The Bogling of Blackroot

Javert August Dredd had a name for legend, that is what his mother told him. The first name was for a French literary character, a powerful and steadfast figure of order in chaos, at least that’s how his mother read it. Dredd was the name they were given. Pritchard Newton Dredd, a lord of the antebellum south whose legacy died with the fall of The Grey. But his bloodline lived on in the countless slave women with whom he sired children. It was a name Javert had grown to hate, but it was his, and his fathers. For that reason alone, he kept it. Along with the name came stories, passed down from mother to father to son to daughter to son again. From his grandmother, Cleo Estella Dredd to His father, Raymond Earl Dredd. And finally down to him. Stories of ghosts in chains, the ones who didn’t survive the long voyage from the mother continent to the new world. Soaked to the bones and dragged from the tides, howling curses in the elder tongue. But what always put the chill in Javert’s spine were the tales of beasts from home. The Bushman of the African south. Eyes on his feet and long in tooth, the bushman regarded his human prey as zebras in the field, and it would feast.

Worries that the bushman had followed his prey across the ocean kept Dredd children awake at night for generations. Make no mistake, Javert knew fear, he had his sense. But he didn’t lie awake looking out the window. No. He slept soundly and dreamed of the bushman. And those dreams stayed with him, drove him. They Fascinated him. And that fascination would grow as he grew, at first into a hobby, but soon into professional curiosity. Cryptozoologists don’t carry much respect in the academic networks, but Javert didn’t mind the jeers and rolling of eyes. Whether or not the bushman made the trip from Africa, he didn’t know. But America has monsters of its own, this much he knew. And so he came to Blackroot.

Blackroot’s name came from the Natives of what is now called Louisiana. It refers to the fact that much of the land there was soaked in rancid swamp. And at the heart of that swamp boiled the black, stony mire of natural asphalt. A molten, prehistoric brew of oil, vapors and earth entrapping the stories of an earth long dead. Black of root, black of heart, is what the natives said to settlers before the land was taken from them.

Over the decades the town of Blackroot became as grey as gunmetal. Like Javert’s name, it too carried the ghosts of old antebellum. “The wind whistles Dixie through the boughs of the lynchin tree,” Grandmother Cleo would say of towns like Blackroot. Sundowners, they were called. Back in the day, at least. Or so Javert hoped as he crossed county lines in his trailer. Well-worn tires tore at the crumbling asphalt of aged roads, carrying Javert closer and closer into the home of the Bogling of Blackroot.

Like most vestiges of small town Americana, Blackroot had its stories, and those stories were of a beast . Or a cryptid, as people of Javert’s chosen trade liked to call them. First sighted, allegedly, and attributed to the death of 2 police officers in 1956, the cryptid known as the Bogling of Blackroot would go on to haunt the town for decades as a folkloric spectre. Horned and tusked and eyes, devil-red, upon molten black skin, it was said that it rose from the tar pit and roamed the swamps at night, occasionally coming into the town. West Virginia had its mothman. New York and Vermont shared Champ the lake monster with the Canadians, like the Wendigo of hushed whispers among the Algonquian of Wisconsin. Even Jersey had a devil all its own. Blackroot had the Bogling. But unlike the champ and the mothman, Javert had heard, the Bogling was not some prized novelty or mascot.

Professor Donovan Childs, a colleague of Javert’s who taught history at the local community college, warned Javert when his intentions circulated the network of cryptid enthusiasts. “You don’t want to be in that after sundown. And I’m not talking about ducking lynch mobs or Sheriff Cletus Bob Yokum, though I’d keep an eye out for them too. That town goes dead after dark. Even the diner, even the liquor store. Five O clock hits and they close up shop and turn in, like clockwork lemmings toeing that line. Only people about are the cops, and like I said. Three, maybe four of them? Yeah, it’s one of those towns. And unless you’re local and/or alabaster white, they will not be friendly about finding you out there.”

“What, do they have martial law declared down there?” Javert remembered asking. “What are even the institutional mechanics of a situation like that?”

“Nothing official. The locals don’t say anything. Like I said, it’s one of those towns. Might as well be it’s own planet. I’ve had students come out from Blackroot. They’re not right. Can’t even describe it.”

These words rattled in Javert’s head as he entered Blackroot. Something seemed familiar to him, like he recognized the outer roads. He hadn’t noticed, but he hadn’t looked at his GPS in an hour. As he crossed over a bridge he pulled over and got out of the Winnebago. Taking a deep breath of the air, Javert took stock of his surroundings and placed his hands on the guardrail of the bridge. The water below shimmered in the moonlight as his gaze followed it up and beyond into the distance, disappearing into deep vegetation. The swamp of Blackroot. Somewhere in there was the tar pit, and in that pit was the beast.

