Post by Brad-LaSpirits on May 14, 2007 15:37:56 GMT -5
ON THE TRAIL OF THE
LOUISIANA WEREWOLF
Everybody knows somebody who knows somebody who knows for a fact that the dark and noisome swamps of South Louisiana are actually the kingdom of a fierce and horrible creature that has haunted the fitful dreams and waking moments of many Louisiana natives. This creature, “a human form in half-shredded clothing, with a snarling half-animal face” dominated by a slathering, drooling mouth full of razor sharp teeth and leering yellow eyes, holds command over the other creatures of the bayous and swamps of southern Louisiana; even the fearsome alligator gives this monster his due.
Prowling and splashing through the murky backwaters and feeding on hapless victims – animal or human – among the knotty cypress knees at the slippery water’s edge, this monster is called by many names, but most still speak it in a half-whisper, for this is the LOUP GAROU!
Actual accounts and folk stories give this creature other names – rugarou among the Atchafalaya gypsies and swampers, wendigo or sasquatch among Louisiana’s many Native American tribes. But no matter what it’s called, the legend of this King of the Swamps has endured through many generations, and with it the tales that many believe prove the Loup Garou really exists.
Of course, to many, the idea of a wolf-like creature prowling the Louisiana swamps and attacking everything from alligators and gophers to unwary fishermen is nothing short of preposterous. And when viewed with the modern skeptic’s hypercritical eye, some quickly dismiss the legend of the Louisiana werewolf as just that – legend.
Some maintain that the story of the Loup Garou was invented to instill fear in Cajun children, to keep them from misbehaving or from wandering too far into the deep, primordial swamps. Others maintain that the Loup Garou legend is nothing more than an adaptation of the French Catholic loup garou stories where Catholics who failed to observe Lent for seven years in a row might become werewolves. If so cursed by God, those who had abjured the faith were d**ned to remember it by spending every Lenten season as an abominable half-animal creature – the French version of the Loup Garou.
Other legends limited the time one could spend as a Loup Garou – one hundred and one days being the most common time frame. If the Loup Garou drew the blood of another person during this time, the curse could be transferred to that person – presumably notwithstanding whether he or she was a good Catholic or not. During the daylight hours, the person thus afflicted would appear sickly and gaunt, avoiding sunlight and keeping to his or her bed. But no amount of entreating or threat could persuade the person to reveal the nature of the illness and when the night came it was often observed that life and health seemed to return to the person suspected of being a Loup Garou.
Witchcraft and the overlooking by wizards was another way that a person might fall under the curse of the Loup Garou and because of this witches and sorcerers were often sought out to employ methods of curing the blighted individual. In New World cultures such as among the Native Americans, the shaman or medicine man was often entreated to cure a possible victim of this horrible curse; among the Atchafalaya gypsies of Louisiana, the drabarni was often the only one who knew how to affect a cure or protect a person from the dreaded rugarou.
To understand the Louisiana werewolf, and to determine whether or not there is truth in the legends and stories that come out of bayou country, a little history of the werewolf tradition might come in handy.
WEREWOLF HISTORY IN BRIEF
“The critical point that needs to be grasped here is that shapeshifting is not a matter of physical transformation.”
GREER
Shape-shifting and wolf-magic are anything but new discoveries. There was already a wolf-wisdom tradition at work among the early Europeans as long as three thousand years ago and as they migrated across westward across Europe, this venerable tradition was enriched by the great magick traditions and by actual experiences – true life accounts – that found their way into history and legend to shape what we know as the shape-shifting lycanthrope of today.
Throughout the actual records of lycanthropy there are many cases where the human body of the werewolf was found “lying asleep in bed, or curled up under a bush in the forest, while the werewolf prowled the night. In other cases, the animal form seems to have surrounded the human body of the werewolf like a garment.”
