Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep70: Episode 70: Wild West Horror Stories by the Campfire

Episode Date: February 24, 2022

We open proceedings with ‘Sharprock’, an epic work by Nicholas Nichols, kindly shared directly with me via email and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission. To round off we have ‘The Number of Darkness’, a wonderfully original story by Humboldt Lycanthrope, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and narrated here for you all under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Number_of_Darkness https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:HumboldtLycanthrope

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Now the life of a cowboy. So much more than just about horses, saddles, the cowboy hat, the money or the women. Sometimes there's trouble and sometimes it's all fun and games. But sometimes it's much, much worse. As we all see in tonight's two feature-length stories.

As ever before we begin, a word of caution. Night stories may contain strong, language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. The nests begin we're? Sharp rock. Like many young men, I found myself unsatisfied with the monotony of a normal existence. My heart thirsted for adventure as I floundered about the crowded and dirty streets of New York,

nearly suffocating from the unrealistic expectations bestowed upon me by my peers. A recent graduate of Harvard, it was expected of me to find a place among society's elite. Over the past 250 years, my forebears had built the American academic prowess from the ground up, as the 19th century slowly gave way to the 20th. Expectations to facilitate the continued growth of society flooded my waking hours. Before long I found myself crushed beneath the mounting pressure, and at my wits' end with educated society. The pompous attitudes and aristocratic demeanors drove me to the edge of my sanity.

Resorting to ill-advised decisions at the tables and brothels, I longed for a reprieve from the poisonous lifestyle within which I found myself captive. Eventually, I allowed my emotions to steer my decisions, and that's why, in the matter of a few weeks, I found myself in the small mining town of Sharp Rock, thousands of miles from everything I'd ever. known. The journey across the nation drained my pockets down to the pole, but I'd never felt so full of energy in my entire life. Situated within the rocky mountains, sharp rock provided me with the freedom that I often feared I would never experience. The towering mountains juxtaposed with the beautiful prairies and sapphire blue lakes, capturing my heart upon first sight. My eyes ate up the gorgeous landscapes with a gluttonous fervor. However, my mouth was unable to follow suit, as I found myself going hungry within a few short weeks. The euphoric freedom was

short-lived, as one can only truly appreciate the grand things in life when there's food in one stomach. Lacking the requisite skills to survive among the vast wilderness, and the hardened folk that it housed, I began to starve. Panic started to say. said in as I began to understand the dire circumstances of my situation. It felt as if my stomach began to eat itself, and after a few days without a morsel of food, I reverted to treachery. I began stealing from those that I knew could not do without, but at that moment in time, my awareness for their well-being was buried so deep in my psyche, may as well not even have existed. Desperation had grabbed the reins of my life, and I began to take the rain of my life, and I began to

watch from the passenger seat as my existence began to veer heavily off course. In no grand length of time, I could hardly recognize myself. Covered in grime and emaciated, I felt myself longing for the stuffy atmosphere of New York City's intellectual circles. And trust me, that says more than I could ever hope to convey, as my disdain for the conceited academics course through every fiber of my body. completely fed up with the enigma that had become my pitiful existence. I slung a rope over my bony shoulder, slowly made my way to the forest with a defeated gaited. I do not believe it was a mystery to anyone in the town

as to what I planned to do next. They had all seen it before, city folk like myself, biting off more than we can chew in the wild, lawless west. With my intentions as clear as day, the rope may as well have already been tied into a noose. I half wish someone would stop me from continuing with my plan, but everyone chose to watch my passing through the town and into the forest,

instead of intervening. Everyone that is, except for George. Aye, fellow, where are you after? Asked a burly man. An obvious question yet, the look on the man's face show that he already knew the answer. Stambering, I let out an incoherent concordial. of noises, but my heart immediately leapt at the sound of his voice, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. The idea of someone acknowledging my sorrows nearly brought me to tears.

Overwhelmingly ashamed of my previous intentions, I began to sob. As I precipitated tears at a pace I would have previously deemed impossible, the man rose from his perch atop a rock and slowly sauntered his way over to me. If I'd seen this man in any other circumstance of my life, I would have been horrified of him, the way his brutish figure closed the gap between us. At this moment, however, I couldn't have been gladder to encounter his enormous self as he embraced me in a hug. I let the rope slip out of my hands as I reciprocated the hug, tears slowly saturating the man's vest. I'm George.

everything's going to be all right. What's your name? He asked. His voice deeper than the greatest depth of the ocean. Joseph, I managed to squeak out in between my sobs. Well, Joseph, I'm certainly glad I found you. There's no coming back from where you were headed. After an indistinguishable amount of time,

clutched tightly to the only person in a thousand miles who cared, I found myself meandering my way through the forest. following George to his camp on the outskirts of Sharp Rock. After a short stroll through the woods, we arrived at the camp, populated with hardened gunslingers and mischievous thieves. I felt like a fraud among the people of the camp. George introduced me to the band of misfits, and it was evident in their tone that I was not welcome. However, their obvious reverence towards George acted as a buffer between their unpredictable selves and myself. I greatly appreciated George not divulging my pitiful story to his crew, even though it was obvious

that I was a charity case. The men, as removed from proper society as they were, were not stupid, and they knew a lost soul when they saw one. In fact, I would argue that their time spent struggling against the elements only proved to sharpen their intellect. George led me over to a tent, the likes of which looked as if it were pitched at the dawn of time. I was surprised the structure remained standing as George ripped the flap out of the way, revealing a man fast asleep. Mort, George bellowed, his voice burrowing itself deep into the

earth. The man rose abruptly from his slumber, visibly startled as he drew his knife, breathing hard. You knew cell, cellmate, George said, beckoning to me. Mort fell back onto the bed, breathing a sigh of relief, as there was no immediate threat looming at the entrance of the tent. Sitting up again after a brief moment, Mort looked me up and down as if you were going to take a bet on how long it would be before I croaked. The scowl etched along the man's face had enough. I suppose I can share, at least for a week until he dies. If he dies, you join him, said George. Oh, you and your lost puppies, George.

Mort retorted with a slow shake of his head. George only glared at the man before ducking his head out of the tent and walking back over towards the center of camp. Every time I think I miss society, I run into sorry fellows like yourself, and I'm reminded why I left in the first place. It's a pleasure to meet you, too, I grumbled. You weren't born into this. No. born and raised in Boston. Got out of there the first chance I could, though.

Ah, so you were once an esteemed member of society? I asked, half-heartedly, as I began to prepare the cot with the blankets Georgia given me. Hardly. More like I, uh, co-existed with society. I never felt a part of it. Not did I want to. Society was something that happened around me. Never to me.

Too many people like yourself running around. I grunted. having finally finished making the cot. I didn't feel obliged to respond any longer to Mort, his personality wearing me thin after just a few short moments. I exited the tent without another word, making my way over to the fire where George had elected to sit. The sun slowly dripped its way behind the horizon,

bathing the previously blue sky in a bloody golden hue. I did not say anything as I sat down at the fire, but my disgruntled demeanour must have uttered. more than words ever could. Don't let Mort bother you, said George. He's no different to any of the newcomers. Always given him a hard time. Seemed to forget the hell that I pulled him from.

A real welcome party you folks offer, I mumbled. But it's a better one than you would have received if you strung yourself up from that tree. I, any welcome parties better than none, I suppose. None. Well, I suppose it's up to what you believe in. Can't say I'm too surprised. You academics sure all think alike. What? You believe in an afterlife? You're surprised? No, just curious. Well, I'm not too sure what I believe in, but whatever it is, doesn't end in death.