Back in the Winnebago, he sat in front of his laptop with a microphone to his lips and headphones on. “Welcome to another installment of An American Saga, podcast bestiary for the American cryptid, kaiju and beasts otherwise strange. Your man Dredd up to the same old tricks. So I’ve been in Blackroot for about 20 minutes, pulled off to the side of the road to rest, I’ll likely hit civilization in the morning and get gas. Have a chat with local law enforcement. That should be fun. Surprised I haven’t run into one just being black in their town. Came to this smudge on the map looking for a swamp monster and what’s got me the most nervous are the locals. Funny rock we live on-“ he was interrupted by a loud knock at the door, a knock which shook not only the door on its hinges, but the frame and foundations of the Vehicular domicile itself.

Javert paused his recording and swiped the headphones off his ears, staggering out of his seat towards the door as the loud, vigorous banging continued.

“I’m coming!” Javert called, “Hang tight!”

He grasps the handle of the lightweight fiberglass door that stood between him and the night beyond. Clicking the mechanism in the handle, he pulled the door in and faced what awaited him. Standing uncomfortably close to the door was a police officer. He had a worn, ragged look to him that was only emphasized by the craggy stubble of a weeks neglect upon his white-but-tan face. On the right of his chest sat a badge which read “sheriff,” and on the left was a nameplate. The name Cobb was etched in cheap bronze and shone in the light as it spilled into the dark beyond Javier’s Winnebago threshold. On Cobb’s hit sat the gun Javert knew was there, and Javert’s eyes fixed on the white left hand that rested on its holster…thumb twitching.

“Evenin’,” Cobb creaked the word out through his rigid, whiskey-burned throat. “Camped out for the night, are you?”

Javert chose his words very carefully.

“Yessir. Was heading into Blackroot for work, night got long on me. Figured I’d pull over and rest til morning. Was I wrong for that?”

“Hm. And what sort a work brings you to Blackroot?”

“Academic. I work for a college a few states over. Wanted to ask around about the Bogling.”

“The Bogling?” Cobb laughed. “What’s a fancy college boy care about some spook story? Shouldn’t you be drilling that CRT garbage into our kids heads, makin em hate their own country?”

Again, Javert thought long and hard about what he should say, perhaps too long.

“Nothing to say, boy?”

A spark of anger flickered within Javert’s chest, and his fist tightened.

“Sadly the country’s storied past of killing my people isn’t my department. No, I lecture on different kinds of monsters.” Javert immediately regretted what he said. Cobb’s upper lip twitched beneath his nose and let out a loud breath through his nose, a chilling ghost of a smile drifted across his lips.

“Step out of the mobile home, please.” His hand tightened on the holster of his gun as he pivoted on his heel to clear a path. He motioned with his other hand broadly, as if about to take a bow. “Step on down, mister academic.”

Furious with himself and scared beyond reason, Javert obliged and stepped down onto the cracked and beaten pavement of the road. He sighed as he stared into Sheriff Cobb’s eyes, then looked down at the gun again. Cobb was pulling out handcuffs from his belt with his free hand now

“This road ain’t a hotel, nor any other road in Blackroot, for that matter. But don’t you fret, boy. I’ll put you up for the night. Now turn around please, and cross your hands behind your back before the night gets even more long for ya.”

Javert closed his eyes in disbelief and turned his back to the officer, the hairs on his neck standing on end. His breath shook in his throat as Cobb jerk his hands around, clasping the cuffs around his wrists and tugging on the chain.

“Now walk. Slowly. And we’ll get you set up at the best B&B in town.”

Into the night they went, Javert behind the caged-in rear seat of Cobb’s cruiser. His head leaned against the cold glass of the side window as he stared into the waking nightmare unfurling before him. The vast stretch of road, punctuated by streetlights that didn’t seem to work, gave way to a scrap of civilization as a convenience store came into view. The light up sign flickered and illuminated the only black with the words “Drew’s Brew.” Pale, sickly white light jutted out from the dirty glass storefront to reveal a mud-caked pickup truck with no rear license plate. A man staggered drunkenly out of the store and towards the truck.

“Damn it Greg. Better not catch you wrapped around a tree again,” Cobb grumbled, not even slowing down to stop the man as he got into his truck and started the engine.

Soon the town closed in around the cruiser as the road twisted in towards the square. Shops sat dead in the night, some very clearly having been derelict for years. A pack of dogs barked cacophonously as they sprinted across the road, forcing Cobb to hit the break.

“Damn mutts,” he growled.

Javert caught a glimpse of the southern alley wall as they sat stopped for a second. The bricks were painted over with the chipped and worn rough Confederate Flag…and over the flag loomed a spray painted mural of a grotesque, mossy Bogling of Blackroot.

“See, boy? There’s your monster. If your good in the morning I’ll let you snap a pic for your Twitter.”

The dark, lifeless square opened up around them as the road cut through a grassy stretch of weeds. Out towards the edge sat, amongst the encircling crabgrass, a rotting gazebo-like structure, and beyond that was the one creeping obelisk of vegetative life in the square: a weeping Willow with something hanging from its various branches. Javert squinted and realized in horror at what they were…nooses. It was a lynch tree.

