Nonfiction Sample
Nonfiction Sample
"Grandpa Jack"
When my mother was roughly five she and her family went to visit her grandparents on their farm, in the small town of Egan, Louisiana. The farm consisted of a small, white, wooden farmhouse with a chicken coop and two barns. They owned big rice fields, being primarily rice farmers, and a creek ran through the property. The house has since been torn down and the land sold to another rice farmer but at the time her family visited every summer from Virginia. It was the morning of their second day on the farm and they would be staying for about a week before going to visit other relatives in the state.
On that morning, Grandpa Jack had asked my mother’s sister, Donna, to draw a picture for him. My mother’s feelings were a little hurt that he hadn’t asked her to draw something for him and he must’ve realized this because he said to her, “I have something important for you to do, too.”
Grandpa Jack led her over to a fenced in pasture and in the pasture was this enormous, black bull. He pointed to the bull and said, “I want you to go pet that bull for me.”
She looked at the bull, which was the biggest animal she had ever seen in her young life. Then she looked up at her grandfather. Then back at the bull, then back at her grandfather. Finally, she said, “No, sir, I don’t think I’m gonna go pet that bull.”
Her grandpa started laughing. “No, I wouldn’t go pet that bull, neither. He’s mean.”
10/31/2021
"Mary Jane's Bridge"
On her 18th birthday, Michelle’s friends decided to take her out to celebrate her becoming an adult and bought her a bottle of wine. They wanted a night to remember so after a good meal, the group piled into their cars for a little adventure. The eight of them took three vehicles. Koby, his brother Bart, and their girlfriends took the lead in a pickup, while Kathleen rode with her boyfriend, Chris, in the second car, and Christine drove behind in her Toyota with Michelle. Koby had convinced them to go to a nearby haunted bridge. They were told that if you park on the bridge, you won’t be able to start your car again and so they intended to try it.
The bridge had a couple of names; Old Stone Road, Bayou Tortue Bridge, Mary Jane’s Bridge. There’s an urban legend that tells of a girl named Mary Jane who went down to the bridge with her prom date, where she was murdered and thrown into the bayou. Some say she was killed by the boy while others say she was killed by the Axeman of New Orleans heading west to California. The area is reportedly a site of paranormal activity with sightings of a woman in white and it’s said that there is a pentagram painted on the bridge. But when they left that night, they didn’t see ghosts or symbols. Something else happened to them.
They were driving down Highway 90 when strange things first started happening. While making a lefthand turn, Chris’s car suddenly started skidding. The vehicle spun off the road and they could hear Kathleen screaming inside. It was a miracle that they didn’t hit anything and Chris was able to get it to stop. They hurried over to go check on the two and make sure they were okay, then after talking about it, Chris decided he wanted to continue to the bridge. They drove another few miles before turning onto a dark, poorly marked road that split off from the highway. Trees and undergrowth boxed them in on either side. Their headlights cast twisted shadows through the branches, barely penetrating the darkness of the forest. Every now and then they’d pass an open field where a lonely farmhouse sat atop a hill.
As the group drove, the boys told their girlfriends all sorts of horrific stories about the bridge. Urban legends about a man with a hook and paranormal encounters with white owls. Christine and Michelle were alone in their car so they didn’t hear any of these but after a while they saw something that would set them on edge. At some point they passed a driveway that led off into the trees, and from it a dark van emerged. It followed behind them, never speeding up or slowing down.
Then Christine said softly, “I think there’s something wrong with that guy’s face. I can’t see him very well but, he looks creepy.” The van only had one headlight on the drivers side, so it was hard to make out distinct features, but something about him looked wrong, misshapen.
The girls were both spooked and half-jokingly talked about what weapons they had in the Toyota; the bottle of wine Michelle had received as a gift and an old umbrella. They definitely did not feel adequately prepared to fight off an attacker. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. They passed another driveway where the van turned left on and they both let out audible sighs of relief. Shortly after, they drove by one last house and its red barn before entering a swath of trees that ended at the bridge. Koby got out to tell them, “This is the place. This is Old Stone Bridge.”
The bridge was very typical for Louisiana. Despite its name, the bridge was wooden and narrow. The timbers shifted and creaked under weight. In the darkness of the night, they could barely make out the murky brown water at the edge of the reeds.