According to experts in the field, there are varying accounts of numerous methods of transformation and although the most popular of these – the belief that the transformation happens on its own at the time of the full moon – is actually found in werewolf folklore all over Europe, it is not the only explanation. Records indicate that powerful shape-shifting magicians took a cup, with nothing more magical in it than common ale, muttered charms over it and then drank it down to begin the transformation process. Other traditions required the shape-shifter to first rub a magical ointment all over the body and then to put on a wolfskin belt or pelt. Most traditions agree that a charm or chant sung along with the physical ritual was the key to the shape-shifting transformation.
In transforming back to human form, traditions suggest that the shape-shifter has only to remove the wolfskin pelt or unfasten the belt and the transformation is undone. Other, darker traditions, especially those in which an individual becomes a werewolf as the result of a curse, suggest that the shape-shifter must find a source of running water and bathe in it to initiate the return to human shape. Some powerful shape-shifters, however, are said to be able to transform in and out of the werewolf and human states entirely at will.
Because werewolves moved between the worlds as they transformed from human to animal and back again, those who undertook this transformation at will were considered to be acting outside the will of God and were usually greatly feared. In addition, the actions of these shape-shifters while in animal form were not always entirely reliable and there are many accounts of shapeshifting humans in the forms of wolves, bears and other great animals who evidently undertook the transformation so often that the animal nature within them could not be contained. These individuals were often blamed for fits of terrifying violence against humans who soon sought ways to defend themselves against these monstrous half-human beasts.
The horror movie cliché that werewolves can only be killed by a weapon made of silver appears to have relevance in historic accounts, but some sources indicate that any metal weapon can injure or kill a werewolf because the animal form is as vulnerable as the actual animal. Iron, an old stand-by in magical protection, is often suggested as a suitable substitute in the event silver is not available and it is claimed in French and European werewolf traditions that “cold iron will cause the wolf-form of a werewolf to instantly disappear.” (Greer)
Although it is true that they brought the tradition with them when they migrated to the New World, the Europeans are not the only people to have a history of werewolves and shape-shifters. In North America the Europeans encountered an equally rich shape-shifting lore and tradition among the Native Americans. Among the Navajos, for example, were found the “skinwalkers,” or sorcerers who would change into the forms of dogs or coyotes as part of a widely-feared tradition of evil First Nation magic.
Skinwalkers are believed to use a magical powder to make corpses – a concept also found among the practitioners of African bokor voodoo throughout the slave diaspora of the New World. Native American skinwalkers are also believed to practice cannibalism, a point that is particularly relative among the Native American tribes of South Louisiana where the Attakapas skinwalkers are still spoken of in whispers, if at all.
And doubtless the Europeans would have immediately recognized the Gypsy folklore beliefs about werewolves kept alive among the French gypsies (Manouche) who came to inhabit the Atchafalaya region of South Louisiana. Here the “stragoi” of the Romanian and Hungarian gypsy traditions became the dreaded “rugarou,” the zombie-like creatures that could assume the shapes of animals at will and who fed on the blood of the living. Only the wise women of the tribe knew how to cure the curse of the rugarou or how to protect oneself from it; only the Rom Baro, the Big Man of the tribe, after much preparation and with many charms, could kill the rugarou in its human form.
West of the Mississippi River and in Mexico, the werewolf shapeshifter is known as the “Nahuale,” magicians who have been known to turn themselves into all sorts of animals including dogs, donkeys, crows and wild turkeys. The art of shapeshifting among the nahuales is passed on from masters to apprentices in an intense period of training that can last two years. But these fantastic powers are these days used to serve lazy nahuales who use them to get by without working or to rob, rape or dupe people whom they choose as unwitting targets.
“WHERE’S THE THUNDER?”
