Chapter 3: Bait Shop Warnings

  Scene 1: Biscuits and Snooping

  The sun was already high enough to make the pavement shimmer by the time Josie Mae Dupree and Bo Carter rolled into town on their bikes, tires crunching over gravel like slow thunder. Josie’s red curls were tied up tight, and her backpack bounced lightly against her shoulders with every pedal—inside, wrapped in an old comic book, was the hand-drawn map they’d pulled from the tin box.

  Bo, as usual, was more focused on his stomach than the mystery.

  “You sure we got time for a stop at Bea’s?” he asked, steering one-handed and already eyeing the corner where the smell of fried batter drifted out into the street like a siren song.

  “We stop for food first, we never leave,” Josie said. “You get distracted easy.”

  “I call it multitaskin’.”

  They rounded the curve past the faded post office and coasted up to Duke’s Bait & Tackle—the unofficial gathering place for old-timers, fish-story peddlers, and the occasional kid with enough guts to ask questions.

  The shop leaned like it had a bad back, paint peeling in long curls off the wooden siding. A pair of plastic chairs sat out front, one permanently stained with what everyone assumed was catfish blood. A humming Coke machine buzzed next to the screen door, and a dusty wooden sign dangled overhead, half-swallowed by wisteria vines.

  Inside, it was cooler—barely—and smelled like earthworms, motor oil, and the same brand of chewing tobacco Duke had been using since before the moon landing.

  Bo made a beeline for the cooler.

  Josie made a beeline for Duke.

  He was behind the counter, as always, wearing a faded LSU cap and a fishing vest weighed down with everything but bait. His beard was grayer than Josie remembered, and one of his eyes had gone milky-white since last summer. He looked up from a newspaper with a grunt.

  “Well, if it ain’t Lil’ Dupree. You bringin’ trouble, or just sniffin’ it out?”

  Josie grinned. “Neither. Yet.”

  Bo hollered from the cooler, “Hey Duke, that RC still two for a dollar?”

  “Depends which dollar you usin’,” Duke muttered, setting the paper aside. “What y’all up to this mornin’? Ain’t it Saturday? Oughta be swimmin’ or fishin’.”

  “We’re between frogs and mysteries,” Josie said smoothly, unzipping her backpack and sliding out the folded map. She didn’t unfold the whole thing—just the corner with the strange looped symbol. “You ever seen a mark like this?”

  Duke didn’t move at first.

  His one good eye narrowed. He took the map without touching it, leaning in slow.

  Outside, a screen door creaked open.

  Cricket Morales crouched low beside a stack of crab traps, peeking in through the mesh window with wide eyes and a grin, eavesdropping like she was born for it.

  Back inside, Duke’s voice changed. Dropped low. Serious.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  Josie played it careful. “Just came across it. Thought it might be somethin’ old. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  Duke stared at the mark for a long second, then leaned back and crossed his arms.

  “That there’s a thing best left alone.”

  Josie blinked. “Why?”

  “’Cause it don’t lead nowhere good,” he said. “Last time someone went followin’ that trail, they didn’t come back. Lester... Lester Ridley Ward. Summer of ’68. Thought he found somethin’. Took his boat upriver. Folks say he was chasin’ gold. Or ghosts. Or both.”

  Bo had stopped chewing.

  Josie’s voice stayed steady. “He didn’t come back?”

  “Nope. Sheriff searched for weeks. Nothin’ but a busted paddle and a gas can. Some say he ran off. Others say the swamp swallowed him whole. My daddy said he found somethin’ he shouldn’t have.”

  “And the mark?” she asked. “What’s it mean?”

  Duke shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. But I seen it once—carved into a tree by the river bend where the fog hangs low. Ain’t never forgot the way the bark peeled back around it like it was tryin’ to grow over somethin’ ugly.”

  Bo nudged Josie. “We should go.”

  Josie nodded, tucking the map back into her bag with quiet hands.

  Duke didn’t stop her, but his voice followed as they turned.

  “You kids hear me now—whatever’s out there, it ain’t yours. Don’t go chasin’ stories you ain’t ready to end.”

  Thump.

  A noise outside the window.

  All three turned.

  Cricket stood frozen, mid-step, holding a bag of sunflower seeds like a trophy.

  “Hi,” she said. “Uh… surprise?”

  Duke sighed. “Tell me y’all didn’t bring the whole circus.”