When you're seeing the things I've seen, there's no denying that. out here under the pale glow of the moon, all of your rules dissolve. There's no tell him what horrors or secrets the moon will reveal, only that he'd be foolish to think so narrowly. I shivered, the creeping cold exacerbated by George's sentiment. If this place were, as you thought, it'd be tame in comparison to his dark reality. George said,

We sat in silence for a few moments. lost to our own thoughts. The sun had finally set, and I watched the shadows from the fire dance across George's face in a chaotic yet mesmerizing manner. Something about the man's face kept me locked in a blank stare. It may have been awkward had I not been completely lost in my thoughts. Something about the man's appearance seemed strange to me, alien even, but I just could not... Suddenly an audible gasp shattered my hazy,

concentration, my breath catching in the back of my throat. George sat there, seemingly unbothered by my reaction. He simply seemed used to the shot. Dangling from beneath his cap were two earlobes. This would have been perfectly normal, had there not already been two ears below the earlobes. George had four ears. It took you long enough. Smired as you college. Lord are, you know, always the most observant bunch. George chuckled slightly. I truly didn't notice your oddity, Slower. I'm sorry, I said, looking downwards. Sorry for what? asked George. Well, I imagine growing up must not have been easy. School must have

been dreadful. Growing up was not easy. With school, I never had the luxury of attending school. I don't know if I go as far as to call it a luxury, I said. Ah, you would if you found yourself facing the alternatives. You ever been to the circus? Once or twice. Then you all know what someone with my... How did you put it? Audities.

Well, someone with my oddities is in high demand. All he needs a hat and no one who would know any difference. My mother knew different. and that's all that mattered. Plus it's a little bit more difficult to hide this. He looked up, revealing one massive nostril, followed by him opening his hands, revealing six fingers on each hand.

How would I not noticed any of this before? George looked as if he were the result of an inside joke among higher deities. He began to divulge the childhood hell that he'd experienced with the travelling circus. However, I do not feel I have the liberty to repeat this story. Not yet, anyway. George's past made even the most ludicrous of upbringings look docile in comparison. Over the course of the next few hours,

I felt that I began to know George better than anyone I'd ever met. He'd seen me in my most vulnerable state, and felt that it was only right to even the scales. Over the course of the next few months, I slowly ingratiated myself, into the collective that was George's gang, a gang that George never provided with the name, even at the behest of the crew.

Any rival gangs aware of George's less than ideal history referred to our motley crew as the Travel and Circus, and the name had stuck well before I ever plot my sorry ass with a lot of them. Whether the name bothered George, he would never say, but I can imagine it didn't sit well with him at first, especially after becoming privy to pieces of his story. Nevertheless, George was different from most men. While many people fall victim to their wretched histories,

George had used his to fuel the fire burning deep within him. Regardless of his original feelings of the attempted slander, George now wore the distinction with a badge of honour, as did the crew. Never in my life had I met an individual who commanded so much respect, not just from his own crew, but many others spread throughout the plains and the mountains. As a gifted intellectual myself, my less than fortunate parents pushed me into every scholarly circle they could find, leaving me with no choice but to obey, lest I receive the belt. Throughout my education, I found myself a part of countless intellectual societies,

each void of any real and meaningful connection. I'd grown up to accept the fact that I would never truly belong to any collective, least of all an outlaw gang. Life, however, seems to have a peculiar way of delivering you to the things you desire the most. As outlandish I thought as this may have seemed earlier in my life, I consider myself blessed to have fallen into the enormous hands of George in his travelling circus, even if it ultimately led to my untimely demise. George stepped up to the roaring fire, situated at the centre of the camp, wheeling cold in tow. The rest of the gang, myself included, had already found our way beside the fire.

The creeping freeze of winter slowly infringing upon the crisp fall air. Mort sat to my left, grumbling to himself incoherently as he fumbled with the elk meat roasting over the inferred. Courtesy of Morton Lucas, the hunt early on. in the day it proved fruitful, the savory smell of the roasting meat wafting around our hungry selves in a devious taunt, as we all knew how long it took to cook the sinewy beast properly. An irritable man for sure, Mort almost made up for his lack of common decency with his uncanny ability to transform the wilderness around him into mouth-watering meals. The fear I'd come to associate with hunger during my initial inhabitants of the West, slowly exercised itself

from my thoughts as I became more trusting of the steady food supply and more comfortable in sharing the table with the other folks. News from the Union, said George, beckoning towards Cole, who scampered up behind him. Cole was a jumpy little fellow, born of the Godrush and raised in just about every saloon and brothel west of the Rockies. His mother came to the west with all the right intentions, but found herself selling her assets shortly thereafter. Cole was a product of her occupation and thus had never met his father. A quiet man at heart, the lack of any stability in his life only proved to exacerbate his personality,

turning him into a full reclutes. At the mercy of an unenvious lifestyle, Cole unearthed the secret to passing through life unheard and unseen, thus ripening his candidacy for an outlaw crew such as the travelling circus. No matter how much brawn, muscle and determination the outlaw life boasted, the services of a quiet, non-threatening individual, capable of eavesdropping on nearly all conversations, was invaluable. There was a battle earlier today, not far from here. No more than ten miles south of Lucky, said Cole,

partially stepping out of George's shadow created by the blaze. Another massacre, I'm sure, replied Lucas. I still fixated on the roasting elk, a noticeable sadness in his tone. Half Sue himself, Lucas held a deep resolve for the tribesfolk, with whom he share blood. This was different, replied Cole. I suppose, um, battle is the incorrect term. It was an ambush. A collected of Cheyenne and Arapaho attacked a supply train headed further west towards California.

with a brief pause that may have been mistaken for dramatic purpose were it someone else speaking Cole continued as a blind train led by none other than General McKeever with this the crew perked up finally giving Cole the attention his passive disposition struggled to earn the McKeever asked Mort filled with arrows answered Cole

"'Dare?' asked Jeb, seemingly unable to read between the lines. "'Very,' replied Cole. "'Widly regarded as the devil himself by the indigenous tribes, "'General McKeever earned himself a dastardly and feared reputation "'as the scorn of the natives. "'A ruthless tactician and brutal man. "'Makeva drew the ire of any good-natured folk throughout the nation, "'outlaws, academics, and natives alike.

Unfortunately for the natives, MacGiva's ban lacked such individuals. Serves that bastard right, said Lucas. Hope it wasn't too quick. Well, we should get a move on before the fields picked clean, said Jeb, rising to his feet. Even in my hunger, my stomach gave a quick twist as thoughts of sifting through the bloody, mutilated dead flooded my mind. We are no longer scurbaned. charges, George said, his voice rumbling authoritatively. Jeb sat back down tentatively, allowing George to continue.

But we are not going to let this opportunity pass us by either. Gold over here got wind of a funeral train returning the dead offices to the East Coast. A train will be passing directly through Jordan's cut. Our territory, said Mort, thoughtful. All right, said George. "'Where is this headed?' interjected Lucas. "'Robbed their coffins?' "'Ransom,' I responded,

"'finly entering the conversation, "'believing I knew George's intention.' "'I—' "'Wehold the body is for ransom,' said George, "'a proud glint written across his face. "'The same look of father might give his son "'at the success of his son's first hunt.' "'Lucas shook his head.

"'Those bodies will be cursed.' if there's one thing I know about my ancestors, they would not let such men walk into the afterlife with ease. Don't interrupt the curse. Cursed. How? I asked. My thoughts reverting to my first extensive conversation with George. Well, if this General McKeever was as horrid as the stories make him out to be, I have my suspicions as to what they might do to him, replied Lucas. Why should we have any concern for a curse?

placed on another man? asked Mort. Is it not uncommon for these curses to inflict collateral damage? responded Lucas. What are your suspicions? I asked, ignoring Mort's inputs, my interest slowly encroaching upon my wariness. Eternal damnation, except not the way Christianity would have you believe. General McKeever will never go to hell. Instead, they'll bring hell to him, Lucas said.

Oh, my educated mind tried everything it could to ignore the implausibility of what Lucas was saying. However, my curiosity could not be satiated, my expression stating all that was required for Lucas to continue. Well, I'm sure you're all aware of scalping, however, I doubt you're privy to its origins. Origins that differ greatly from the common understanding. An understanding rooted in the basic idea that a warrior or hunter is entitled to the trophies of its prey. trophy collecting has transcended time and cultures alike, but more often than not, its inception hints at a darker beginning, said Lucas.