One New Orleans native remembers hearing about the dreaded Nahuale shapeshifters from his grandmother when he was a child. Once while sitting on her knee and watching a thunderstorm brew over old Mid-City, he wondered about the flashes that most people called “heat lightning.” It was worse than that, said his wise, old grandmother. That was, she said, how the shapeshifters came out – between the lightning bolts. “Don’t worry about the first one,” she said. “You see them on the second flash and that’s when they can come out of the ground like black snakes.” Frightened, the boy asked his grandmother what to do when he saw one of the evil, shapeshifting black snakes: “Don’t you worry about it,” she said, “you just tell them to go back to Mexico!”
IT’S A SWAMP THING
Hundreds of years of European tradition is nevertheless lost amid the thick foliage and heady night air of the deep Louisiana swamp. In this place, this myriad of watery byways, where one can drift for hours through tunnels of cypress and moss and not see another human being or hear a completely recognizable sound – in this place, sensibility can be obscured and the long tradition comes readily to life. The tales become real, because the truth is, they are never far from being experienced again and again. On any day, you might be the next one to see the Louisiana Loup Garou!
TASTE FOR NUTRIA
At the end of a long day’s work of emptying traps along the water’s edge throughout the shadowy, winding labyrinth of the bayou, the trappers were gathered together near the camp of one man where they all planned to spend the night. No one wanted to be caught out in the dappled darkness of the Louisiana swamp, not even in a group, so the little fishing camp known as the Tide Over was picked for the overnight stay. With the boats and traps secured at the camp’s makeshift dock, and the nutria safely stowed in an old metal ice chest near the back door, the trappers settled in for the night.
Soon the screened windows of the little camp were aglow, casting feeble yellow light into the labyrinthine darkness of the surrounding swamp. Insects buzzed against the window screen and now and then a big moth would flutter there for a while before the night sucked it up again. The men made a quick meal of some catfish they had caught earlier in the day and washed it down with ice-cold beer. Soon the lights were dimmed and the tired trappers contentedly took to their beds.
From outside, amid the comforting chirping of the crickets and katey-dids, the familiar snufflings of the raccoon and the possum could be heard; every now and then a little “plunk” from the still bayou water meant a fish was jumping or a frog had caught a meal.
Surrounded by the all encompassing darkness and the symphony of the swamp, the trappers were soon asleep.
Baudier was the name of the first man to wake up, jolted, all of a sudden, but by what he did not know.
Blinking in the darkness, he listened. He sat up. And he listened some more. And he sat straight up because he heard – nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a cricket, not a katey-did, not a snuffle or a plunk. He heard nothing.
“Chotin!” he whispered to the man on the cot next to him. “Chotin! Wake up, man! Dere’s sometin’ wrong out dere!”
Chotin, a large lump of a Cajun man, sleeping shirtless but in his pants and white shrimp boots (it was these that Baudier saw move first), sat up and looked into the darkness toward Baudier’s voice.
“Maannn! What is wrong wid you?” Chotin droned.
“You waked me up from a good sleep, I tell you. Dis better be good!”
“Shhh!” said Baudier. “Listen!” He peered into the darkness until he could make out Chotin’s wide face. “Hear dat?”
Chotin listened. He heard nothing. “Hear what?” But even as he said it, he became aware that he was hearing nothing and Chotin let out a low whistle. “Chere! Dere ain’t notin’ out dere!”
Nearby, Tirout and Gaspard, hearing Chotin whistle, sat up too.
“Man, what yous doin’?” said Gaspard.
“Shhh!” came a hoarse little whisper from Tirout, then,
“Listen! What’s dat?”
All together they heard it, a THUMP, then another THUMP, followed by a couple of splashes, then two more THUMPS. In each of their minds the terrified trappers could envision, by the approach of the sounds, just where they were coming from. THUMP and THUMP were on the little spit of land where the traps were set; the splashes put the sound near the boat; the two last THUMPS on the bank near the boat.
Waiting, sweating, not understanding what had them so frightened, but too scared to ignore their gut, the four trappers sat petrified, listening to something approach in the absolute stillness of the night.
THUMP. THUMP.
