In the heart of the bayou, where the air hung heavy with mist and the cypress trees whispered ancient secrets, there roamed a figure cloaked in crimson. They called him Père Rouge, the Red-Caped Priest. His name was a hushed warning among the swampy towns, spoken only in whispers after sundown. For Père Rouge was no ordinary voodoo priest; he was the hunter of villains, the reaper of wicked souls.

On a night when the moon cast a pale glow over the gnarled roots of the bayou, a stranger came to the town of Gator’s Hollow. This man, slick-haired and silver-tongued, called himself Émile Duval. He wore fine clothes but carried an aura of rot, his smile concealing a darkness that seeped into the town like a poison. The townsfolk knew his kind well—a swindler, a thief, and worse.

By the time dawn broke, Émile had charmed the widow Dufresne out of her land and bullied old Claude into surrendering his life savings. But what sealed his fate was his callous act against Marie, the town’s healer. Under the guise of friendship, he stole her prized grimoire, an heirloom passed down through generations. He fled into the swamp, leaving Marie weeping by the light of her lantern.

The townsfolk knew there was but one course of action. They lit a single red candle in the window of the church. Its flame flickered in the damp night, a silent plea to Père Rouge. They did not have to wait long.

The air grew still, and the fog thickened. From the shadows of the cypress trees emerged a tall figure draped in a flowing red cape. His face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but his eyes glowed like embers in the dark. In his hand, he carried a staff adorned with charms—bones, feathers, and stones that hummed with power.

“Where is he?” Père Rouge’s voice was deep, resonant, and cold as the bayou waters.

Marie stepped forward, clutching the hem of her shawl. “He’s taken to the swamp, priest. The grimoire is lost.”

Père Rouge nodded once, his cape billowing as if stirred by an unseen wind. Without another word, he vanished into the mire.

Émile Duval had made camp beneath an ancient willow, its gnarled branches dripping with moss. He had just begun to thumb through the stolen grimoire when the temperature dropped. A chill crept up his spine, and the swamp’s usual chorus of croaks and chirps fell silent.

“Émile Duval,” came a voice from the shadows, “your soul reeks of sin.”

Émile leapt to his feet, spinning wildly. Père Rouge stepped into the faint light of the dying fire, his staff striking the ground with an ominous thud.

“Stay back!” Émile shouted, brandishing a knife. But Père Rouge only raised his hand, and the knife twisted from Émile’s grasp as if the air itself had turned against him.

“Your crimes have caught the attention of the loa,” Père Rouge intoned. “And your soul is mine to claim.”

Émile screamed, a sound that echoed through the swamp as Père Rouge began his ritual. The charms on his staff rattled, and the air grew heavy with the scent of burnt herbs. Émile’s form stiffened, his eyes wide and vacant as a wisp of light rose from his chest—his soul, pale and trembling. Père Rouge captured it in a jar etched with sigils, sealing it with a muttered incantation.

By morning, Père Rouge was gone, and the jar sat on the church’s steps. The grimoire was returned to Marie, and the town of Gator’s Hollow was free of its villain. The red candle burned low, a reminder that justice in the bayou wears a crimson cape.

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