And the natives are no exception. Christianity does not have a monopoly on its belief in hell, although the specific structure of eternal damnation varies across cultural lines. Instead of sending the soul deep into the depths of the earth, many of my forebears believe you could create hell within the body itself, trapping the soul within its own corpse to suffer for eternity. For those special individuals who earn a place amongst the truly evil, the removal of the scalp unlocks the canvas for which to create hell within the body. Once the ritual is complete,

the reattachment of the scalp locks the soul within the newly crafted perdition. Over time, the practice of scalping changed as warriors collected the scalps of their enemies as a testament to their ferocity in battle, as the old ways provided in the world. It was no evidence. But even now, albeit a rare occurrence, some still revert to the ancient practice when deemed appropriate. After a long pause, gracefully allowing us to digest the entire story, Lucas added one last thing. I repeat myself, do not interrupt the curse. For our own good, let this opportunity signs. Don't pay this any heed, interrupted Mort. Cursed or no, those bodies will us a pretty penny. It's not the first time we've ever been threatened with an Indian

cursing. I very much doubt it'll be the last. Although I do not wish to ignore your concern, Lucas, I must stand with Mordons. The benefits much outweigh the risks, said George. I would worry more about stopping the rain. Out of everyone, I would have expected you to not brush this off so lightly, especially given your, um, less than ideal history? Lucas said to George, seemingly disappointed, even surprised. Now, if George had one flaw, it was his bullhead attitude towards danger. Granted, that stubborn, reckless, even, dare I say, foolish attitude was the reason he dug himself from that atrocity of a childhood. However, it's also thrown the gang into precarious situations

more than once, situations that, by the good graces of luck, we'd always escape from. George, however, refused to acknowledge the luck involved, instead deeming it his right to walk away unscathed. And after what that man had been through, when survived, who were we to blame him? How, we even began to believe him ourselves, but when you provoke danger for too long, it has no choice but to bite back. And bite back. it did. We slowly made our way up to the bridge, methodically traversing the menacing path through the mountains. At long last we approached the bridge, the view from the cliffside expanding into oblivion. Far beneath us, fog drifted across the lake, the heavy mist only visible by the moon's glow

peeking from behind the clouds. Silence enveloped the mountainous surroundings, our lanterns providing the only light save for the skeletal hue of the moon. We waited in anxious anticipation for the mechanical drone of the train in the distance, our breath crystallizing into swirling patterns before us. It never came. Even in the cold my hands began to sweat the longer I waited. As the weight lengthened, my adrenaline slowly began to abandon me, leaving me cold, dark fear in its wake. What had I gone? gotten myself into. Finally, a light appeared on the other end of the tracks, climbing its way through the winding mountain tracks towards the bridge. My heart exploded into a diabolic pace

as my grip strangled my pistol. I could sense all the others stiffening as well at the sight of the light. Interestingly, no noise of the approaching train reached my ears. Well, I'd chalk that up to the thundering of my heart, as I could hardly even hear myself breathe. Looking about the group, however, it was evident that I was not the only one experiencing this uneasy feeling, but then again robbing a train doesn't necessarily put your heart at ease. Once the train began to cross the bridge, George gave a slight nod to Mort. He began to mobilize the carriage. The goal was to time the blockade so that it stranded the train helplessly while crossing the bridge. I glanced at Mort as he began to push the carriage from behind the cover of the mountain towards the tracks.

Now, as a band of outlaws, we were no strangers to committing heinous acts, robbing trains being the least of them. But not once since joining it I ever seen the look that Mort returned to me. It was a look of pure vacillation. I had never known a man more resolute in his decision-making than Mort, so seeing the reluctance etched across his face frightened me to my call. After a noticeable hesitation, Mort drew the carriage across the tracks at the end of the bridge and then climbed onto the roof, waving two lanterns. Paying no heed to the wagon blocking the tracks,

the train continued barreling towards the blockade. In an attempt to further incentivise the halt of the train, Mort threw both lanterns at the wagon below him, igniting it instantly, bearing down upon the inferno the train still did not make any attempt to stop at the last moment mort jumped from the burning wagon just as the train collided with the improvised bonfire shattering the strange silence with an ear splitting carnage i hit the ground no different than i would have if i were one of those unfortunate souls on the field at gettysburg a fireball engulf the front of the train as wooden splinters shot out like cannon fire I lay there dazed and confused, the world seeming to move around me in slow motion. Next to me, Cole observed his chest with near fascination as a spear-like splinter of wagon jutted from his body. He looked at the wound as if it were not inflicted upon him but upon someone else. In a pitiful look of confusion, he glanced at me before tumbling over, shoving the debris further into him.

I grimaced, looking away. Suddenly I felt my collar yanked upward. Turning I saw George perched atop his horse like that of a war general. And he may as well have been since it was evident that he declared war upon that blasted train. My horse stood beside him

as he beckoned me to join him on his quest. Climbing atop the horse, George gave me no time for reprieve as he was already barreling along, the train. In a moment entirely devoid of any thought, I chased after him in reckless abandon. The frigid, mountainous squalls tore at my face and lungs as the steed accelerated in frantic pursuit of both George and the runaway locomotive. With the train acting as a barrier between the luminescence of the moon and our frenzied chase, the dim glow hidden within each of the

boxcars provided the only light for our pursuit. The inopportune darkly, darkly, and the only fed the utter insanity of the chase, as I clenched my teeth in violent anticipation of the boulder that never came, and in yet another tale of George's invincibility, we clambered onto a slightly agape boxcar nearer to the back of the train. The fury and chaos from the preceding chase dissipated almost instantly, as we pulled ourselves aboard the runaway behem of. Small oil lamps hung along the damp wooden walls, providing a muggy illumination, and we pulled ourselves, of the cargo stored within the box car. I began to wipe my eyes, only then starting to realize

how much they'd watered while riding headfirst into the Highland Gales. At any other point in my life, I would have welcomed the calmness that presided over the train. However, at this moment, something seemed amiss. Something was not right with this train. A quick glance at George next to me confirmed that the feelings were mutual. We'll be across the country before long at this pace. Get up front and stop the train, George said, obviously doing his best to ignore his creeping reservations.

Clearly having less of a grip on my own reservations, I grunted a pitiful acknowledgement, turning away and heading towards the locomotive. Methodically, I worked my way through the long queue of cars that led up to the head of the train. Each car resembled the last. silent storage cars lined with oil lamps and filled to the brim with various cargo, and each car reverberated a clammy warmth in distinct contrast to the biting cold of the mountains outside. I gradually became aware of a trickling sweat, the source of which originated just above my brow. Each salty bead trickled slowly, and ever so maddeningly down my face until their grip failed,

tumbling off the crest of my chin, clearing the way. for their counterparts. As unnerving as the calmness was, I could not help but appreciate the lack of a firefight that usually accompanied such an act. It was not every day you robbed an unguarded train. I considered myself lucky. And that was when I noticed it.

The smell. At first it was just the unpleasant smell of burnt hair that wafted towards me, but before long a much harsher, stronger, more potent. and smell reared its ugly head, burnt flesh. The hair on the back of my neck stood on edge, emitting a chill down my spine. I felt my eyes slowly bulge out of my sockets

and all my senses heightened as the adrenaline floodgates open wide once again. To my surprise, the smell of smoke never joined the army of olfactory horror that had taken control of the train. Where had I smelled this before? Venturing deep into the archives of my brain, I dug around aimlessly until finally happening upon a rather unpleasant memory. Lacking the structure of a more robust memory, all I could see or smell was a small crematorium tucked away in the alley behind my parents' old apartment building.

That, along with my curiosity, as to why all those people on their little beds entered but would never leave. I remember my fascination as to how the building could hold. hold so many people if no one ever left. The mind of a young boy remains innocent, even when the answers are staring you directly in the face. Fake memory or no, the smell was unmistakably that of a crematorium. But why was there a crematorium on a... And then it hit me,

and I genuinely wish it hadn't, because what followed has not left me since, nor will it ever. With a newfound sense of purpose, I continued my way through the last collection of cars leading towards the front of the train. In a few short minutes, the smell went from noticeable to nauseating. Hiding my nose beneath my shirt, I approached the furnace car, sure of what I was going to find. But no matter how hard you try, nothing can prepare you for the sight of a half-charred corpse. especially if your corpse is actually three corpses. I staggered back, shirt still covering my nose,

the intense heat reaching out at me, as if it were inviting me to join. The crackle of hot coals within became the only audible noise as I stood there trying to comprehend the situation. Unfortunately, the situation sat far outside the realm of comprehension. Each corpse lay next to the other, and a different from soldiers in barracks. one next to the other, lying on their backs, arms to their sides. But the skin not been melting off their bones, it would have been easy to mistake the unfortunate trio as asleep rather than death.