“Gawd!” Baudier choked and the white eyes in the darkness turned on him. “Dat sounds like FEET to me!”
The white eyes turned away to the screened windows and the night beyond.
Just then came three THUMPS in succession followed by the definite sound of something stepping onto the wooden porch alongside the camp. Though they thought they had been scared before this, the terror level inside the little fishing camp hit a peak as a sniffing, snuffling, snorting kind of sound filled the air. SOMETHING was out there and it was SMELLING for them!
Beads of sweat broke on Baudier’s forehead and dripped down into his eyes. He glanced at the windows, illuminated by the faint starlight above the canopy of cypress and moss; he could feel the others were looking this way, too. That is why there never was any debate on what Baudier must have seen before he passed out, because three other men saw it too!
A huge animal head went past the windows then: like the head of a big dog, blown up to enormous size, the three men who did not pass out saw it in vivid profile against the shimmer of the night beyond. Long, dog-like ears stood straight up to hear every sound; the glassy yellow of monstrous, watery eyes that, had they turned inside, would surely have caused the shaking Cajuns to die on the spot! Drool hung in long, sinuous strings from grisly teeth, and, perhaps worst of all, was the scraping and scrittering of what could only be long nails scratching along the outside wall.
Suddenly, the creature bent down, probably to walk on all fours because the next sound was like a big dog scampering on the wooden porch planks. The thumping led away to the rear of the camp and suddenly there came a loud metal “CLANG!” The beast had found the old cooler!
With growing terror and disgust the Cajun trappers sat in the darkness of that camp and listened while the horrible Loup Garou devoured every single one of the nutrias they had trapped in the swamp that day.
Guttural gulping and horrible cracking of skulls and bones filled the men with dread, but they dared not move so long as the Loup Garou was feasting.
Long moments passed that seemed like hours, then suddenly, to their horror, Baudier began to awake and he was groaning loud enough for the Loup Garou to hear!!
All the white eyes in the pitch-black room turned upward and each man began to pray, while Baudier continued to groan. Suddenly, the horrible eating stopped. The Loup Garou was listening!
A limp, sad little thump and the men knew the beast had dropped a nutria to the ground; a rustling and clicking noise meant the beast had surely heard Baudier’s pitiful groaning. Chotin, Tirout and Gaspard thought about all the things they would miss in life – boudin sausage and Miller Lite beer, bingo and deer hunting and their boats and wives – when suddenly, from out in the swamp, they heard a sound that made the hair on their bodies rise and stand straight on end!
“Aaaarooo!!” came the howl. The noises on the porch outside stopped. “Aaaaarooooooooooo!”
Another Loup Garou was out in the swamp calling for its mate! In a flash of thumps, snorting and splashes the Loup Garou bounded away from the little camp, leaving the trappers in a drenched, watchful peace. They clung together, with the revived Baudier holding on for dear life, until the pale grey light of day could be seen through the windows. Then, all together in a group, they moved toward the back door and opened it.
What greeted them was such a feast of horror that none would soon forget it! Nothing was left of their trapped nutria but some brown fur, some bones and a lot of blood. The men moved around, inspecting the area and found huge prints, like the footprints of a huge dog, all around the camp. It was Baudier who pointed out the scratches on the outside walls … But suddenly, Tirout stopped.
“Listen!” he called out in a hoarse whisper. They listened.
Out of the silence they heard a single croak, the “caw” of a lone black crow from the very top of a ragged cypress tree. As they watched, the old crow spread its wings and flew away, and as it did so, it seemed to the men, the life of the swamp returned.
“You know what dey say, don’t you?” said Tirout. “Dey say that dem old gypsy women dey go around like big black crows and dey is the only one dat know how to get rid of the Loup Garou!”
The men watched as the crow grew small in the distance, wheeled and fluttered down to be lost among the moss-shrouded trees and vines. This was a sign to them that it was safe to move on.
