The Lost Girls of Johnson's Bayou. Jana DeLeon

she directed her spotlight that way she could make out an open area about twenty feet away. She pointed her spotlight toward the clearing and stepped deeper into the swamp. The brush closed in around her, eliminating what was left of the natural light. The sharp branches scratched her bare arms, but she pushed forward until she reached the clearing.

       It was small, maybe five feet square, and someone had taken the time to remove all the brush from the area. The ground was solid, dark dirt beneath her feet, not a sign of grass or weeds in sight. Kids, maybe? Although she couldn’t imagine kids wanting to play in this area of the swamp, nor their parents allowing it. On the backside of the clearing, a tiny path stretched into the dense brush. Ginny directed her spotlight to the path and pushed through the brush for several minutes until she reached another clearing.

       This one was bigger than the last and circular, with charred wood in the center. Ginny frowned. Surely no one was camping out here. Even if one didn’t believe the old tales about spooks and haunts, the swamp was filled with plenty of dangers, many of them deadly. Those who’d lived near the swamp their entire lives still preferred to spend the night hours surrounded by four walls.

       She studied the wood for a moment and realized it was completely rotted. A piece of it broke off easily in her hand. It had been a long time since someone placed it there and burned it, but that still didn’t explain why the brush had not taken the clearing back over. Why the dirt stood barren.

       Her spine stiffened suddenly and she stood motionless in the clearing. Her hair stood up on the back of her neck, but she had no idea what had set her off. She listened for the sounds of a night creature on the prowl, but it was almost as if the swamp had gone silent. There wasn’t a breath of air, and even the bugs had stopped making noise. She could hear her heart beating in her chest and the sound of her breath as she raggedly drew it in and out.

       Then the sound of a child’s scream ripped through the night air.

       Terror washed over Ginny like rain and held her captive, unable to move. The overwhelming desire to run as fast as she could back to the café was overshadowed by guilt, knowing she needed to help whoever had screamed. She took a deep breath to steady herself and tried to determine which direction the scream had come from. Instinct told her it had been deeper in the swamp and to her right, but she couldn’t be sure.

       Saying a silent prayer, she slipped into the brush at the far end of the circle and forged ahead. Several minutes later, she stepped out of the swamp and onto the estate grounds of the LeBlanc School. She drew up short and sucked in a breath as the house rose out of the swamp before her. All these years, as she’d studied the roofline from her kitchen window, she’d tried to convince herself that it was just a house. A thing made of stone and wood.

       As she looked up at the dark stained-glass windows that seemed to stare back at her, she knew she’d been wrong. Something malevolent called this place home. Something that remained, even when everyone else had passed from its doors years ago.

       A wave of nausea came over her and she took in a deep breath and blew it slowly out. The child. She had to focus on finding the child, and not even let her mind wander to what was happening to the child in this evil place. She took one hesitant step toward the house when someone grabbed her from behind. His arm encircled her neck, almost strangling her, and the rough skin of his palm pressed over her mouth, blocking her scream.

       “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered.

      Chapter Two

      Ginny was overwhelmed with panic and her knees began to buckle. This was it. She was going to die. Her fear of the swamp had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Then her captor loosened his grip and spun her around to face him.

       He was young, with rugged features and a hard body that she knew was meant for action. The butt of a pistol peeked out of the top of his jeans, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead he stared, his eyes assessing every square inch of her.

       “Who are you?” he asked.

       She stared for a moment, unable to find her voice. “Gi…Ginny Bergeron. I live here.” Did he need to know her name if he was going to kill her?

       He raised one eyebrow and stared at her a moment. “You live here—in this abandoned house?”

       “No. I mean, I live in Johnson’s Bayou.”

       “Do you always trespass on private property, Ms. Bergeron?”

       Some of Ginny’s fear began to dissipate and was quickly replaced with agitation. Apparently, her attacker was interested only in harassing her, not hurting her, or he could have been done a long time ago. “The entire swamp is not private property, and I didn’t realize I was running toward the house. I was trying to help the child.”

       His eyes narrowed. “What child?”

       “I heard a scream. Right after I entered the swamp. It sounded like a child.”

       “You’re sure? There are plenty of creatures out in this swamp that make noise. Maybe it was one of them that you heard?”

       Ginny bristled. “Look, I’ve lived next to this swamp my entire life. I know what animals sound like, and none of them sound like a child screaming bloody murder. Why are you harassing me?”

       The man pulled the gun from his waistband, and she took a step back.

       “What direction did the scream come from?” he asked.

       Ginny stared at the gun for a second before answering. “I thought it came from here. I mean, I came in the direction of the scream and ended up at the house.”

       He nodded. “Do you know how to get back to town?”

       “Yes. It’s due east. I have a great sense of direction.”

       He didn’t look convinced. “You need to go home. Lock your doors and forget you ever saw me out here. Is that clear?”

       “Crystal.” The reply had barely left her lips before he rushed off toward the front of the house.

       Ginny watched his retreating back for a second then spun around and ran through the brush toward town. She didn’t stop running until she was upstairs in her apartment, with the doors closed, locked and dead-bolted and every blind and curtain in the apartment closed tight.

      PAUL STANTON GRIPPED his pistol in one hand and shone his flashlight around the cavernous entryway of the old house. He strained to make out a sound, any indication there was life in the dilapidated structure, but all he heard was the night air whistling through the broken stained-glass window at the top of the vaulted ceiling.

       Unbelievable! What in the world was she doing roaming around the swamp without a weapon? The blond-haired waif didn’t appear skilled enough to take on a box of kittens, much less any of the creatures she might run into in the swamp. Clearly, she was nuts. Sane people didn’t stroll through a swamp at night with nothing but a hundred-dollar spotlight. Which left him wondering whether or not she’d really heard a scream.

       With all the tales surrounding the house, he was surprised someone from town would even venture to this area of the swamp, especially after dark. In fact, he’d been counting on that fear to keep from being caught himself. Perhaps curiosity had gotten the better of her, because she didn’t seem overly confident about being there. What bothered him more than anything was that a single woman with no weapon felt compelled to wander around these woods at night. She must have a darned good reason, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it was.

       He took a cursory look at the areas of the home that were easily passable, but there weren’t many. The fire had destroyed a large section of the home, supposedly where the records on the girls had been held, but even the areas that hadn’t been touched by fire had obviously had visitors. All the cabinets in the kitchen were open, the drawers pulled completely out from the frames. Furniture had been upended so that not a single piece was left upright.

       Shards of fabric hung from upholstered furniture, and piles of stuffing, covered with mold