Blood Moon

I walk into a dimly lit bar. Quite a few patrons are sitting around. I would usually sit at the bar. But for some reason, I feel the urge to sit at a table near the back corner of the establishment. A waitress approaches wearing a nearly see-through tight shirt and a short skirt that barely covers her ass. She plastered on a fake smile as she asked, “What will it be?”

Her tone takes me aback. Yes, I might be new to this small town of Darkness Falls, but I am a paying customer. I roll my eyes. “Just get me a whiskey neat.”

She nods before she hurries over to the other tables. She practically offers herself to a few guys. Yes, they are attractive, and perhaps desperate is their type. Her pleas for male attention aren’t of concern to me, however amusing they might be. I am here for answers. I need to find out who those people are in that photo, and if anyone can figure out what anything on this stupid note means. When my mother, Cindy, mysteriously died, I found a note from my missing father, Ed Thomas. It said that he was sorry, but he needed to make the arrangements. The letter was very worn and frayed, but I could make out her name and the word blood. 

The note sent chills down my spine because I had devoted myself to studying history, parapsychology, and anthropology. I delved into these fields because over the years, since my father’s absence, my mother raved about all sorts of things from history wars tried to hide to the existence of werewolves and vampires. Now I am in Louisiana, which is known for its sordid history. I know about how Louisiana is considered one of the most haunted cities in the United States, how voodoo, a syncretic religion that emerged in Louisiana with enslaved West Africans, is deeply intertwined with the state's supernatural beliefs. Marie Laveau, a famous Voodoo priestess, is a prominent figure in these stories, and her tomb in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 is a popular destination for those seeking to connect with the supernatural. I learned about the many atrocities that occurred on plantations. Louisiana's vast swamps and marshes are also steeped in lore, with tales of the "Feu Follet" (will-o'-the-wisp) and other mysterious lights luring travelers astray. The Bayou Region is also home to stories of haunted locations and local legends, which I am currently setting in a bar near this region.

Darkness Falls wasn’t listed on any of the historical records I had access to, yet here it is, and it has an odd feel. It isn’t like anyplace I have been to yet. The only place similar would be the French Quarter in New Orleans, but even in such a hotbed for the supernatural, I didn’t feel this pull…this unexplainable connection. Am I close to finding the answers I seek? Is my father here?

Once I finally get my drink, I sip on it as I take out my phone. I open Tinder Vibes and search the profiles of the people listed as nearby. I laugh at this profile. The guy has to be using an AI-generated image for his picture because no average person is that ruggedly handsome. He has chiseled features framed by a tousle of dark hair, giving him an air of confidence that demands attention. His deep-set eyes are a midnight blue that hint at stories untold. I peek up from my phone but don’t see anyone who meets such a depiction, so I go back to scrolling through profiles. Then I get a message from that ruggedly handsome guy. Before I read his message, I looked back at the profile. It now has information that was added. It just has one name, Frank, and a description that reads “I like nature, night strolls under the moonlight, and wild dates. The only thing missing is you.” I laugh because it is so corny. Also, why does every guy think a social media app is a dating app? Anyway, I am not here for a date. It’s been a year since a man touched me, and I don’t miss it.

I finally looked at his message. It says, “Look, I hate to interrupt your night out, but what I have to tell you is important.”

I respond, “Lol. Fine, I will play along for now. I am bored anyway.”

He types quickly, “You have to get out of this bar now. Don’t look around, just go quickly.”

Just who does this guy think he is? What the hell kind of request is that anyway? “Dude, seriously. You need better pickup lines. I don’t give a fuck who you are because you are not my boss, so go fuckoff.” Yeah, I might have been a bit rude, but seriously, who does he think he is?