  Josie grinned. “We didn’t bring ‘em. They just follow the smell of mystery and snacks.”

  Scene 2: The Man Who Vanished

  Cricket stood sheepish at the door, sunflower seed bag crinkling in her hand, the sound far too loud in the quiet tension that had settled over Duke’s bait shop.

  Duke gave her a look—one of those old-man stares that didn’t yell or scold but made you feel like your shoes ought to fall off in shame.

  “You got ears like a coonhound, girl,” he muttered, “but half the sense.”

  Cricket gave him her best innocent smile. “Well... I heard talk of ghost trails and I thought, ‘Now that’s worth listenin’ to.’ Didn’t mean no harm.”

  He sighed, rubbed a hand across his weathered face, then motioned toward the two plastic chairs near the window fan. “Sit.”

  Josie and Bo exchanged glances, then dropped into their chairs. Cricket flopped onto an upturned bait bucket, cross-legged, still clutching the snack like it might be her last.

  Duke settled onto his stool with the weight of someone about to tell a story he hadn’t spoken aloud in years. He reached under the counter, pulled out a tin of chewing tobacco, tapped it once, then set it aside unopened.

  “I was sixteen,” he began. “Summer of ’68. Lester Ward was already known around here—odd fella. Kept to himself. Fished where nobody else fished. Spoke soft, like he didn’t want the air knowin’ his business.”

  Bo leaned forward, forgetting his candy bar entirely.

  “Folks said Lester was diggin’ at somethin’. Not gold, not oil. Somethin’ older,” Duke said. “He’d come in here sometimes, back when my daddy ran the shop. Never bought nothin’. Just asked questions. About old maps. Symbols. Places that didn’t show up on the county surveys.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He paused, eyes drifting toward the dusty screen door. Outside, a pickup clattered past, slow and indifferent.

  “Then one day,” Duke continued, “he vanished. Took his johnboat upriver, said he was followin’ a trail. No one knew where. Didn’t come back. Sheriff searched half the bayou. All they found was an oar, his lucky fishin’ hat, and a symbol—your symbol—carved into a tree half-sunk in the mud near Pelican Bend.”

  Josie’s voice came quiet. “No body?”

  Duke shook his head. “Not a bone. But folks say things got strange after that. Animals avoidin’ the bend. Lights out past the cypress trees. Some nights you could hear hummin’—not from people, not from frogs. Just... hummin’ like the earth was rememberin’ somethin’ it didn’t like.”

  Bo swallowed.

  Cricket, eyes wide, whispered, “And nobody followed him?”

  “Oh, a few tried,” Duke said, lips twitching with something like pity. “A trapper named Grady. Some teenagers with more guts than good sense. They all came back... wrong.” He tapped his temple. “Grady didn’t speak for a year. Said the river talked to him. Said Lester was still out there, but not like we are.”

  Josie clutched her backpack tighter, heart thudding.

  Duke leaned forward now, elbows on the counter, his voice low and gravelly. “So I’m tellin’ you again—whatever you think that map leads to, it ain’t buried treasure. It’s buried trouble. And there’s a reason it stayed buried.”

  Outside, the wind picked up just enough to jingle the chimes on the bait shop porch.

  Josie stood slowly, the map still hidden away in her bag. “Thank you, Mr. Duke. We’ll be careful.”

  “You won’t be careful,” he said, standing too. “You’ll be curious. That’s worse.”

  They didn’t argue.

  Cricket held the door open for the others, but paused before stepping out.

  “You ever see it?” she asked, voice quieter now. “The shimmer?”

  Duke didn’t answer right away.

  Then, with a far-off look in his eyes, he muttered, “Only once.”

  Cricket’s smile faded. She let the door swing shut behind her.

  Inside, the fan kept rattling. The map stayed folded. And Duke, left alone with his silence, lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

  Scene 3: Cricket Gets Caught

  The bait shop door clattered shut behind them, the rusty springs squealing like they hadn’t been oiled since the Bicentennial.

  Bo stepped off the porch first, squinting into the bright sun, one hand already digging into his pocket for change. “We still goin’ by Bea’s for biscuits? I need somethin’ sweet before I pass out from fear and hunger.”

  Josie nodded absently, still half-lost in thought. Her fingers brushed the edge of the folded map inside her backpack like it might disappear if she let go. “Yeah. Then we head to Lila Rae’s.”