Better yet, the furnace showed no signs of struggle. It seemed as if the poor souls, with the absence of any proper bedding, had opted to take a nap in the cosy confines of the furnace. A nap they would certainly not awaken from, or, so I hoped. My every thought grasped desperately at any semblance of reality, only for my grip to falter with each attempt. Maybe they died before being shoved into the furnace,

I finally thought to myself, unsure of whether it was allowed or within my head. That seemed the only viable explanation. Standing ajar behind me, the door to the conductor's cabin begged for further investigation. I stepped into the cabin, and staring me in the face was the slender bronze lever

that, if pulled, would bring the train to a screeching halt. It was then I finally remembered what had brought me to the front of the train in the first place. Without hesitation, I pulled the lever. Lurching forward at the sudden halt of momentum,

I caught myself before bashing against the front of the cabin. Outside the window of the cockpit, I could see the spruce, sparks bursting up from the steel tracks, teeming with the shriek of the skidding stop. I could only hope George had braced himself for the sudden stop. Having stopped the train, I allowed myself once again to focus on the incredulity at hand. I surveyed the cabin with the hopes of finding even the smallest hint of struggle among the more obvious signs of foul play. To my increasing disbelieve, everything seemed in order, and there were none of the

tell-tale signs such as bullet casings, blood, or broken objects. Not allowing myself to believe the unbelievable. I became frantic in my search for evidence, only to find myself exasperated by the end of my effort. Feeling my sanity slipping with every passing second, I finally peeled myself from the foolhardy investigation and began to work my way back towards George, now that I'd finally stopped the train. I walked back through the train in a trance. like state, shaking uncontrollably, my feeble attempts to quell the tremors proving unsuccessful. At long last the screech of the untimely halt of the train dwindled away, placated. Once again, silence slithered its way onto the train, save for the muffled howling of the wind.

Further losing my grip on sanity with each step I took and each identical boxcar I entered and exited, I tried instead to focus once again on the near convulsions that vie for control over my body. It may seem silly, but breathing patterns I once used to calm myself during my time at Harvard began to calm my nerves. A few boxcars later, I felt that I once again had control over my body. I continued to shiver and my fear still sickened me, but I felt that my leaking sanity had finally congealed. No matter how hard I tried, however, I could not rid my mind. my mind of the charred corpses, staring complacently at the molten ceiling of the furnace. I continued through a handful more boxcars until I came to the daunting realization that I couldn't

tell which of the cars George and I had originally boarded it. With each vacant car I walked through, that distant sense of panic crept its way back to the surface. I must have passed our original card ten cars ago, I thought to myself. Where was George? I began to accelerate my pace with each empty car I passed through. I could feel panic unveiling its unwelcome presence once again, a lump forming in my throat and my mouth going dry. It seemed as if my palms stole all the moisture from my mouth, my hands again becoming clammy and my heart beating with rapid succession.

A feeling of dread hoarshed over me, the same dread that accompanies a small child lost in the woods. With each new boxcar absent of George, I felt myself growing increasingly frantic. Discipline faltering, my mind wanders to the forlorn corners of my conscience. I allowed my previously resolute demeanour to devolve into harrowing thoughts of George, convincing myself of his dreadful demise. Finally, as I pushed through the next door in my seemingly eternal queue of train cars, I saw the enormous figure of George squeezed through the door at the opposite.

entered the car. I called his name a moment too late as the door shut behind him. I began after him, my previous thoughts and fears about George falling by the wayside. I felt a little foolish that I doubted the man's ability to fend for himself. As I walked through the car, I could not help but notice that the cargo differed from other cars I'd passed through. I did not offer it much attention with my focus glued to the door at the opposite end until it finally hit me. the boxes were coffins this did not surprise me as i was more than aware of the cargo house within some of the boxcars but it unsettled me nonetheless i knew that just beneath each lid made the mangled remains of some god-forsaken young man just the thought released a shiver down my spine as i continued walking through the car a small

irregularity with one of the coffins caught my eye, dragging my attention away from the original objective once again. I'm still unsure of how my attention fell upon such a minute detail, but on the side of one of the coffins to my right was a small hole, just large enough to fit a finger. Lying beside the coffin were a few tiny splinters that must have come from the creation of the hole. I would never have noticed these splinters, had I not first noticed the hole, as the splinters were hardly more than lonely scraps of sawdust. As hard as I tried to depress the morbid curiosity rising deep within me, I could not resist.

The lid of the wooden coffin slid off with ease, tumbling to the floor with a muffled thud. Staring directly up at me was a relaxed yet blank stare of a young man. Ripped from my lungs, my breath surrendered itself to the surprise, of seeing the young man stare. Obviously, I knew exactly what lay inside the coffin, but why would they leave his bloodshot eyes open to gaze endlessly upon the underside of the lid?

I noticed another oddity. Blood caked the right side of the man's face and the inner wall of the coffin, the epicenter of which was the hole that originally caught my attention. Confusion and fear assaulted my thoughts in alternating ways. my first thought, admittedly Dravel, was that the young man was buried alive and could not escape, thus killing himself.

However, remembering the ease with which I'd remove the lid, I disprove of that theory. Examining the unfortunate soul, I tried my best to distinguish his units, however his uniform differed from what I'd counter-expect of the military. It seemed more humble, like burying the poor boy was a last second decision. A decision made with the understanding that the soldier lacked the proper burial attire or posthumous attention. This man was not a soldier. He was one of the men assigned to guard the train and its cargo.

I finally thought, dread ambushing my conscience in a fury. Suddenly an observation I'd subconsciously repressed, emerged from the depths of my mind. The coffin seemed much deeper from the outside than it did while gazing upon the body it housed. The man, it seemed, floated on top of some entity within the coffin. An entity, I realised a moment later, in the form of another body. Moving entirely by instinct, I shoved the stiff corpse to the side of the coffin, revealing an older, much more decadent corpse beneath. This man was most certainly a soldier, per his traditional funeral gar.

His closed eyes resembled a peaceful slumber, while any mortal wounds the man had suffered remained hidden. I let go of the fresh corpse, allowing it to slump back on top of the soldier. To my ever-increasing terror, I noticed that the coffin surrounding me also bore similar holes to the coffin I'd examined. This is where the guards went, I thought.

My thoughts rushed back to the furnace where it seemed the drivers of the train had willingly offered themselves up to the inferno house within, No matter how fervently I try to downplay the unbelievable events from the past 20 minutes, I could no longer feigned disbelief at the obvious suicides. Suicides that seem to have occurred without second thought. My academic mind finally reverted to hysteria as the preceding events and discoveries became too much to handle. I ran from coffin to coffin, ripping off the lids only to find that each coffin house not only a properly groomed

corpse, but a fresh, bloody corpse stacked on top as well. The last semblance of sanity fell from my grasp, never to return. After an indistinguishable amount of time, I slowly stumbled out of the cabin, exhausted and disturbingly carefree, all ties to sanity mercifully severed. Leaving bloodied handprints on each door I'd pushed through, I resumed my odyssey through the train and admittedly shell-shock gate. my usually short-footedness. I began to sweat once again, the salty beads dribbling down my chin and, well, these droplets were different, more viscous. I was not sweating, but drooling.

Upon my realization, I simply let the saliva tumble from the barriers of my lips, the stringy viscosity undulating like that of a pendulum with each step. Peculiarly, my insanity did nothing to quell my awareness. Only instead acting to dissolve, my ability to read as would be deemed normal. Suddenly I reached the final car directly before the caboose. Had I still contained the capacity for emotion, I may have emitted some surprise. I'd finally come to the passive acceptance that the forsaken locomotive stretched on for an eternity. However, the horror-scrash-window peering out into the abyssal darkness spoke to another tree.

