A Curious Moon

By HJ Dutton

This piece has been selected by our editors to be nominated for the 2027 Pushcart Prize.

“Are we gonna see the statue?” Alphie shouted over the airboat’s roar. 

“Yessir,” grinned the tour guide. “Not much left of Ragin’ Rachel nowadays. Saltwater really did a number on her. But she’s down there.”

Kelsey blew a raspberry. Her brother’s cryptid phase couldn’t end soon enough. Either Mom and Dad didn’t mind his tangents on skinwalkers and rougarous, or they’d long ago learned to drown them out. Kelsey never quite managed to. 

The boat continued roaring down the bayou. To either side loomed walls of bald cypress, all quivering behind waves of Louisiana heat. Their skein of branches writhed with webs in Spanish moss and, on occasion, real spiderwebs, bigger than any she’d seen. Some were vacant; on others hung golden orbweavers the size of her hand. Whenever she saw one, Mom made a face. “I swear, if one of those falls on the boat, I’m overboard. Gators be damned.” 

Dad chuckled. “I’ll second that.” 

“The big girls in the trees are totally harmless, if you can believe it,” said the tour guide. He spat over the side. Kelsey wrinkled her nose. “Just big.” 

They stopped at a bend where a fat alligator sat, waiting. Before they reached it, its mouth was already open. The guide, now on his feet, rummaged through a plastic bag, and tossed offerings of diced hotdog into its pink maw. Alphie snapped a couple photos with the Kodak camera he bought from CVS. 

The rest of the way to the statue, the guide regaled them with a history of the local legend, one which Kelsey only half-listened to. Alphie had already recited it to her dozens of times. The first sightings of the “Seignur de Marais”, known today as Ragin’ Rachel, occurred during the late 17th century, predating the first French colonies in the state. As they plumbed the depths of the swamp, Pierre Le Moyne D’lberville and his colleagues reportedly witnessed the back of something huge piercing the swamp’s surface. The further they wandered into the heart of the swamp, the more this being made itself known. On multiple occasions, the creature scratched the sides of their boats, chased them off-course, and, at dusk, crawled onto land to terrorize those who strayed too far from camp. The French described the creature as a massive crustacean, with ten limbs and a carapace covered in countless spines on which animal bones dangled. On a few occasions, the creature shook the very trees as it crawled onto land, as if it had flown into a terrible rage. Hence the name. Typical campfire tale fare, all of it. 

For a time, they exited the trees, skimming the edge of a marina on which lay the backyards of multiple houses. Kelsey’s brow creased. A couple years back, when they’d taken the same tour, she would’ve been hard pressed to call them shacks. The buildings in their places looked like the McMansions that dwarfed their own beach house in Boca Raton. 

“How’d they even afford those?” Mom whispered.

Dad snorted. “Moonshine biz must be booming.” 

What did pique Kelsey’s interest, if only a little, was Rachel’s portrayal in Cajun folklore. She wasn’t some dime store riff on Nessie or whatever other mascot lived the next state over. No, to them, Ragin’ Rachel was practically a god. According to early Acadian settlers, the creature functioned as an avatar of the swamp, a hulking manifestation of mother nature’s vindictive streak. Rachel could, with the proper offering, be temporarily appeased, allowing for safe passage through her domain. Alphie said hundreds of shrines existed throughout the bayou, the ground around them heaped in lard candles and rosaries and chicken bones. Maybe, if the guide elaborated more on that aspect of the myth, she’d pay actual attention. 

The boat’s growl shrank to a hum as it drifted into what looked like a pond. Tupelo trees tossed their teardrop leaves into the water. Squinting, Kelsey scanned the pond for gators. None that she could see. 

“Here we are,” said the guide. “She’s a bit tough to spot though the sunlight, but if you folks look over the side and squint hard enough, she’ll be there.” He guided the boat to the pond’s center, then stopped. 

Camera in hand, Alphie loomed over the left side. Kelsey stuck her torso over the opposite side. Near the front Mom and Dad brought their faces as close as they could to the water, squinting. A whole minute she sat like that, blood rushing to her head. The murk revealed nothing. Shrugging, she sat back up, and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Let me know if you get a picture of it, Alphie.” Hopefully no more stops on the tour after this; she’d had her fill of the swamp. 

Behind, a yelp. Then a splash. Hands on her. They shoved. Ribs slammed against the side. Then over. Swampwater in her mouth, in her eyes. Thick, salty. Above, two more splashes. Then shouts. Dad’s voice, spitting curses. Mom and Alphie wailing. Thrashing. Drowned out, as the boat’s engine roared. She gulped in air. Rubbed her eyes. Blinked. Mom, Dad and Alphie nearby. Heads barely above water. A cloud of spume as the boat departed. Dad shouting after it. 

In her head, a single word, over and over. Why? Why do that to them? What had they done wrong? Then, amid the rush of thoughts, it clicked. Why all those houses looked so new, so pristine. How a place like this could change like that. 

Her family screamed as, from below, something huge rose toward them. 

HJ Dutton’s horror has been published in Emerald City Ghosts, Underside Stories, Horrific Scribes, Cryptic Frog Quarterly, Creepy: A Horror Podcast, and is forthcoming in many others.