  Cricket lingered by the door, jaw working her gum thoughtfully as she leaned against the peeling railing. She’d laughed her way through Duke’s story inside, but now her grin had faded, just a little. Something about that milky eye of his, the way he’d said only once, stuck with her more than she liked.

  “Cricket,” Josie called, halfway down the steps, “you comin’ or you plan on marryin’ that porch?”

  Cricket smirked and pushed off the rail. “Maybe I just like a man with a beard and a warning problem.”

  She took one step down—just one—when Duke’s voice drifted out behind her.

  “You remind me of her, y’know.”

  Cricket froze mid-step.

  She turned slowly. Duke was standing in the doorway now, leaning against the frame, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his old cap.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Lester’s niece,” he said. “Used to tag along with him. Wild as a swamp hare. Brave too—braver than sense allowed. She used to say, if it don’t scare you a little, it ain’t worth findin’.”

  Cricket swallowed, suddenly aware of how hot the porch boards felt beneath her bare feet. “What happened to her?”

  Duke’s gaze drifted past her, out toward the road, like he was seeing something far older than cracked pavement and sunburnt storefronts.

  “She went lookin’ for him. A week after the search was called off. Took a canoe. Packed her daddy’s compass and one sandwich. Came back two days later.”

  He paused.

  “Never spoke again.”

  Cricket’s jaw tightened. The gum lost its flavor all at once.

  “You don’t gotta stop,” Duke said, his voice softer now. “But you oughta listen. There’s things in that swamp that don’t care how curious you are.”

  Cricket held his gaze for one heartbeat… then two. And finally nodded, just once.

  Then she turned and bounded down the steps, catching up with Josie and Bo in the heat-shimmered road.

  Behind her, Duke watched until she disappeared around the corner.

  He’d meant it as a warning.

  But he knew that kind of fire in a kid’s heart.

  Warnings didn’t work on that.

  They only made the fire burn hotter.

  Scene 4: Back to Lila Rae’s

  The side porch at Lila Rae’s house was a little slice of shaded heaven, tucked between rows of zinnias and the smell of lemon verbena her mama always kept hanging in bunches by the screen door. Two box fans hummed on opposite ends of the porch, pushing hot air back and forth like it was doing any good, and a pitcher of sweet tea sweated gently on the table like it knew it was the MVP of the afternoon.

  The whole gang had gathered now—Josie, Bo, and Cricket fresh off their run to town, and Kenji and Tadpole already lounging on mismatched porch cushions when they arrived. Lila Rae, seated at the center of it all with a clipboard on her knees, adjusted her glasses and tapped her pencil like a judge calling order to the court.

  “Alright,” she said. “Tell us everything.”

  Josie dropped into the swing, the backpack landing beside her with a thud. “We showed Duke the mark. He saw it before. Said it was tied to a man who disappeared in 1968—Lester Ward.”

  Tadpole leaned forward. “The same name from the photo?”

  Bo nodded. “Same guy. Duke said he went upriver chasing something. Never came back.”

  “He also said,” Cricket added, plopping into a rocking chair and kicking off her sandals, “that folks who went lookin’ for him came back wrong. One guy didn’t talk for a year. Said the river talked to him.”

  Kenji’s eyebrow twitched. “Define ‘wrong.’ Like, hallucinations? Delirium? PTSD?”

  “Like swamp-ghost whisperin’ type wrong,” Bo muttered. “I dunno what it means, but I didn’t like hearin’ it.”

  Lila Rae jotted a quick note:

  Witness account: Duke – 1968 disappearance – Lester Ward – Symbol match – post-event trauma (unverified)

  “And Duke said this ain’t a treasure map,” Josie added, her voice low. “Said it’s trouble. Said to leave it buried.”

  Kenji snorted, tapping his pen against his teeth. “Yeah. Because that ever stopped anyone.”

  “I mean, he’s not wrong,” Cricket said. “Every good mystery starts with someone sayin’, ‘Don’t go pokin’ there.’ It’s practically an invitation.”

  Lila Rae flipped to a clean page. “Let’s think like scientists. What do we actually have?”

  “Map,” Tadpole said. “With symbols.”

  “Tin box,” Bo added. “With pictures, initials, and a spooky cassette.”

  “Old truck with a matched carving,” Josie said. “And a possible trail beyond it.”

  “And a vibe,” Cricket chimed in, waggling her fingers. “Let’s not forget the vibe.”

