(Transcribed by TurboScribe.ai. Go Unlimited to remove this message.) Night has fallen, and the moon is a glowing golden orb in the black sky. See how it shines on the dark back roads of America, and on one road in particular. Come with us, and we'll take a walk down the moonlit road, for the night is waiting. And the moon is full. Hungry for the gulf, the dark river flows broad and wide after river bend, devouring its own banks.
The marshlands appear as the river banks fade, but if you go far enough into the marshes, the swamps begin. Now Chansey Fox was a gambling man, and a good one. So it was just damn laziness that run him afoul of Sheriff Black Mountain Kincade and his two brothers, Kennesaw and Stone. That was up at Swan's Land and right above Meridia. Chansey may have been lazy, but he wasn't a total fool. He was up and out of there before that fifth ace he'd tucked up his sleeve hit the table.
He figured as soon as he was outside of Swan's Land and he'd be out of the Sheriff's jurisdiction and free. He figured wrong. Chansey Fox had offended something deep in Black Mountain Kincade's rusty soul. The Sheriff reached the limits of Swan's Landing and just kept going. And where Black Mountain went, his brothers were sure to follow.
That gambler ran south, hugging the banks of the dark river, past Carpenter and Egret, past Meridia itself, and everywhere he tried to get a friendly game of cards going. Here they would come, riding into town on their black horses, close as memory, relentless as death, Sheriff Black Mountain Kincade and his brothers. Chansey Fox was getting right desperate, so he'd come up with a plan. He took the blue stag packet steamer when it stopped for wood at Paradox.
He knew the brothers' Kincade would be right behind him. Soon as that riverboat hit the marshlands, he undid the dinghy tied to its side and slipped away into the night. Into the marsh he went. Twist right, twist left, twist right again. Soon as he was well in, he rowed into the grass and waited. Sure enough, another dinghy come slipping past with three large men and a lantern. Chansey Fox waited for a few minutes, chuckled, and started rowing back the way he'd come.
Two hours later, he was still rowing. Now you'd think a man couldn't lose something as big as a river, but Chansey managed it. He turned and turned and turned again, still couldn't see anything but marsh grass. He was so busy not seeing things, he didn't notice all the cypress trees till he was surrounded by them. Spanish moss like old men's whiskers brushed his face and he couldn't see for the mosquitoes. And then, then two things happened.
He saw the huge rotting old plantation house rise up out of the darkness, and someone coshed him a good one on the back of the head. When Chansey came to, he was lying on a dank mildewed old chaise in the middle of a dank mildewed old room, and three women were fussing over him. At least they looked like women, kind of. They were tall and thin like paper-folded herons, and dressed in raggedy finery at least sixty years out of date.
And their eyes were very, very bright, and the teeth were very, very sharp. At first, Chansey was enjoying all the attention, and he actually started listening to what the sisters were saying, and the enjoying stopped right fast. Their voices were dry and rustling, like mice scampering through old newspapers. They'd been in that decaying house ever since Daddy died and the swamp rose, and they were right lonely, and right hungry.
And Chansey, he remembered that mosquitoes ain't the only things that drink blood. But Chansey could think fast when he had to, and he thought fast now. Ladies, he said with a courtly cough, I am flattered by your attention, but there are three of you, and I'm right poorly. Now, out in the swamp is a boat with a lantern, and three of the finest men it is my privilege to know. And while I am loath to share, whatever are friends for?
The sisters looked at each other and tittered, and suddenly they were gone, like herons flying off into the night. Having effectively taken care of Black Mountain, Kincaid, and his brothers, Chansey Fox tipped his head over his eyes and went to sleep. Later, he thought he heard screams coming up out the swamps, but that's probably a dream. As day started to break, there was a dry rustling like birds with paper wings, and the sisters were back.
Now, instead of being tall and thin like herons, they were round and bloated like ticks, and not paying any attention to Chansey. But Chansey was paying attention to them. They disappeared into the bowels of the house, and Chansey waited until the sun was up full, broke three legs off a chair, and went hunting. He found them in three separate rooms, lying in three separate coffins, and without so much as a thank you, he drove a chair leg right through each of their hearts.
Black blood erupted all over the place, but Chansey didn't mind. And when they were dead, they were really dead. Now, if Chansey had been as smart as he thought he was, he would have found his dinghy and gotten far, far away from there, but he figured ladies like that would have jewels or some such, and it took him a while to find them. To find them he did, even though it took him all day.
Night was falling when he finally headed down the crumbling steps, and the deep, cavernous voice rumbled at him out of the night. Evening, gambler. And Chansey Fox turned and stared at the tall, bulky figure of Sheriff Black Mountain Kincaid looming in the dark, his two giant brothers on either side of him. Evening, Sheriff. Heard you was dead. Well, that's strange, gambler. Heard the same thing about you.
And the sheriff smiled, and his brothers smiled, and their eyes were very, very bright, and their teeth were very, very sharp, and Chansey Fox remembered a few other things about bloodsuckers. He didn't even bother to scream as they closed in on him, their blood-soaked clothes rustling like paper wings. Hungry for the gulf, the dark river flows broad and wide after riverbend. The marshlands appear as the riverbanks fade, but if you go far enough into the marshes, the swamps begin.
That concludes this tale from the Moonlit Road. Be sure to visit our website at themoonlitroad .com to find out more about our stories and let us know how we're doing. The Moonlit Road is produced and directed by Craig Dominey, recorded and soundscaped by Henry Howard in beautiful Stone Mountain, Georgia. Thanks for listening, and we'll see you next time.