Chapter 5: Buying the Dirt

Leo didn’t wait for the engine to cool before he shoved the truck door open, the metal groaning as it swung into the humid, wood-thickened air of the bayou. The silence of Cypress Bend usually felt like a weighted blanket, but today it felt like a gag. Behind him, the ghost of his father’s final argument rattled in the floorboards of the Chevy, but ahead of him lay the only thing that mattered: a three-acre stretch of black mud and rotted cedar that represented the last of the Beaumont legacy.

He slammed the door. The sound echoed off the cypress knees, a flat *thwack* that startled a white crane into the grey-blue sky. 

“You’re late, Leo.”

Silas Vance was leaning against a rusted fence post that marked the boundary of the derelict boatyard. He was a man composed entirely of sharp angles and expensive linen, looking like a vulture that had decided to try its hand at real estate. He didn't check his watch; he didn't have to. He knew exactly how much power lay in those fifteen minutes of Leo’s absence.

Leo wiped a streak of grease across his forehead, leaving a dark smear against his tan. “The bridge at Blackwater was up. You want the land or you want a calendar?”

“I want a signature,” Silas said, straightening. He pulled a thick manila envelope from the briefcase resting on the hood of his pristine silver sedan. The contrast between the car and the mud beneath its tires was offensive. “And I want to ensure you haven’t had a change of heart since our phone call. My investors don't like sentimentality, Leo. It’s bad for the interest rates.”

Leo walked toward him, his boots sinking two inches into the silt with every step. He could smell the water—brackish, heavy with the scent of decaying lilies and peat. This was the dirt he’d crawled through as a kid, the dirt that had stained his mother’s porch and filled his father’s lungs during the flood of ’98. It was more than carbon and minerals. To the banks, it was a liability. To Silas, it was a foundation for a high-rise resort. To Leo, it was a debt he could no longer afford to carry.

“Let me see the papers,” Leo said, his voice grating like gravel.

Silas handed them over. The paper was heavy, cream-colored, and felt impossibly clean in the swamp. Leo flipped through the pages. *Transfer of Deed. Release of Liability. Indemnification.* The legal jargon blurred into a single, stinging reality: once he signed, he became a guest in his own hometown.

“Clause four,” Leo said, pointing a calloused finger at a paragraph halfway down the third page. “It says here you have the right to ‘clear all existing structures.’ Does that include the memorial pier?”

Silas sighed, a thin, patronizing sound. “The pier is a rotting hazard, Leo. It hasn't seen a boat in a decade. We’re putting in a state-of-the-art marina. It’s progress. Your grandfather’s name will be on a plaque in the lobby. We’re not monsters.”

“The pier stays,” Leo said. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn't have to. He simply stopped reading and held the papers back out toward Silas. 

“Don't be difficult. You need this money to keep the shop running. I know what the overhead on those diesel engines looks like, and I know your credit score is currently hovering somewhere near the bottom of the basin.” Silas reached for the papers, but Leo didn’t let go. 

“The pier stays until the first phase of construction begins,” Leo countered. “And I want it in writing that the timber is salvaged, not burned. My uncle built that with cypress he hauled by hand. If you’re going to tear it down, I’m taking the wood.”

Silas squinted, his eyes tracking the intensity in Leo’s jaw. He saw the way Leo’s knuckles were white against the manila folder. It wasn't just a negotiation; it was a siege. 

“Fine,” Silas muttered. He pulled a gold-capped fountain pen from his pocket and scribbled an addendum in the margin, initialing it with a flourish. “Salvage rights to the timber. Satisfied?”

Leo didn’t answer. He laid the envelope on the hood of his truck, the heat of the engine radiating through the paper. He stared at the signature line. This was the moment the Beaumonts officially left the map. No more land, no more legacy, just a check that would disappear into the maw of the bank by Monday morning.

He thought of his sister, Sarah, and the way she’d looked at the "Past Due" notices on the kitchen table last night. She hadn't said a word, but she’d stopped buying the good coffee. She’d started walking to work to save on gas. 