  “Still no explanation for the shimmer,” Kenji muttered, opening a small notebook with schematics. “Whatever it was, it didn’t leave a trace.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t meant to,” Josie said. “Maybe it was a sign. A test. Like, ‘Hey kids, you wanna go down this road?’ And we said yes.”

  Bo took a long swig of sweet tea and leaned back. “I said no. Loudly. And y’all ignored me.”

  Lila Rae looked at the group. “Okay, here’s my thought. We keep followin’ the trail, but smart. We document. We mark our path. And we don’t touch nothin’ weird without gloves.”

  “Or backup,” Tadpole added.

  Josie gave a little grin. “We’ve got each other. That counts.”

  Cricket raised her glass. “To swamp ghosts and cursed maps.”

  “Don’t toast that!” Bo yelped, nearly dropping his tea.

  Lila Rae chuckled and scribbled a final line:

  Next steps: return to marked trail. Investigate second symbol. Note possible path to Pelican Bend.

  “Y’all ready to go ghost huntin’ tomorrow?” Josie asked, voice light but eyes serious.

  They all nodded.

  Even Bo.

  Even Kenji.

  The summer had started with a shimmer—but now it had teeth.

  And the trail was just beginning to unfold.

  Scene 5: The Bridge That Ain’t There

  The late afternoon sun slid lower behind the pecan trees, painting the porch in long, slanting shadows. Cicadas had struck up their second chorus of the day, louder now, and the sweet tea pitcher had melted into a ring of sweat that soaked clear through the tablecloth.

  The kids huddled close around the spread map, elbows knocking, fingers tracing over faded ink and pencil-scribbled trails. The symbol—the one that had started all of this—was looped in the lower left corner, just above a wavy line that Lila Rae had finally labeled “Dry Creekbed (maybe).”

  Tadpole sat back, arms crossed, studying it all with the same quiet intensity he gave a good fishing hole. They called him Preacher sometimes—not because he gave sermons, but because when he spoke, it had weight.

  He pointed to the far edge of the map. “Right here,” he said.

  Josie leaned in. “What is it?”

  “That line.” He tapped a faint pencil stroke, almost erased by time. “It runs clean through a place no one’s talked about in years.”

  Bo frowned. “The old cane road?”

  Tadpole shook his head. “No. The bridge that ain’t there.”

  Cricket perked up. “I love things that ain’t there.”

  Kenji adjusted his glasses. “What do you mean, ‘ain’t there’? Like it fell down?”

  “No,” Tadpole said, voice soft. “Like it never was. But folks remember crossin’ it.”

  The porch fell quiet, the fans doing little to cut the sudden stillness.

  Josie tilted her head. “You sayin’ people remember a bridge that don’t exist?”

  “I’m sayin’ my uncle used to tell stories. Said there was a wooden bridge near the bend, just past the cypress grove. Long and thin. Nobody built it. It was just... there. One day, gone.”

  Lila Rae flipped a few pages in her field journal. “I’ve got a note here from Papa. He mentioned a ‘plank passin’ over ghosts’ in one of his old swamp poems. I thought it was metaphor.”

  “It might still be,” Kenji said, though his voice wasn’t sure.

  Cricket grinned. “Or maybe it’s a ghost bridge! Like it shows up for people who need it.”

  Bo groaned. “Please no more ghost bridges. Ghost trucks, ghost trails, ghost bridges. What’s next, ghost biscuits?”

  “If I get haunted by a biscuit, I’m quittin’ this club,” Cricket said solemnly.

  Tadpole leaned in again. “I think the map’s pointin’ to where that bridge was. Whether it’s still there or not, we can find the spot.”

  Josie felt the pulse in her chest quicken. A shimmer. A man who vanished. A trail of carved signs. And now a bridge nobody could find on a map—but some folks remembered like a dream.

  “Then that’s where we go next,” she said. “We follow the map to the bridge that ain’t there.”

  Lila Rae underlined the edge of the parchment. “Pelican Bend, just west of the dry creek. If we leave early, we can get there by mid-morning.”

  Cricket raised her sweet tea like a toast. “To the bridge that ain’t there.”

  Bo raised his root beer. “And to not fall off it if it shows up.”

  The sun dipped a little lower. The porch creaked. And the breeze carried the soft scent of wet earth and something older still—waiting just beyond the bend.