A figure stood out on the caboose, gazing off into the distance, appearing to look at nothing in particular. A figure that could be none other than George. Had I forgotten about George? In my panic and eventual retreat from sanity, I begrudgingly realized that not only had I forgotten about the mission at hand, but also I hardly even remembered I was not alone. The groan of the wind masked the screech of the hinges. I pushed through the door leading out onto the caboose deck. Offering a slight acknowledgement of my presence,

George nodded, his gaze still fixed upon the blackness beyond, shrouded behind the seemingly random migrations of clouds, the moon found itself held captive by the ever-thickening mists. George's figure remained backlit by the small lamp hung just outside the door, further rendering any reliable view beyond the caboose impossible. I stood there for a long moment, in the quiet presence of my burly friend. Neither of us said anything, but despite the silence and the void that had replaced my sanity, I found it comfortable to find myself among the living once again.

Did you see him? George asked. See who? I responded, finally wiping the drool from my chin. the general replied George I don't believe so I muttered in response my mind scrambling back through the seemingly impossible memories did you George took his time before answering but the look in his eye as he turned to face me told me all I needed to know

ah he managed to say now that he was facing me I noticed that he carried what looked like a furry animal in the dim lighting. It was a few moments later that I actually realized what he held in his hand. It was a bloody tuft of hair. A scalp. And I found this at the bottom of his coffin. He said, tossing the scalp towards me.

I stood there, staring at the nileged and bloody scalp. Speechless. I slowly raised my gaze to meet Georges once again. A moment of clarity materialised. between the two of us. George gave a brief nod as if to acknowledge my thoughts. The reverberating rumble of the train crossing a bridge became audible as the train began to span a valley

buried beneath the depths of the darkness below, yielding any guesses as to the bridge's height futile at best. To my eternal surprise, George said nothing else to further the conversation. He simply turned, looking at me with a blank expression, A complacent look plastered on his face. He looked at me and I at him. I held his gaze trying to decipher his bizarre demeanour, but his expression was airtight.

George, I asked feebly, worried for what might follow. For the briefest of moments, a hint of reservation crossed his docile expression, only to return almost instantaneously to its previous disposition. George no longer looked to be in control of himself, in spite of his legendary resolve. Without further hesitation, George cast himself from the caboose, the complacency never leaving his face, as his would-be corpse fell rigidly, almost peacefully, into the night. I was more than aware that I should have felt stunned at the unprovoked suicide of my saviour,

but I couldn't muster the surprise or any emotion for that matter instead I just stood there staring out at the expanse as George had done moments before slowly one emotion crept its way from the cavern of my existence

curiosity the number of darkness the journal of Charles Cuperton February 9th 1860 I'll begin this journal as a testament to the trials and tribulations my family has endured. May God have mercy on our souls. I feel that we are truly cursed. I think it's only been six years since we left our ancestral home in Prince Edward Island to come to this so-called promised land of California.

It feels like an eternity. I've become a widower. My left leg has been amputated and replaced with an uncomfortable length of wood so that I must limp and and lean upon a crutch. I've watched us, our family fortune, has dribbled away to nearly nothing, and now I've had to send for a priest, for the condition with the girls has grown worse, much worse.

My twin daughters, Bethany and Josephine, they've committed acts of desecration and fornication the likes of which I can hardly stand to think, much less commit to paper. It does in fact seem that my dear twins, only 14 years old, have succumbed to some sort of demonic infestation

and are in fact possessed by devils. Even now as I sit hunched over paper with my quill, turning this pale parchment black with my words, I can hear them screaming from their back bedroom where we have had to bind them to their beds, their howls and cries, animal-like screeching, filling the void of the house. The situation where the natives has grown steadily worse,

though we have taken pity on their outcasts and brought in their sick and elderly, a widow and her children, and treat them with nothing but dignity and respect, as was the custom back in Prince Edward Island. They view us as evil and hate our pastures and fields, our barns and our fences, and most of all, our mill. The attacks have grown so grievous that we've constructed a fence of sharpened logs, eight feet in height, around the perimeter of the mill, and whenever possible keep our own. armed guards at its gates. Now, to make all these matters at hand the worse, a cold front has blown in from the north,

and snow begins to fall thick and heavy, covering the fields and forest in a blanket of ice. When we left Prince Edward Island for the promised land of California, our greatest fear was the journey by boat around the hall. For 230 days we experienced nothing but auspicious sailing, when at last we made dock in San Francisco, It appeared that the Lord smiled down on us with blessings, for the trip was mild and without any of the disasters that have plagued so many others who have made this same journey. All forty of us were hearty and in good health, and my wife Margaret had grown large with child.

Being the eldest, it was my responsibility to go forth and find us land a farm and a heavy mountain stream where we could build our mill. I brought with me my brother Adolphus, born only one year after me. It was we to whom our father had imparted his wisdom and instructions in the business of men and the teachings of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. The younger three, George, David and John were too young to even remember our dear patriarch, much less be taught in his firm beliefs in the ideals of tolerance, participatory democracy and diligent self-improvements. Because gold had been found in the hills some four years earlier, a great migration had

already spread its way before us in all directions from San Francisco, and we were forced to travel far up the coast to find land for lease and sail. We entertained the idea of Oregon, but in the southern region of the county of Humboldt. On the outskirts of a small town by the name of Hidesville, we discovered what appeared to be a paradise. The soil was rich, black and fertile, the game abundant with elk and deer, geese and ducks, the streams filled with the finest salmon. There was open prairie ripe for tilling and steep hills with running water perfect for the hydraulics necessary for a mill. After consulting with the local farmers and ranches, it was determined this would be a most excellent location to establish our mill and dairy. We secure promises for their wheat and corn to be ground in our mill, and we gave them oaths that we would proceed to build stout roads over the neighbouring Trinity Alps and into Sacramento where we could run cattle.

We then made quick passage back to our family and friends in San Francisco. I being very eager to return, wishing to make it in time for the birth of my next child, hoping my wife had not already given birth. Leaving that pastoral setting, our aspirations buoyed and dreams appearing a reality, little could we guess the horror that awaited our arrival. A cholera epidemic could swept through San Francisco. 18 from our party of 40 had succumbed to the dreaded disease and perished. My wife was dead.

My sweet, lovely Margaret, forever gone to me. That's where the wives of all my brothers. Nearly all our womenfolk dead. That fairer sex, it appears, did not have the strength and wherewithal to fight the disease like the men. And what of my child? I asked my younger brother David. who was left in charge in the absence of Adolphus and myself. The doctor cut it from her after she perished.

A boy. He lived for a few moments, but died before the day was out. I'm so sorry, brother. A male. An heir. All I could think of was that life struggling within the corpse of my beloved wife, a spark of hope that was extinguished in a day. I was bereft and crestful.

I struggled hard with these facts, but such is life and who are we to question the ways of the Lord. I knew I must proceed with forbearance. I had Bethany and Josephine to think of my sweet honey-haired twin girls. Now I would be their only parent. For them I must put aside my lacrimose nature. Also, as the eldest, I must make a strong and stoic face as an example to show respect for all the others in our party. who had lost loved ones as well. I shared my doleful composure

and made haste to gather our compatriots together for travel. Quickly we made our way north, eager to put the city that had claimed so many of our party behind us. I was now a widower, with two twin girls to account for, leaving behind me a wife and newborn son in the cold, fog-shrouted earth of San Francisco. We are an industrious and hard-working clan, and within several years,

We'd built barns and established a ranch with 60 dairy cows, 200 head of cattle, and 300 hogs. We harvested 1,100 bushels of wheat, our first year alone. Our dairy was the first in the region, and we sold butter to the Trinity mines for $1 a pound, and packed pork to a eureka for 50 cents a pound. And on the outskirts of the settlements, on the edge of a dense redwood forest, we built our mill. The freight for the machinery as well as the cost of labour was, immense and took a large portion of our funds leaving us in the end with little of the family fortune in which my father had worked so hard and struggled for but our

enterprises appeared to be thriving and we had great hope that we would soon have our initial investment back and be seeing a tidy profit in fact our courage and enterprise brought other settlers to the area for whom we milled redwood for their barns and houses as well as grinding their harvests into flour and meal we saw a little of the natives those first years, and what interactions we did have were of a peaceable nature. We even befriended a few of the elderly and infirm, as well as a widow with several children, and let them abide with us, giving them shelter and food for what labour they could provide. Little did we know that a flood of European settlers was crowding the various tribes from the coast out into the timber country,

where they were hard-pressed to survive. Conflict, it seems, was inevitable. though we in our ignorance were blissfully unaware of it. The troubles began when Adolphus and I ventured out over the Trinity Alps to Sacramento, where we could secure a herd of cattle. The trip there was uneventful. However, on the return, we were attacked by a fierce band of Aborigines. We were forced to abandon the cattle at the hayfork of the Trinity River.