The group hopped out and looked around for the pentagram. Their search came up short, so Koby decided to drive his pickup onto the bridge. It reached the center then came to an abrupt stop. All the lights went off. The engine sputtered then went silent. A couple minutes later, Koby emerged and went over to Chris and Kathleen. They spoke for a moment then he started towards Christine and Michelle who were sitting on the hood of the Toyota. He let out a nervous laugh while he approached.
“So, we got on the bridge, but then the truck stopped and we can’t get it to move. We’re gonna have to push it off.”
They backed up the other two vehicles so there was enough space for Koby’s. He kept saying, “I’m not joking, the car won’t start.” The teenagers all pushed up against the hood, rolling it off of the wood and onto solid ground. Koby turned the ignition and the engine hummed to life again on the first try. He looked at his friends, surprised and stunned. The group decided they’d had enough and were ready to head back. After some maneuvering, they turned the vehicles around and headed back the way they came.
As they drove down the narrow road with Michelle and Christine in the front, and Koby and Bart in the rear, a fourth car rolled up. It was the van. Koby and Bart’s girlfriends, worked up from all the stories and car troubles, freaked out when they saw it. They were crying and yelling, “We’re gonna die!” They drove as quickly as they could down the dark, narrow street, with the van following the entire time. When they got back on the highway, the van accelerated, and as it passed them, Michelle and Christine could see the driver was wearing a rubber Halloween mask. Seeing this, Christine let out a shriek. Then the man pulled his mask off and they realized he was laughing. The “man” was actually a boy their age, wearing a big grin. Michelle was furious. It had all been a prank! The teen honked their horn then sped off down the highway. Christine and Michelle looked at each other and they both were thinking the same thing. Koby. Mischievous Koby, always the trickster. He had been the one to the suggest the bridge, he had been the one insisting they go tonight. He had it all planned out.
They stopped at a gas station a little ways down the road and got out to go confront the brothers. Michelle tapped on the glass and Koby rolled down the window with a smile. He could see their livid expressions.
“Koby, you wouldn’t happen to know a guy who drives a van, would you? Black with one broken headlight?”
He looked at Bart who was trying to contain his laughter. “Um… yeah, why?”
“So you were trying to prank us?”
“Well… okay, yes,” he admitted. “We wanted to scare you guys. But the car stopping on the bridge was not me! I didn’t plan that.” He swore up and down that the truck would not start that night on the bridge.
11/16/2021
"La Bête Du Gévaudan"
June 30th, 1764
On the moors of southern France, a shepherdess stood beside her flock. The sheep grazed in the pasture, moving slowly through the grass. Fourteen-year-old Jeanne Boulet watched over her herd, brushing hair from her face. She sighed and lowered herself to sit on a small boulder. Wind rustled through the brush and heather. The livestock bleated softly. Boulet turned to face the Allier River, unaware of the animal lingering at the edge of the forest.
Distant church bells rang out from the village of Saint-Étienne-de-Lugdarès. Boulet dusted off her lap, utterly bored by the herd shuffling about. She rested her chin on her hands and looked out over the rolling hills.
Boulet was initially oblivious to her sheep staring to trot. She didn’t realize they had seen something and were trying to get away. To her, they were headed to better grass or a less breezy hill. Only when the herd started to converge and let out panicked noises did Boulet notice. She quickly rose to her feet and moved towards them, looking around to see what had spooked them. She climbed a small bluff to scan her surroundings and saw… nothing. The fields were empty. The skies were empty. There were no dogs running after hares, no eagles hovering over lambs. Not another soul, not even another villager, roamed the moors that she could see.
With a frustrated sigh, Boulet turned. Then she screamed.
Standing before her was a massive wolf. Drool dripped from its snarling maw; its lips were pulled back to bare white fangs. Hungry yellow eyes locked with hers.
The animal lunged for her throat, pushing her off the bluff she had climbed. The sheep huddled together, letting out pitiful cries, and looked on as the beast tore apart its first victim.
A month before, a shepherdess had been attacked near the city of Saint-Flour but survived. The bulls in her herd drove off the animal, saving her. While it was strange that the animal seemed more interested in the girl than the livestock, the attack was written off as a random occurrence. In the month following the killing of Jeanne Boulet, a fifteen-year-old girl was attacked in Puylaurent. She was deadly wounded but managed to describe her attacker as a “horrible beast”. Then in September, the young son of the Yolle’s disappeared near the village of Laval. Partially eaten remains of the boy were recovered. Attacks continued throughout the region of Gévaudan, garnering attention from the press. King Louis XV appointed the renowned wolf hunter Jean-Charles-Marc-Antoine Vaumesle d'Enneval to lead the mission of killing the beast responsible. The hunter noted after a first survey of the area that the beast would not be an easy catch. Horses could not be used in the swamps and the creature could easily escape in the forests or rocky mountains. The weather in Gévaudan was notoriously bad; numerous times the animal escaped into the mist or hunters gave up the pursuit due to the heavy rain.