And this, they say in South Louisiana, is a true story of the Loup Garou.
LOUISIANA WEREWOLF
Everybody knows somebody who knows somebody who knows for a fact that the dark and noisome swamps of South Louisiana are actually the kingdom of a fierce and horrible creature that has haunted the fitful dreams and waking moments of many Louisiana natives. This creature, “a human form in half-shredded clothing, with a snarling half-animal face” dominated by a slathering, drooling mouth full of razor sharp teeth and leering yellow eyes, holds command over the other creatures of the bayous and swamps of southern Louisiana; even the fearsome alligator gives this monster his due.
Prowling and splashing through the murky backwaters and feeding on hapless victims – animal or human – among the knotty cypress knees at the slippery water’s edge, this monster is called by many names, but most still speak it in a half-whisper, for this is the LOUP GAROU!
Actual accounts and folk stories give this creature other names – rugarou among the Atchafalaya gypsies and swampers, wendigo or sasquatch among Louisiana’s many Native American tribes. But no matter what it’s called, the legend of this King of the Swamps has endured through many generations, and with it the tales that many believe prove the Loup Garou really exists.
Of course, to many, the idea of a wolf-like creature prowling the Louisiana swamps and attacking everything from alligators and gophers to unwary fishermen is nothing short of preposterous. And when viewed with the modern skeptic’s hypercritical eye, some quickly dismiss the legend of the Louisiana werewolf as just that – legend.
Some maintain that the story of the Loup Garou was invented to instill fear in Cajun children, to keep them from misbehaving or from wandering too far into the deep, primordial swamps. Others maintain that the Loup Garou legend is nothing more than an adaptation of the French Catholic loup garou stories where Catholics who failed to observe Lent for seven years in a row might become werewolves. If so cursed by God, those who had abjured the faith were d**ned to remember it by spending every Lenten season as an abominable half-animal creature – the French version of the Loup Garou.
Other legends limited the time one could spend as a Loup Garou – one hundred and one days being the most common time frame. If the Loup Garou drew the blood of another person during this time, the curse could be transferred to that person – presumably notwithstanding whether he or she was a good Catholic or not. During the daylight hours, the person thus afflicted would appear sickly and gaunt, avoiding sunlight and keeping to his or her bed. But no amount of entreating or threat could persuade the person to reveal the nature of the illness and when the night came it was often observed that life and health seemed to return to the person suspected of being a Loup Garou.
Witchcraft and the overlooking by wizards was another way that a person might fall under the curse of the Loup Garou and because of this witches and sorcerers were often sought out to employ methods of curing the blighted individual. In New World cultures such as among the Native Americans, the shaman or medicine man was often entreated to cure a possible victim of this horrible curse; among the Atchafalaya gypsies of Louisiana, the drabarni was often the only one who knew how to affect a cure or protect a person from the dreaded rugarou.
To understand the Louisiana werewolf, and to determine whether or not there is truth in the legends and stories that come out of bayou country, a little history of the werewolf tradition might come in handy.
WEREWOLF HISTORY IN BRIEF
“The critical point that needs to be grasped here is that shapeshifting is not a matter of physical transformation.”
GREER
Shape-shifting and wolf-magic are anything but new discoveries. There was already a wolf-wisdom tradition at work among the early Europeans as long as three thousand years ago and as they migrated across westward across Europe, this venerable tradition was enriched by the great magick traditions and by actual experiences – true life accounts – that found their way into history and legend to shape what we know as the shape-shifting lycanthrope of today.
Throughout the actual records of lycanthropy there are many cases where the human body of the werewolf was found “lying asleep in bed, or curled up under a bush in the forest, while the werewolf prowled the night. In other cases, the animal form seems to have surrounded the human body of the werewolf like a garment.”