I was shot with an arrow in the thigh. It went deep into the muscle, and its tip in bed. bedded itself in my femur. When we at last found ourselves back at our settlements, the wound was discovered to have grown septic. My entire left leg was amputated, an awful

procedure. Held down by my brothers as the doctor diligently performed his duty and let the belt clamp between my teeth, the feel of that sore ripping into my flesh before it hit bone, the sound and vibration of it as it worked its way through

my femur, never before. for, and I wish for death with such whole-hearted fervour. Afterwards, as I lay there in torment and suffering, leeches affixed to the wound to draw out the bad blood. Adolphus left with a team of men to reclaim the cattle. None of them returned. I would never see my cherished brother Adolphus again, nor would scouting parties ever find a corpse

which we could bury and mourn over properly and give a Christian burial to. Indians were blamed and I doubted it not but I knew that not all tribes were violent outlaws many were quite peaceful I wish for justice for the killers of my brother but I would not blame nor slander all of the native peoples as a whole for this crime

and then the attacks on the mill began because of the pressure needed for the hydraulics to turn the water wheel we were forced to locate the mill in the cusp of the mountains a secluded spot far from the farms and settlements. This left the mill vulnerable. Evidently marauding tribes viewed its being at the headwaters of the Redwoods and the river a sacrilege to what they considered a holy site, and the fields of the north, now fenced and cultivated,

were once prairie where they hunted. Twice they tried to burn the mill down. We hired our men to guard, but this proved too costly. Our funds were down to a pittance, and losing that large herd of cattle had further weakened our savings. We then built the fortifications around the mill, the tall fence with sharp pointed tops, turning it into a fortress.

This is also when the troubles with Bethany and Josephine began. Because of my infirmary, I was deemed too crippled to be of much use in the dairy or farms, so I was left to oversee the labour of the mill and tend to the books. At some point there was a change with the girls. They began to sleepwalk. We would find them wandering the halls at night, holding hands, mumbling incoherently about the devil and the sulphurous flames of hell. One night, going to their room to tuck them into bed, as was my custom each evening.

They were behaving in an especially playful manner, leaping from bed to bed, laughing boisterously. I thought nothing of it. They were fourteen, nearing womanhood, their bodies growing plump and curved. cheeks rosy and, well, I knew silly games were all the norm for girls their age. Girls, time for sleep now. Stop this romp us and get into your beds. But we aren't your little girls anymore, they said in eerie unison. Come now, my sweets, whatever do you mean? Why would you say such a thing as that? Because you aren't our father any longer. Bethany giggled

We have a new daddy now Josephine stated before she too burst into a fit of laughter A face going flush But when I shouted him Here hear And loudly slapped my hands together They stopped their antics and crawled obediently into their beds Silly girls

I said smoothing the blankets over them You shouldn't say such things It pains your poor old father. They snickered. I assumed it was just the follies of adolescence and left them, taking the lantern with me so that the room fell into darkness. They changed so much these last six years, gone from children to young ladies. And in that moment, limping down the long hall, away from their room, my wooden leg dragging across the floor, I ate so hard for my lost Margaret that I felt a snap within my chest and broke down, weeping.

It wasn't just sorrow and pity for my own sake, but out of a deep concern for my girls. How could I, a man, raise them to be upstanding ladies in this savage land, without a single lady of refinement or standing within a hundred miles? I resolved I would send them to boarding school. I would look into the matter and find a suitable place on the morrow. That night, long after midnight, a commotion was heard in the sheep's pen. Now, anyone whose butchered sheep knows the sound of a dying lamb, an almost human whale. It awoke me and several mill workers were sleeping in the house.

Grabbing lanterns and our rifles, we ventured out to the small pen behind the house to find several of the animals slaughtered most savagely, one of them with its head clean decapitated. The girls had done this. We discovered them laying unrobed in the viscera of the gutted animals, drenched crimson in blood, and writhing in the gore. What's worse is that they appear to have done this brutally with their own bare hands and teeth. How, I don't know, but no knives were ever found.

They were insensible and babbled nonsense as I and a few servants brought them back to our home. I bade them that night. bathed them as if they were babies again. Sat them in the tub and poured hot water over them, soothing and cleansing them, washing the bloody clumps from their hair, telling them it was all right,

while they quietly droned on in a trance-like state. Unclean, unclean, unclean, fearing further odd incidents of sleepwalking, I put a bolt on the outside of their door and took to locking them in at night. And then it appeared, A strange sickness befell them. They lay in their bed sweating and shaking.

They began to bleed from out of their ears and noses, and a petulant blue slime leaped from their eyes. No longer did they appear as my lovely twin daughters, brimming with womanhood, ready to bloom as a rose but may grow plump before it unfurls. They began to take on the look of monsters, their eyes often rolling back into their heads, so that only the white showed.

gleaming against dark rings. Their lips took on a rotten appearance and grew black and ragged. A doctor was called. He could ascertain no ailment. They had no fever nor swollen glands. They began to curse most vilely and blasphemously and spoke in strange languages of which we knew not the words. This is when the doctor first opined that this was maybe a sickness of a supernatural order and recommended a priest. At first I scoffed at this and was determined to patiently ride the strange course out, hoping daily for some improvement. There was none. They refused food and began to waste and wither. Their eyes sunken and haunted in the emaciated skin from which their skulls began to preside.

Their beautiful and thick honeysuckle hair went limp, and tufts began to fall out. The workers around the mill began to grow uneasy, and still, Several quits. They could hear the cries of the girls, the abhorrent blasphemies they would scream long into the nights. The remaining workers began to shun me as well, and when I went to oversee the milling of grain and lumber and check on the weights and quality,

an uneasy silence would fall upon the mill, punctuated by guarded whispers and furtive glances. Then came that awful, harrowing night when I found myself with no choice but to call for a priest. I woke to the sound of giggling and moaning. It was very late. I crept into the hall and ascertained the sounds were coming from the girl's bedroom. From behind the door I could hear strange suckling sounds and girlish laughter.

I unlatched the lock, swung the door open, and in the pale light of the moon saw a most abhorrent sight. May God have mercy on my soul, for letting these foul memories surface forth from my mind and darken this pale parchment. but my girls were naked and entwined most wrongly their faces buried between their legs their calves encircling their shoulders

licking at each other and this pains me to write they must have been menstruating for their lips were stained that dark red that can only be brought by blood when I entered they turned their faces to me eyes rolled upward and fish belly white lips are dark crimson dripping blood and they spoke in unison

sultry and heavy come come and join us father because then I knew I must call for a priest February 10th 1860 We've been forced to restrain the girls Bind them to their beds with a rope

They seem to grow steadily worse hour by hour they're wasting away i bring them clabber broth tea i tried to spoon it into their mouths they only turn their heads away and spit it back at me call me foul names when they aren't screaming and cursing at me they're giggling as they did when they were toddlers i feel so very alone and an emptiness rests in my heart my brothers are far away at work on their ranches my wife in the grave and the workers here at the I'll eye me with nothing but distrust and suspicion. The only ones who smile at me at all in these dark days are the group of natives I've let into the compounds. They are eight in number, an old grizzled man that never moves from the fire. Three old women, and a young squore I assume to be a widow with three children, one only an infant. They speak no English, and communication with them can be difficult.

