Alma canned the report. How many times we rolled out there, Sheriff? Twenty? Thirty?"

At least. But that’s our job. And let us not forget, there is much bad blood between Alma and Miss Breaux."

Ms."

Why are you hissing at me?"

I ain’t hissin’. It’s Ms. She’s a Ms. M—S—period. She ain’t neither a Miss nor a Mrs. nor a Madammie. That Breaux woman is a Ms."

Thank you for correcting me, Joe," Mike said, as dryly as possible, hoping his cold reply would not be lost on the man.

That woman must jump and holler every time a pine cone hits the ground, Sheriff."

Right, Joe."

Ever since her and her fancy, snooty brother come up here to live, fixin’ up that old plantation house, they been nothing but aggravatin’ to us."

Right, Joe." Let him get it out of his system, Mike thought. Then he’ll personally drive out to Despair Plantation and make a very stiff, formal, sweaty apology for the department’s not responding to her call. Joe’s way.

It ain’t natural, them livin’ out there together. I tell you, Sheriff, the Good Lord frowns on things like that."

Things like what, Joe?" Mike asked wearily. Right off, he could tell it was not going to be a good day.

Incestuous relationships. It’s written right in the Book, Sheriff. Leviticus, Chapter Twenty . . ."

Oh, no," Mike muttered, wishing, praying the phone would ring. Anything to stop this.

. . . And if a man shall take his sister, his father’s daughter, or his mother’s daughter, and see her nakedness, and she see his nakedness; it is a wicked thing; and—"

Joe!" Mike said sharply, aware that several of his deputies were gathered outside the office door, stifling giggles.

Sheriff?"

I don’t want a sermon, Joe. If I need to hear one, I’ll go see my priest. Besides, we do not know that any incestuous relationship has ever occurred. Probably it has not. Ever since Alma and Miss ... ah ... Ms. Breaux had that run-in at the supermarket, Alma has shit-canned no telling how many of her calls from Despair. You know what to do about this one."

shit-canned." But then, Joe always looked pained about something. He stood in front of Mike’s desk, waiting.

Joe?"

Sheriff?"

I don’t suppose there is anything in the Bible about New Orleans’ society women, is there?"

No, sir."

Wonderful."

Fountain Parish lies just a few miles east of being dead center in the state of Louisiana. The Fain River separates the first area of heavy Cajun country from central Louisiana. Laclede is the parish seat of Fountain. It is an old parish, and a rich one. The parish is owned, almost lock, stock, and alligators by only a few families. No industry; sparsely populated; farmland. The Crying Swamp and five thousand acres around the dark place are owned by the Breaux family of New Orleans. Claude Breaux won the swamp in a poker game on a river boat back in 1822. Back then the name was Benoit. It was changed shortly after Claude Benoit shot Herbert Gourrier in the stomach in a duel over a woman and all twelve of Monsieur Gourrier’s brothers came after Claude, vowing to hang him. That prompted old Claude to haul his ass out of New Orleans and head for the wilds of central Louisiana—way up north. ’Bout a hundred and fifty miles up and inland. Protestant country. Savage and untamed. Old Claude changed his name and the name has been Breaux ever since.

There is more than a mere modicum of culture, quite unlike the barbaric activities that pass for mentally stimulating entertainment in Fountain."

Needless to say, that remark did not endear Ms. Breaux to the hearts and minds of the good folk of Fountain Parish.

Linda and Alma—the dispatcher, or dispatcheress, of the Fountain Parish Sheriff’s Department, four

P.M.

dim-witted, crotch-scratching, tobacco-chewing, cretinous buffoon."

Which he was; and is—sort of.

You are a snooty, uppity bitch who thinks you carry the crown jewels between your legs. And what you really need, Ms. Breaux, is a good stiff dick shoved in you."

Bad blood thus ensued between the two.

But one must come to Linda’s defense: there is a distinct lack of culture in Fountain. As a matter of fact, there isn’t any culture in the parish. The nightclubs feature three types of music: adenoidal howlings emanating from under ten-gallon hats; throbbing jungle rhythms of soul; and screaming, mind-boggling sounds of rock and roll, all presented at a decibel level guaranteed to produce migraines within thirty seconds of entering the room.

One misguided but well-intentioned matronly patron of fine arts once brought in a well-known (outside of Fountain Parish) soprano to warble a few arias at the local library (a place one redneck’s wife once referred to as the most useless building in the parish).

They’s a bunch of them damned Pentecostals down there at the library ... speakin’ in tongues. It was awful. Gimme another drink and turn up the jukebox."

Culture in Fountain Parish.

There isn’t a great deal of violence in Fountain Parish, other than the usual and expected barroom fights on weekends. One redneck punching another redneck is something those who do not patronize the local joints don’t really care to read about, so it is seldom reported in the local newspaper. There has never been a bank robbery; shootings are rare occurrences (even though nearly everyone owns at least one gun—four is the average); and day-to-day life, for the most part, is peaceful in Fountain Parish.

Chief Deputy Joe Ratliff, on this fine summer’s day, was motoring out toward Despair Plantation, rehearsing what he would say to Ms. Breaux concerning the department’s failure to respond to her prowler call the previous evening. He went over it in his mind, then tried it vocally, just wrapping it up when he pulled into the driveway of Despair.

That’s when his vocal cords locked, his eyes bugged, his hands got sweaty, and his stomach did a flip-flop.

Oh, my sweet precious Jesus!" Joe finally managed to blurt, his eyes sweeping the dewy grounds. Despair Plantation was so beautiful. But Joe noticed no beauty on this morning.

What remained of Paul Breaux lay scattered on the porch, in front of the porch, on an azalea bush; and his head was sitting on the still-damp ground, grinning grotesquely in death.

Rightnowrightnowrightnow!"

Joe? What’s wrong?"

GET OUT HERE!" Joe screamed.

Have you looked in the house?" Mike asked, having arrived just minutes after receiving the almost-hysterical call.

Lord forgive me for sayin’ that," he pleaded.

Come on, let’s take a look around."

Mack Atkins, the Louisiana Highway Patrolman assigned to the parish, working plain-clothes, swallowed almost audibly as he walked with the sheriff up to the porch of the magnificent old home. He stopped, sticking out his arm, halting the sheriff.

Sheriff Saucier ... look." He pointed at the strange footprints in the mud by the porch steps.

What in God’s name made that?" Mike said. He had never seen a print like it.

Nothing human," Joe said quietly and confidently. He had calmed himself.

A shiver touched the sheriff, and crawled eerily up his backbone. It was a slimy feeling, and it would not leave the man.

Damned sure wasn’t a bear," Mack opined.

The front porch was slick with blood, shining darkly in the morning sun ... and other parts of the human anatomy the men chose not to look at too closely. Not until their stomachs could adapt to the carnage.

Paul Breaux had been ripped open, his inner parts scattered helter-skelter.

It’s . . . half-eaten."

What kind of strength would it take to do that?"

Inhuman," Mike replied tightly. He shut his eyes and shook his head.

Miss Breaux! Are you in the house?"

A slug splintered the center of the door; the men jumped for cover, slipping on the dewy grass and the slick gore. The slug whined harmlessly away.

Crouched behind the high porch, the men turned the quiet morning into a shooting gallery. All armed with .357 magnums, they

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