Shine and Blood (short story)

“Shine and Blood”

The tires of the old Model T kicked up mud and Spanish moss as it rolled slow through the narrow dirt trail, somewhere deep in the Lafourche Parish bayou. Cicadas sang like devils in the trees, and the thick summer air clung to the skin like wet cotton.

Jesse “Red” Laveau lit a hand-rolled cigarette and leaned out the passenger window, eyes scanning the treeline. “Feels like we’re being watched,” he muttered, voice thick with the drawl of southern Louisiana.

“Probably just a gator smellin’ your breath,” said Ellis Dupree, grinning as he guided the truck through a patch of ruts. His dark curls clung to his sweaty forehead, and the burlap sacks of moonshine in the back rattled as the wheels dipped into another groove.

They were twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. Young, mean, and just dumb enough to run hooch through dry country. Jesse kept his granddaddy’s hunting knife strapped to his leg, and Ellis had a rusted double-barrel shotgun tucked behind the seat.

“Moon’s up,” Jesse said, nodding toward the treetops where the light filtered through in pale silver shafts. “Feels weird tonight.”

Ellis chuckled. “You always get spooky when the moon’s full.”

“No,” Jesse replied, flicking ash out the window. “This is different.”

They were close to the drop point, a dock half-rotted and overgrown with moss, where a man named Baptiste came in from the marsh to haul shine back to New Orleans. But just as they rounded the bend, the woods went quiet. The cicadas stopped. Even the frogs held their breath.

Then came the sound. A low, wet grunt. Not quite animal. Not quite human.

Ellis slammed the brakes. The truck rocked and hissed as steam rose from the hood.

“What the hell was that?” Jesse whispered.

From the shadows stepped something massive—its eyes glowing like hot coals in the moonlight. It stood upright, long arms dangling with claws the size of butcher knives, its body rippling with muscle and covered in matted gray fur. A wolf’s head on a man’s frame. A nightmare made flesh.

The werewolf lunged.

Jesse dove from the truck, rolling to his feet and slashing with his knife. It cut deep, but the beast hardly flinched. Ellis fired one barrel—BOOM!—and the shot caught the thing in the chest, knocking it back.

But it wasn’t dead.

With a roar, it pounced. Claws tore through Ellis like paper, blood spraying across the truck. Jesse screamed, stabbing, slicing, dodging. He fought like a man who knew he’d die but wasn’t going quietly.

He didn’t.

The werewolf ripped through him with a final swipe, tossing his body into the trees like a rag doll. Silence followed. Blood dripped onto the swamp floor.

Then the beast stood there, panting beneath the moon. Its chest heaved, and the last echoes of the fight faded into the stillness of the bayou.

With a shudder, its body began to shift. Bones cracked. Fur receded. Muscles contorted and shrank until all that was left was a man—naked, tall, lean, and soaked in blood. A long scar stretched across his chest.

He whistled a slow, low tune as he walked to the back of the truck, grabbed a crate of moonshine, and slung it over his shoulder. He looked once more at the bodies, no guilt in his eyes.

Then he vanished into the woods, swallowed by shadow and moss, leaving nothing behind but broken glass, spilled shine, and the ghosts of two boys who thought they could outrun the dark.