“That there is our own town monument,” Cobb said smoothly with precise enunciation. “Call it the Weepers Gallows. Been around since the good old days. We change out the ropes every April 7th. That’s the anniversary of Blackroot bein officially settled after the local Indians were, let’s say, escorted to the Rez a few miles past the swamp westward. Every town’s got history. Makes ya proud, don’t it?”

The Weepers Gallows drew closer as the cruiser followed the winding road past it and down a hill. Beyond them sat the precinct, drawing closer as the cruiser pulled to a stop in a patted-down dirt lot illuminated by a pale, flickering light on a crooked post. Cobb turned the key back in the ignition and the car fell silent and still. He sat there quietly for several agonizing moments, staring into a deep, vast nothing beyond the windshield of the cruiser. Cobb’s face took on a serious, ponderous quality, and Javert could have sworn he saw moisture well up in Cobb’s eyes in the rear view mirror.

“We good, sir?” Javert asked against his better judgment.

Cobb didn’t answer for a moment. He just grimaced and looked down his lap, where his gun sat lifeless in his hand, drawn out of its holster.

“I served, you know. Iraq. Afghanistan. Desert Countries where they all hate us. Throw rocks at you. Price of freedom in this world, I guess. Then I come home and the pretty ladies in the media spew all sorts of vile things about us. Take their poison words to the internet. Hashtag that shit. Monsters, that was your word, wasn’t it. We’re monsters. Like the Bogling. Am I the Bogling? Because I don’t want to get on my knees and beg for forgiveness for my great great granddaddy possibly owning a slave 200 years ago?” Javert sat quietly, his hands shaking in the cuffs behind him. He realized Cobb was caressing his gun as he spoke. “Or maybe because I shot some brown folk across the pond. Nevermind they was shooting at me too, after crashing planes into buildings and declaring ‘gee-hod’ on the white man. Nope. I’m the bad guy. Stroking my fluffy white cat while I plot dastardly plots against you, the gays, the Jews, women. All the white man’s fault. Who’s fault was it when I was 12, and my daddy found some dirty magazines in my closet and broke my arm clean in half. Not because the women were naked. No, because they was black. Who gets blamed for that? My dad? Me? Do I get a bogeyman to pin all that’s wrong in my life on? Blacks? Browns? The Bogling maybe.” A half hearted laugh escapes his mouth as he signs. Javert hears a click of metal.

“Some of those folks in the desert that I shot,” Cobb continued, trailing on and off on a journey through his own life. “One or two of them might have been kids. Hard to tell in the heat of it.”

He sniffed sharply, stifling tears. “Maybe I am the monster, kid. S’why I live here next to a swamp. You know, they say the Bogling was a slave. Ran away from old Jed Pennhurst’s Plantation, got lost. Sank into that tar pit. Something else rose back out. Came back and killed Jed and his boys. Left the women alone. That’s how the stories get told. Yeah. Maybe that was me, in another life. Another skin. Another man’s bones rattling inside, begging for justice. Wonder who I’ll be next…”

Cobb raises the gun under his chin, and digs the barrel into the loose, stubble-strewn flesh. All the blood has drained from Cobb’s face as tears streamed down his face. He let out a pained sob.

“Hey, let’s not do anything crazy now. Come on, it’s alright,” Javert tried to soothe Cobb as best as he could, his fingers hooked into the links of the cage wall separating the front and back seats of the cruiser. “Please, don’t do this.”

“You came here to see a monster, didn’t you? Take a look, boy.” Cobb’s line of sight in the rear view mirror crossed with Javert’s. “Step right up and buy a ticket. See America’s Monster…The Bogling of Blackroot.” Cobb pulled the trigger and the sharp, ghastly sound of the gunfire cut through the night. The blood splattered everywhere, including Javert’s face, who had thrown himself back against his seat in horror. His whole body shook to the bones and his breath was heavy and ragged.

The car sat in the flickering light of the precinct lot, a tomb on four wheels with a tank ¾ empty and year old oil in its engine. Smoke and blood filled it’s cabin and choked in Javert’s throat, who sat there alone with Cobb’s body until the morning when Deputy Alice Carrigan pulled up in her Jeep. Javert was suspected and questioned, of course. But ultimately he was deemed an unfortunate witness to the suicide of a broken man. He was driven back to his trailer outside town, which had its battery drained because the lights were left on all night. Javert thanked Alice for the ride and was forced to call a tow service in town. Eventually his time in Blackroot ended and he found his way home. However, some nights as he struggled to sleep, Javert August Dredd would find himself back in the rear compartment of that police cruiser, covered in blood and lost in the abyssal shadow of the Weeper’s Gallows.

“Step right up and buy a ticket,” he’d mutter half asleep. “See America’s Monster… the Bogling of Blackroot.”