According to experts in the field, there are varying accounts of numerous methods of transformation and although the most popular of these – the belief that the transformation happens on its own at the time of the full moon – is actually found in werewolf folklore all over Europe, it is not the only explanation. Records indicate that powerful shape-shifting magicians took a cup, with nothing more magical in it than common ale, muttered charms over it and then drank it down to begin the transformation process. Other traditions required the shape-shifter to first rub a magical ointment all over the body and then to put on a wolfskin belt or pelt. Most traditions agree that a charm or chant sung along with the physical ritual was the key to the shape-shifting transformation.
In transforming back to human form, traditions suggest that the shape-shifter has only to remove the wolfskin pelt or unfasten the belt and the transformation is undone. Other, darker traditions, especially those in which an individual becomes a werewolf as the result of a curse, suggest that the shape-shifter must find a source of running water and bathe in it to initiate the return to human shape. Some powerful shape-shifters, however, are said to be able to transform in and out of the werewolf and human states entirely at will.
Because werewolves moved between the worlds as they transformed from human to animal and back again, those who undertook this transformation at will were considered to be acting outside the will of God and were usually greatly feared. In addition, the actions of these shape-shifters while in animal form were not always entirely reliable and there are many accounts of shapeshifting humans in the forms of wolves, bears and other great animals who evidently undertook the transformation so often that the animal nature within them could not be contained. These individuals were often blamed for fits of terrifying violence against humans who soon sought ways to defend themselves against these monstrous half-human beasts.
The horror movie cliché that werewolves can only be killed by a weapon made of silver appears to have relevance in historic accounts, but some sources indicate that any metal weapon can injure or kill a werewolf because the animal form is as vulnerable as the actual animal. Iron, an old stand-by in magical protection, is often suggested as a suitable substitute in the event silver is not available and it is claimed in French and European werewolf traditions that “cold iron will cause the wolf-form of a werewolf to instantly disappear.” (Greer)
Although it is true that they brought the tradition with them when they migrated to the New World, the Europeans are not the only people to have a history of werewolves and shape-shifters. In North America the Europeans encountered an equally rich shape-shifting lore and tradition among the Native Americans. Among the Navajos, for example, were found the “skinwalkers,” or sorcerers who would change into the forms of dogs or coyotes as part of a widely-feared tradition of evil First Nation magic.
Skinwalkers are believed to use a magical powder to make corpses – a concept also found among the practitioners of African bokor voodoo throughout the slave diaspora of the New World. Native American skinwalkers are also believed to practice cannibalism, a point that is particularly relative among the Native American tribes of South Louisiana where the Attakapas skinwalkers are still spoken of in whispers, if at all.
And doubtless the Europeans would have immediately recognized the Gypsy folklore beliefs about werewolves kept alive among the French gypsies (Manouche) who came to inhabit the Atchafalaya region of South Louisiana. Here the “stragoi” of the Romanian and Hungarian gypsy traditions became the dreaded “rugarou,” the zombie-like creatures that could assume the shapes of animals at will and who fed on the blood of the living. Only the wise women of the tribe knew how to cure the curse of the rugarou or how to protect oneself from it; only the Rom Baro, the Big Man of the tribe, after much preparation and with many charms, could kill the rugarou in its human form.
West of the Mississippi River and in Mexico, the werewolf shapeshifter is known as the “Nahuale,” magicians who have been known to turn themselves into all sorts of animals including dogs, donkeys, crows and wild turkeys. The art of shapeshifting among the nahuales is passed on from masters to apprentices in an intense period of training that can last two years. But these fantastic powers are these days used to serve lazy nahuales who use them to get by without working or to rob, rape or dupe people whom they choose as unwitting targets.
“WHERE’S THE THUNDER?”