Leo clicked the pen. The ink flowed dark and permanent. *Leo J. Beaumont.*

As the last loop of the ‘t’ finished, a sudden, sharp crack rang out from the tree line. 

Leo spun, his hand instinctively dropping to the wrench tucked into his back pocket. Silas jumped, nearly knocking his briefcase into the mud. 

“What was that?” Silas hissed, his face draining of color. 

“Just a limb,” Leo said, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. He scanned the dense wall of tupelo and cypress. The shadows were deep, even for mid-afternoon. There was no wind, yet a clump of Spanish moss drifted slowly to the ground fifty yards away. 

“Sounded like a gunshot,” Silas whispered, clutching the signed papers to his chest as if they were a shield.

“Swamp’s moving, Silas. It does that when you disturb the peace.” Leo walked toward the tree line, his eyes slitted against the glare of the setting sun. He saw it then—a flash of reflective orange deep in the brush. A surveyor’s stake? No, Silas hadn't sent his crew out yet. 

He took three steps into the tall grass, the insects buzzing in an angry, frantic cloud around his ears. He pushed aside a curtain of moss and froze.

There, hammered into the soft heart of a century-old cypress tree, was a heavy iron spike. Hanging from it by a length of rusted wire was a bird—a crow, its feathers matted with pitch, its sightless eyes replaced with two identical copper coins.

“Leo? What is it? We need to get to the notary,” Silas called out from the safety of the gravel road.

Leo reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the dead bird. The air here felt different—colder, humming with a low-frequency vibration that made the teeth in his gums ache. This wasn't a prank. This was a message. In Cypress Bend, people didn't use lawyers to settle disputes; they used the dirt.

He pulled the wire loose, the crow’s body surprisingly light, like a bundle of dried sticks. As he turned it over, he saw the markings etched into the copper coins. They weren't currency. They were stamped with an anchor entwined with a snake.

The mark of the Marais family.

“Leo!” Silas was by the car now, the door open. “I’m leaving. Meet me at the office in twenty minutes or the deal is void.”

Leo emerged from the brush, the crow hidden behind his back. He watched Silas peel away, the silver car kicking up a cloud of dust that tasted like iron. 

He looked down at the copper coins in his palm. The deal was signed, the dirt was sold, but as he looked back at the dark, weeping trees of the bayou, he realized the land hadn't finished with him yet.

He tucked the coins into his pocket and headed for the truck. He needed to find Sarah, and he needed to find out why the Marais were staking claims on land that was supposed to be dead.

The truck roared to life, a guttural scream in the quiet of the afternoon. As Leo backed out, he looked in the rearview mirror. For a split second, he saw a figure standing exactly where he had been—a tall, thin shadow draped in rags, holding a handful of Spanish moss like a bouquet. 

By the time he blinked, the shadow was gone, leaving nothing behind but the shimmering heat and the smell of rising salt. 

He didn't head for the notary. He headed for the only place in town where secrets were kept better than the graves: The Rusty Hook. 

The drive was a blur of emerald green and rusted corrugated tin. Every house he passed seemed to lean a little further toward the water than it had yesterday. The town was sinking—everyone knew it—but today, the descent felt purposeful. 

He pulled up to the tavern, the neon sign flickering a sickly pink in the gathering dusk. He didn't care about the money anymore. He didn't care about the shop. He felt the weight of the copper coins in his pocket, pressing against his thigh like a brand. 

He pushed through the heavy oak doors of the bar, the smell of stale beer and fried catfish hitting him like a physical blow. At the far end of the bar, hunched over a glass of amber liquid, sat Miller. Miller had been the town’s sheriff before the tequila took his badge, and he knew every illicit handshake that had ever occurred within fifty miles of the Bend.

Leo slid onto the stool next to him, slamming the two copper coins onto the scarred wood of the bar.

Miller didn't look up. He didn't even flinch. He just stared at the coins, his breath hitching in a way that told Leo everything he needed to know.

“Where’d you get these, Beaumont?” Miller asked, his voice a dry rasp.

“Cypress lot. Nailed to a tree.”

Miller finally looked at him, his eyes bloodshot and wide with a sudden, sharp clarity. He reached out, his hand shaking, and pushed the coins back toward Leo.