But they smile and nod at me. Mumble words I know are thanks when they offer them food. The widow, Kikwesh, she's called, is most helpful to me. When I lead her to any chore, such as to mop the floor of the dining hall or scrub the dishes, she quickly perceives my pantomimes and eagerly does the task. She's the only woman in the compound, besides my girls and the silent elderly squaws, and her presence sues me in some way I cannot seem to put into words. Yes, at the moment these noble savages seem to be.

my only friends. February 14th, 1860. The priest arrived today. He rode through the snow to the guarded gate of the mill atop a sway-backed steed of iron grey. A few workmen who'd been guarding the fortifications from hostile Indians

immediately noticed him and swung open the heavy redwood doors. I limped through the snow, fighting to keep my crutch from slipping on the frozen ground. To greet him as he strode, through the entrance and then dismounted from his horse, which stomped its hooves on the cold, hard ground, and snorted steamy breath. He was a tall man with a long black beard streaked in grey, wearing a black frock coat and a matching wide-brimmed hat covered in a thick layer of icy snow.

He had dark piercing eyes with the gun-metal glint that seemed to bore into me as he presented his hand. He spoke clearly, and with a deep voice. Reverend Michael Waitin at your service His grip was strong And I felt great fortitude emanate from him I welcomed him and ushered him through the compound

He led his horse along by the reins As I limped beside him Did you have a good journey? I inquired Uneventful He murmured Along the interior wall, Kekwush And the other natives huddled around a small file While her toddler chased a chicken through the snow

And why do you allow these savage heathens within your walls? He asked, gazing with disdain upon them. They're impoverished and in need of care, so we've given them shelter, as our Lord Christ is instructed in the parable of the Samaritan. Jesus came to bring division to the earth, Luke 1251. But, Reverend, did our Lord and Savior not say in Mark 950 be at peace with one another?

Among the saved, yes, but he is quite clear in Matthew 1034. I did not come to bring peace but a sword. Then what of Matthew 2651? Either take the sword shall perish by the sword. The priest grew visibly agitated, his face twisting in a baleful knot. He ran a hand over his long beard and turned to me and nearly spat the words. revelation 1911

In righteousness He doth judge and make war If you do not believe We're in battle with unclean spirits and heathens I suggest you reread Revelations I respect your learning sir But I have not come here to debate theology

But to cast out demons If that is what it's called for Now where are these daughters of yours That I have been bidden to see Why, they're in the house Good Reverend They have grown so violent and, well, strange indeed that we've been forced to restrain them to their beds. I see. Take me to them.

Would you not rather mean lead you to your quarters where you may unpack and wash up from your long journey? There'll be time for that later, my son. First, take me to see your daughters. I led the reverend down the dark hall to the heavy wooden door, bolted shut with a black iron lock. I fished the key from my pocket, unlatched the lock, and slowly swung the door open. Inside lay my two little girls, heavily bound to the bed with hemp and ropes. They immediately sat up, as far as their restraints would let them, began to hiss as a venomous viper mite when disturbed. The priest entered the room, but did not even look at the twins,

who began to thrash and wail against their binds, making the bed chatter. He held forth a large crucifix, encircling the room began to chant in Latin. Padre nostil, he has synchaelis, sanctificator nomen tomb. It is the black number, Bethany began to moan. He with the number of darkness, I can see the blood on his hands, smell it in his mouth. The black number, Josephine wailed. I can taste his sins upon my tongue.

Oh yes, he will satisfy us. What is that you say? They asked them. Do you know him? He suddenly spun about to face me, his face like that of a raptor. Silence. Never engage with the demons. They are full of deceit and trickery and serve the father of lies.

Then he turned and faced the girls for the first time. In the name of Christ, revealed to me your true names. The power of Christ compels you. reveal your true name. He thrust the large black crucifix before the face of Bethany. As Mordailles, Zabolon, moaned Bethany. He then spun towards Josephine, pressing the crucifix against her forehead. Drescia, Amand.

Well, Josephine, the priest turned to me. Can you bring me a plate of hot coals and the liver and heart of a fish? Why, yes, I stammered. There are still hot coals in the hearth, and we have fresh fish in the ice-house. And bring them to me with haste. He then began to chant again and walk about the room. I did as instructed and brought to him a metal plate laden with embers from the fire, and a parcel containing the heart and liver of a salmon.

He placed the plate on an end table, began to blow on the coals until they glowed red-hot, then placed the organs upon them, where they sizzled and smoked. They seemed to have some queer, somnolent effect upon the girls, for they stopped their agonized thrashing and fell into a slumber. Now you may show me to my lodgings, said the priest, stroking his long black beard and eyeing me with orbs like shimmering shattered coal. I took him to his chambers where he began to unpack a large valise of books. Why do they call you black number, if I may ask good reverence?

Ah, they jest and tease. A black number is a sin that has not been confessed nor forgiven. A number of darkness that can bring a good man into hell and the clutches of Lucifer himself. They call me an unatoned sinner, unrepentance, but believe not their wickedry and lies, for they know me not at all. I nodded. what are these tombs you carry with you i asked these are my grimaries text concerning the demonic underworld he lifted a large book bound in black leather dictionary inferral by jacques simon colin de plency

he caressed another this one bounding crimson cloth with the flat of his hand the dragon rouge written in fifteen seventeen by alebeck the egyptian he cast a glance at another still in his back a book of abramal then he turned to me and fixed me with those eyes as sharp and cold as black diamonds he furrowed his brow and brought up a hand to caress his lengthy beard of black and silver may i ask you good sir has there been any fornication but they tried to tempt you to lay with them as the daughters of Lodd had done. I went to speak but found only silence. My mouth moved up and down, but no sound came out.

My face grew flushed, and I directed my gaze to the ground. Yes, I said, feeling dread rise up in me like an ugly bile in my throat. They have fornicated with each other and caught about me to join them. And for the sake of Christ, man. Tell me the truth now, for all depends on it. Did you answer that call with action? Oh, good Reverend, I beseech you. Please do not sully my reputation by even uttering your doubt as to my chastity with my daughters.

Of course not. They were immediately separated and bound, and a call for you at once. Knowing only demonic influence could be responsible for such lewd and shameful acts by my sweet girls who have shown nothing but modesty and virtue before. Good. You are a good man, even stronger than Lodd, who gave in to his daughter's demonic advances. His resolve weakened with drink. We are clearly dealing with Asmodius, the dark angel of lust and perversion, or some of his underlings. The truth is they are legion. Do you know what a Cambian is? No, I do not believe I'm familiar with the term.

Cambian is the child of a demon. The demons wish to infest the earth with these vile children of those To create a hell upon this earthly plain Reverend, a demon's not ethereal beings? How could they consort and create children here on earth? Oh, the succuby and incubi possess a being They commit carnal acts And in the lustful acts stay in the seed with their being

So that the child created from such an unholy union Is tainted by evil It's a monster if the product of incest, then even more so. Look at the savages in the hills around us. They are all obviously Cambian. Do they appear as whole humans to you? I was shocked at these words.

How would talk of demons suddenly turn to that of the native so quickly? And I responded as so. Why, yes, I said, repugnant. They do, and I must admit you do offend me, dear Reverend. I thought a holy man such as yourself would not say such things about your fellow man. A fellow man. They are not my fellow man. They are sodomites.

They spend their days on clothes, naked and engaged in demonic rituals. They are stupid and silly. They have no respect for love or virginity. They fleas vermin, spiders, and worms. They have no faith in law or gods. They are champions. plain and simple. They carry demons like a pestilence. They're infected with them the way a man may carry lice or scabies. They're infested with the creatures of the underworld. Is that not

plain to see? Why, my father taught us to treat all men as equals. Back in Prince Edward Island, the land from which we hail, the indigenous were protected under the same rights as of the white man. I've tried to practice those same ideals of tolerance and acceptance here. Look where it's brought you, he shouted, a cripple, your daughter's under possession by demons, your land, fortune, inheritance and livelihood on the brink of collapse. That he who have eyes learned to see. Now, good sir, if you'd leave me, I'm weary from my travels and must rest. Yes, reverent, peace be with you. Oh, and also with you.