One New Orleans native remembers hearing about the dreaded Nahuale shapeshifters from his grandmother when he was a child. Once while sitting on her knee and watching a thunderstorm brew over old Mid-City, he wondered about the flashes that most people called “heat lightning.” It was worse than that, said his wise, old grandmother. That was, she said, how the shapeshifters came out – between the lightning bolts. “Don’t worry about the first one,” she said. “You see them on the second flash and that’s when they can come out of the ground like black snakes.” Frightened, the boy asked his grandmother what to do when he saw one of the evil, shapeshifting black snakes: “Don’t you worry about it,” she said, “you just tell them to go back to Mexico!”
IT’S A SWAMP THING
Hundreds of years of European tradition is nevertheless lost amid the thick foliage and heady night air of the deep Louisiana swamp. In this place, this myriad of watery byways, where one can drift for hours through tunnels of cypress and moss and not see another human being or hear a completely recognizable sound – in this place, sensibility can be obscured and the long tradition comes readily to life. The tales become real, because the truth is, they are never far from being experienced again and again. On any day, you might be the next one to see the Louisiana Loup Garou!
TASTE FOR NUTRIA
At the end of a long day’s work of emptying traps along the water’s edge throughout the shadowy, winding labyrinth of the bayou, the trappers were gathered together near the camp of one man where they all planned to spend the night. No one wanted to be caught out in the dappled darkness of the Louisiana swamp, not even in a group, so the little fishing camp known as the Tide Over was picked for the overnight stay. With the boats and traps secured at the camp’s makeshift dock, and the nutria safely stowed in an old metal ice chest near the back door, the trappers settled in for the night.
Soon the screened windows of the little camp were aglow, casting feeble yellow light into the labyrinthine darkness of the surrounding swamp. Insects buzzed against the window screen and now and then a big moth would flutter there for a while before the night sucked it up again. The men made a quick meal of some catfish they had caught earlier in the day and washed it down with ice-cold beer. Soon the lights were dimmed and the tired trappers contentedly took to their beds.
From outside, amid the comforting chirping of the crickets and katey-dids, the familiar snufflings of the raccoon and the possum could be heard; every now and then a little “plunk” from the still bayou water meant a fish was jumping or a frog had caught a meal.
Surrounded by the all encompassing darkness and the symphony of the swamp, the trappers were soon asleep.
Baudier was the name of the first man to wake up, jolted, all of a sudden, but by what he did not know.
Blinking in the darkness, he listened. He sat up. And he listened some more. And he sat straight up because he heard – nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a cricket, not a katey-did, not a snuffle or a plunk. He heard nothing.
“Chotin!” he whispered to the man on the cot next to him. “Chotin! Wake up, man! Dere’s sometin’ wrong out dere!”
Chotin, a large lump of a Cajun man, sleeping shirtless but in his pants and white shrimp boots (it was these that Baudier saw move first), sat up and looked into the darkness toward Baudier’s voice.
“Maannn! What is wrong wid you?” Chotin droned.
“You waked me up from a good sleep, I tell you. Dis better be good!”
“Shhh!” said Baudier. “Listen!” He peered into the darkness until he could make out Chotin’s wide face. “Hear dat?”
Chotin listened. He heard nothing. “Hear what?” But even as he said it, he became aware that he was hearing nothing and Chotin let out a low whistle. “Chere! Dere ain’t notin’ out dere!”
Nearby, Tirout and Gaspard, hearing Chotin whistle, sat up too.
“Man, what yous doin’?” said Gaspard.
“Shhh!” came a hoarse little whisper from Tirout, then,
“Listen! What’s dat?”
All together they heard it, a THUMP, then another THUMP, followed by a couple of splashes, then two more THUMPS. In each of their minds the terrified trappers could envision, by the approach of the sounds, just where they were coming from. THUMP and THUMP were on the little spit of land where the traps were set; the splashes put the sound near the boat; the two last THUMPS on the bank near the boat.
Waiting, sweating, not understanding what had them so frightened, but too scared to ignore their gut, the four trappers sat petrified, listening to something approach in the absolute stillness of the night.
THUMP. THUMP.
“Gawd!” Baudier choked and the white eyes in the darkness turned on him. “Dat sounds like FEET to me!”