“You signed that contract with Vance today, didn’t you?”

“Ten minutes ago,” Leo said.

Miller let out a short, jagged laugh that turned into a cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned in close, the scent of blue agave thick on his breath.

“Then you didn’t just sell Silas the land, Leo. You sold him a grave, and he’s going to make sure you’re the first one in it.”

Leo felt the hair on his arms stand up. Outside, the first roll of thunder rumbled across the basin, low and threatening. 

“Tell me what the coins mean, Miller,” Leo demanded, grabbing the older man’s forearm.

Miller looked at the door, then back at Leo. He lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper, a sound that seemed to come from the floorboards themselves.

“The Marais don't want the land for the timber or the view, son. They want what’s buried under the pier. And now that you’ve given Silas the right to dig, you’ve opened the door for them to take it.”

Leo’s mind raced back to the pier—the rotting wood, the way his father had forbidden him from ever swimming beneath its pilings. He thought of the addendum Silas had signed, giving Leo the salvage rights to the timber. 

“The wood,” Leo whispered. “It’s not just cypress.”

“It’s the anchor, Leo,” Miller said, his eyes darting to the window as the first drops of rain began to pelt the glass. “They’re looking for the anchor.”

Leo stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. He didn't ask what the anchor was. In Cypress Bend, there was only one thing that went by that name, a legend told to keep children away from the deep water. A relic of the old world, heavy with gold and heavier with blood.

He turned to leave, but Miller’s hand shot out, surprisingly strong, gripping Leo’s wrist.

“Leo, wait. If you go back there tonight, you won’t come back. The swamp is hungry, and you just served it dinner.”

Leo tore his arm away. “I survived my father, Miller. I can survive a few ghosts.”

He ran out into the rain, the downpour cold and sudden, stinging his face. He jumped into the truck, the engine screaming as he threw it into reverse. He had to get to the pier. He had to see if he’d just signed away his life or if he’d just started a war.

As he sped back toward the boatyard, the headlights cutting through the sheets of grey water, he realized he still had the deed in his glove box. He reached over, grabbing the envelope, and tore it open.

He scanned the legal text frantically, looking for the salvage clause Silas had scratched in. 

The handwriting wasn't there. 

The margin was clean. The ink Silas had used—the gold-capped pen, the flourish of the initials—it was all gone. 

Leo slammed on the brakes, the truck hydroplaning across the slick mud before spinning to a halt inches from the bayou’s edge. He stared at the paper in the dim glow of the dome light. The contract was signed by him, but Silas’s additions had vanished as if they had never been written.

He wasn't holding a legal document. He was holding a death warrant.

He looked out the windshield. The rain was so thick he could barely see the hood of the truck, but through the darkness, a single light flickered out on the water.

It was a lantern, swinging slowly back and forth on the end of the Beaumont pier.

Leo’s hand went to the ignition, but the truck stalled. He turned the key. Nothing. Just the hollow click-click-click of a dead battery. 

The lantern on the pier stopped swinging. It lowered, the light reflecting off the rising black water, and for a second, the surface of the bayou looked like solid glass. 

Then, the first scream echoed through the trees. 

It wasn't a bird. It wasn't the wind. It was Silas.

Leo grabbed the heavy iron wrench from the floorboard and stepped out into the storm. The mud claimed his boots instantly, pulling at him, trying to drag him down into the dark. He didn't care. He started to run, the rain blinding him, the copper coins in his pocket humming with a heat that burned through his jeans.

He reached the edge of the property, the skeletal remains of the boatyard looming like a ribcage against the sky. Silas’s silver sedan was still there, the door standing wide open, rain flooding the interior. 

But Silas was nowhere to be seen.

Leo stepped onto the first plank of the pier. The wood groaned, a sound like a long-held breath finally escaping. He walked slowly, the wrench heavy in his hand, his eyes locked on the spot where the lantern had been.

The light was gone now. In its place was a silhouette—short and broad, standing at the very edge of the pier where the water was deepest.

“Silas?” Leo called out. 

The figure didn't move. 