August 11th, 1765
“Did you hear about Jean Baptise Duhamel?” Thérèse asked as the two Valet sisters made their way down the slope. Her older sibling, Marie-Jeanne, thought it over for a moment.
“His name sounds familiar. Who is he?”
“He’s the captain of the infantry. He’s organizing a hunt for the beast.”
Marie-Jeanne huffed. “He won’t find it. If the wolf hunter from Normandy can’t kill it, who expects a bunch of farmers to do it?”
“Well I’d like them to find it so I can stop worrying. I do not wish to end up in the stomach of some monstrous wolf.”
“That’s what this is for,” said Marie-Jeanne, holding out her makeshift spear; it was a wooden pole with a bayonet blade attached to the end of it. “We may not have access to guns but I’m not going out empty handed.”
Thérèse glanced at the unimpressive weapon rather skeptically. “I feel so much safer.”
The girls had reached the Desges River so they lifted the skirts of their dresses and began to cross where the water tugged at their pants and pebbles rolled underfoot.
All of a sudden Thérèse screamed. Marie-Jeanne looked up and let out a similar shriek. Standing on the opposite shore was the beast.
Thérèse grabbed Marie-Jeanne's hand and ran back the way they came, screaming for help. They could hear the beast splashing into the river behind them. Marie-Jeanne shot a glance over her shoulder and saw it was gaining on them. She pulled away from Thérèse and spun around to face it. The animal bounded through the water up to its elbows. Marie-Jeanne gripped her spear tightly and said a prayer. The animal lunged. She readied her weapon. Then she plunged the stake into its chest.
The animal yelped and fell backwards onto its side. The spear was knocked from her hands and clattered onto a nearby rock. Marie-Jeanne stood frozen, waiting to see if it was dead. Blood swirled in the currents and a clump of fur floated past downstream. The surface of the water remained unbroken for a long moment. The girl cautiously took a step back, eyes fixed on the place it had disappeared.
Suddenly the beast resurfaced, bursting from the river a little way down. The sisters jumped back with a gasp. It rolled onto its feet and crawled to the bank, then shook its soaked fur, wobbled uneasily, and stumbled away.
Marie-Jeanne would become known as the “Maid of Gévaudan” among the press. The girls described the beast as a black and white wolf the size of a dog with a monstrous head and large fangs. Witness descriptions would continue to grow wilder and more elaborate. Some stark differences such as reddish fur versus a pitch-black pelt suggested more than one beast, though it was never confirmed. Duhamel, who had successfully recruited thousands of locals to help the hunt, speculated that the beast was actually a big cat and many theories suggest the animal was a subadult male lion that had escaped from a menagerie. He too came up empty handed. With d’Enneval’s lack of progress, King Louis XV called on royal gunbearer François Antoine to hunt the beast. In September, he and his nephew shot what he believed to be the beast, stuffed it, and sent it to the Court. In December attacks began again but the King insisted the beast was dead. No help was sent. After 30 more casualties during the year of 1766, Marquis d’Apcher organized another hunt.
June 19th, 1767
Shots rang out on the slopes of Mont Mouchet. Hunting dogs bayed and yells echoed through the trees. Jean Chastel chased after the animal, loading the silver buckshot. He lifted his rifle and put the beast in his sights. He fired.
There was a shocked silence as the beast collapsed. Everyone held their breath.
“You killed it… You killed it!”
Chastel slowly lowered his gun.
He got it. He felled the beast.
Laying on the ground was a large, reddish colored wolf. Sticky blood trickled from the bullet wound. Its yellow eyes flickered open like it was trying to stay awake.
The hunters encircled it with caution. The hounds tugged at the ends of their leads, eager to reach the animal.
Chastel approached and kneeled down. He placed his hand on its neck as the creature shuddered out its last breath. The animal seemed to be a wolf but a strange one; the legs were elongated, the head was rounded, the muzzle was short. Its toes looked like fingers and its back was hunched. Its breath stank of decay. It’s had a coat of red, white, and grey that the hunters had not seen on wolves before. It appeared warped, disfigured. The unsettling part was that its strange features looked… almost human..
11/29/2021