The white eyes turned away to the screened windows and the night beyond.
Just then came three THUMPS in succession followed by the definite sound of something stepping onto the wooden porch alongside the camp. Though they thought they had been scared before this, the terror level inside the little fishing camp hit a peak as a sniffing, snuffling, snorting kind of sound filled the air. SOMETHING was out there and it was SMELLING for them!
Beads of sweat broke on Baudier’s forehead and dripped down into his eyes. He glanced at the windows, illuminated by the faint starlight above the canopy of cypress and moss; he could feel the others were looking this way, too. That is why there never was any debate on what Baudier must have seen before he passed out, because three other men saw it too!
A huge animal head went past the windows then: like the head of a big dog, blown up to enormous size, the three men who did not pass out saw it in vivid profile against the shimmer of the night beyond. Long, dog-like ears stood straight up to hear every sound; the glassy yellow of monstrous, watery eyes that, had they turned inside, would surely have caused the shaking Cajuns to die on the spot! Drool hung in long, sinuous strings from grisly teeth, and, perhaps worst of all, was the scraping and scrittering of what could only be long nails scratching along the outside wall.
Suddenly, the creature bent down, probably to walk on all fours because the next sound was like a big dog scampering on the wooden porch planks. The thumping led away to the rear of the camp and suddenly there came a loud metal “CLANG!” The beast had found the old cooler!
With growing terror and disgust the Cajun trappers sat in the darkness of that camp and listened while the horrible Loup Garou devoured every single one of the nutrias they had trapped in the swamp that day.
Guttural gulping and horrible cracking of skulls and bones filled the men with dread, but they dared not move so long as the Loup Garou was feasting.
Long moments passed that seemed like hours, then suddenly, to their horror, Baudier began to awake and he was groaning loud enough for the Loup Garou to hear!!
All the white eyes in the pitch-black room turned upward and each man began to pray, while Baudier continued to groan. Suddenly, the horrible eating stopped. The Loup Garou was listening!
A limp, sad little thump and the men knew the beast had dropped a nutria to the ground; a rustling and clicking noise meant the beast had surely heard Baudier’s pitiful groaning. Chotin, Tirout and Gaspard thought about all the things they would miss in life – boudin sausage and Miller Lite beer, bingo and deer hunting and their boats and wives – when suddenly, from out in the swamp, they heard a sound that made the hair on their bodies rise and stand straight on end!
“Aaaarooo!!” came the howl. The noises on the porch outside stopped. “Aaaaarooooooooooo!”
Another Loup Garou was out in the swamp calling for its mate! In a flash of thumps, snorting and splashes the Loup Garou bounded away from the little camp, leaving the trappers in a drenched, watchful peace. They clung together, with the revived Baudier holding on for dear life, until the pale grey light of day could be seen through the windows. Then, all together in a group, they moved toward the back door and opened it.
What greeted them was such a feast of horror that none would soon forget it! Nothing was left of their trapped nutria but some brown fur, some bones and a lot of blood. The men moved around, inspecting the area and found huge prints, like the footprints of a huge dog, all around the camp. It was Baudier who pointed out the scratches on the outside walls … But suddenly, Tirout stopped.
“Listen!” he called out in a hoarse whisper. They listened.
Out of the silence they heard a single croak, the “caw” of a lone black crow from the very top of a ragged cypress tree. As they watched, the old crow spread its wings and flew away, and as it did so, it seemed to the men, the life of the swamp returned.
“You know what dey say, don’t you?” said Tirout. “Dey say that dem old gypsy women dey go around like big black crows and dey is the only one dat know how to get rid of the Loup Garou!”
The men watched as the crow grew small in the distance, wheeled and fluttered down to be lost among the moss-shrouded trees and vines. This was a sign to them that it was safe to move on.
And this, they say in South Louisiana, is a true story of the Loup Garou.