Leo took another step, the wood under his feet feeling slick, like it was coated in oil. He reached the end of the pier and stopped. 

The man standing there wasn't Silas. It was a stranger, dressed in an old-fashioned diver’s suit, the copper helmet resting on the deck beside him. The man turned, his face pale and etched with lines that looked like they’d been carved by salt.

“You should have stayed in the shop, Beaumont,” the man said. His voice didn't sound like it came from his mouth; it sounded like it came from the water hitting the pilings.

“Where’s Silas? What did you do with the deed?” Leo raised the wrench.

The man smiled, and his teeth were stained the same copper green as the coins in Leo’s pocket. 

“The deed belongs to the dirt now. And the dirt belongs to us.”

The man stepped backward, falling silently into the black water. He didn't splash. He didn't resurface. He just disappeared, leaving the copper helmet behind.

Leo lunged forward, reaching for the edge of the pier, but the wood beneath him gave way. The structural integrity he’d counted on for years vanished in an instant. He felt himself falling, the cold, brackish water rising up to meet him.

As he sank into the belly of the bayou, his lungs burning and his vision fading to black, he saw it. 

Resting on the silt at the bottom of the basin, glowing with a faint, malevolent light, was the Anchor. It wasn't gold. It wasn't iron. It was made of bone, and it was hooked deep into the heart of things that should have stayed buried.

Leo kicked hard, clawing his way back toward the surface, his fingers catching on a submerged piling. He broke the water, gasping for air, the rain still lashing down. 

He pulled himself onto the shore, his body shaking, his mind a fractured mess of fear and adrenaline. He looked back at the pier. 

It was gone. Not collapsed, not broken—gone. The water was smooth, the trees were silent, and the boatyard was empty. 

He didn't wait for his heart to slow down. He scrambled back to the truck, his hands fumbling with the door handle. He got inside and turned the key one more time.

The engine roared to life. 

Leo didn't look back. He drove as fast as the mud would allow, the headlights cutting a path through the dark toward the center of town. 

He reached the shop and ran inside, locking the door behind him. He leaned against the cool metal of the workbench, the copper coins falling from his pocket and clattering onto the floor. 

He picked one up, his thumb rubbing over the anchor-and-snake symbol. It was cold again. 

He went to his desk and pulled out his father’s old ledger. He flipped to the back, to the pages he’d never had the courage to read—the ones dated the week before the flood of ’98.

There, in his father’s jagged, frantic handwriting, was a single sentence: *The dirt is a lie; the water is the only truth.*

Beneath it, taped to the page, was a receipt. A receipt for a purchase made fifty years ago, for a stretch of land that shouldn't have existed on any map.

The buyer wasn't his grandfather. 

The buyer was Miller. 

Leo stared at the name, the realization hitting him like a physical weight. The man at the bar, the man who had warned him, the man who had seen the coins and trembled—he hadn't been protecting Leo. He’d been watching his investment.

A soft knock came at the door of the shop. 

Leo froze. He gripped the heavy wrench, his knuckles white. Through the frosted glass of the door, he could see a silhouette. 

“Leo? It’s Sarah. Open up. There’s someone here to see you.”

Leo walked to the door, his heart hammering in his throat. He turned the deadbolt and pulled it open. 

Sarah was standing there, her coat soaked through, her expression unreadable. Beside her stood a man in a well-tailored suit, his hair perfectly dry despite the storm.

“Mr. Beaumont?” the man said, stepping into the light. He held out an envelope—a manila envelope, identical to the one Silas had carried. “My name is Julian Marais. I understand you recently came into possession of some property I’ve been looking for.”

Leo looked at the man, then at Sarah, then down at the copper coins on the floor.

The deal wasn't over. It was just beginning.

“I’m not selling,” Leo said, his voice steady for the first time all day.

Julian Marais smiled, a slow, thin expression that didn't reach his eyes. “Oh, Leo. You’ve already sold it. I’m just here to collect the interest.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold-capped fountain pen. 

“Now,” Julian said, the lights in the shop flickering as the thunder shook the foundation. “Shall we discuss the salvage rights?”