I left the room, shut the door behind me. My vision, swimming and my thoughts are jumble. February 15, 1860, the priest locked himself in the room with the girls for the entire day. I sat poised outside that heavy redwood door for many a long hour, listening, straining to ascertain what went on within. I heard many an awful thing. I heard my girls tried to tempt him into their beds,

language so lascivious and foul I dare not repeat it. He met their seductions with cries to Christ. I heard screams of terror that sounded more animal than human, then chanting, then long silence. I grew perplexed, worried, worried for my twins, but also for this strange man. Though the priest had warned me against it, I wrapped my knuckles against the door. Reverend! The door swung suddenly open, and there he was staring at me with wild eyes,

his beard unkempt and flecked with spits. I know you told me not to disturb you. I just grew worried with the long silence. He held up a hand to quiet me. It's all right. Who girls have returned to you, but I know not for how long. You may release their binds for now. But in the evening, before they slumber, you must reapply them.

These forces of darkness are strong and will play tricks on you. I looked over his shoulder. order, and there were my little girls. Their faces had returned to normal, their lips no longer black, their eyes clear. Daddy, they hollered. I ran to them and loosened their binds, freed them and swept them up into my arms where we all wept together. Oh, girls, how I've missed you, I love you so. We love you too, Daddy. They were hungry, famished and rightly so. How they persisted for so long. without food and water remains a mystery to me. I fetched them meat and broth,

bade them eat slowly, lest they make themselves sick. It was a glorious reunion, and I sat with them till nightfall. I must bind you, I warned them as I lit a lantern against the growing darkness of evening. Oh, must you, Daddy, my wrists are so sore, Bethany pleaded.

Her emerald eyes are shone with pitifulness. I simply must. I said, taking the ropes and preparing to strap them to their beds. Do you miss mother? Josephine asked. I paused, hearing I say that evoked many buried emotions and I took a deep breath to steady myself. Of course I do. It must be so hard for you all alone.

Yes, my dear, it is, but I have you. Yes, you do. You have us. I hope we can comfort you like mother did. Give to you what she gave you. Give you the pleasure she gave you. Horrified, I noticed the girls have begun to lick their lips as they spoke, and fondle their breasts, lifting their nightgowns up over their legs.

I staggered back. Girls, behave yourself at once, I commanded. Come lay with us, father. We can give you what mother once gave to you. Mercifully, the reverend was suddenly in the room. him howling. The power of Christ compels you. Down, foul demons. He turned to me, quickly, man, bind them. Just like that, they'd taken on their monstrous forms again, faces pale and eyes gone white. I grabbed a rope and wrapped it around the wrists of Bethany.

She hissed at me like a cornered cat. As I went to grab her other wrist, she reached out her hand, bent into a claw and broaded across my face. Her jagged nails like talons ripping painfully into my left eye. Josephine was up off the bed. Her hands clasped on the reverend's throat. For a moment I feared for him till he picked her up by the waist

and threw her to the bed. Hold this one down while I finished binding the other, he shouted. Ignoring the pain in my eye, I threw myself down bodily upon Josephine, pinning her to the bed while the reverend finished binding Bethany. Josephine quit struggling and looked up at me.

Suddenly my little girl again. Oh, Daddy, it hurts. Why do you lay on me so? Let me go. You're hurting me, Daddy. Then the reverend was upon her, gruffly grabbing her arms and tying them with the coarse hemp robes. Don't let him do this to me, Daddy.

How can you let him do this to me? She squealed. Listen not to their lies. the reverend commanded to me as he finished with his knots. He stood up and began to make the sign of the cross with his hands, mumbling in Latin,

endominum sanctum. They growled and spit at him. He turned to me and uttered one word. Go. February 18, 1860. My eye is badly abraded and I now wear a patch over it. The girls grow lucid daily, but I'm wary of them.

The priest assures me this is normal, and that we make headway. I fervently pray he's rights. I've called my younger brothers to come from their farms and ranches to meet this strange reverend, and confer with me over what is the best course of action. February 21, 1860. Having received word that my brothers shall arrive on the morrow, I went forth to relate this news to Reverend Michael. His door stood open a bit, and as I went to knock, I heard odd noises emanating from within,

a loud snapping sound followed by dull moans. I pushed the door open ever so slightly that I might cast a look inside. There, kneeling on the floor of wooden planks was the priest, shirtless, his back to me. And his hand was a small whip, a cat of nine-tails, and he flung it over his shoulder and scourged his back, which was flailed and torn, bleeding profusely. Suddenly he turned with a strange quickness and caught my eye before I had time to duck away.

Sorry, Reverend, I mumbled sheepishly. I did not mean to pry. I came to inform you of my brother's imminent arrival on the morrow, and hearing strange noises simply inquired of their origin. No need for apology. I keep no secrets. No secrets. A man who toils fighting the Prince of Darkness

in his legion must be strong. and atone. I keep no secrets, but I do appreciate my solitude. Yes, certainly, Reverend. Pardon the intrusion. Intrusion pardoned. He said, as I swung the door shut, hearing that snap of leather on flesh echo again from the room. February 21, 1860.

My brothers arrived today. They seem very worried about our situation with the twins, though. I tell them it appears progress is being made. But your eye, dear brother, John said, pointing out what all the others obviously tried to avoid. He's always been like this. Being the youngest, he has no modicum of reserve and blurts out whatever is on his mind. Tis but a scratch, I said, adjusting the patch. It should be better shortly.

They bring grim news of the native problem. A group of over a hundred Indians surround the Redwood Forest to buy. our lands. They are hungry and openly hostile, swooping down from the hills to boldly steal cattle. They are also armed not only with bows and arrows, but with guns as well, brazenly firing their weapons at any man who dares oppose them. February 22nd, 1860. I awoke from a horrible nightmare. I was rowing a small skiff out to sea. Josephine and Bethany were at the helm. The girls were eight years old again, as they were when we arrived in San Francisco, sweet, honeysuckled-haired angels talking quietly amongst themselves and laughing. There was no land in sight, and the sky

was filled with stars in a red, red moon. I gazed out into the water, and it reflected that deep red of the moon. But then I saw it was not the reflection of the moon that made the sea red, but that the sea was blood, and gazing out into the distance, I saw a body flailing, floundering, drowning in the blood. It was my Margaret. I leapt overboard to save her, but found myself unable to reach her. The blood was thick and sticky with a foul stench. I couldn't make my way through it and began to sink. And it wasn't Margaret struggling there. It was the Indian widow cakewash and her children as well as the old man and the two elderly squads. They were wailing that howl that is peculiar to their people.

I turned back to the boat, hoping to gain a handhold only to see the girls standing there before me, standing and laughing, devilish cackling, and they were now nightmare like monsters with rotten skin, eyes as white and clear as ice.

I awoke suddenly with a jolt, sitting up in bed, gasping for breath. For a moment I thought I could still hear the screams of the Indians. Then nothing. silence. I strained to hear what sounds might lurk above the creaking of the wooden beams. Nothing. Then whispers from the girl's bedroom, followed by hackles and gales of laughter.

This morning when I went out to the courtyard of the compound, there was blood in the snow. Big pools of it, and splatter marks against the walls, flecks of bone and brain, and drag marks through the snow. For as so deep they scratched into the earth. and brought up clumps of mud, though also the footprints of many men. All of the natives we'd allowed into the walls of our fortress are gone. Kequish, her children, the old man and women. Gone.

No doubt bludgeon to death. No guns used so as to not awaken anyone and draw attention to the slaughter. I found the priest and my brothers eating in the dining hall. What have you done? I shouted, limping up to the large table where they sat over steaming plates of eggs and mutton. You've killed them all, haven't you? They replied with silence and icy stairs. How could you?

They were elderly, infirm, children and women. The priest caught my eye with a baleful glare. They were pestilence, a scourge, and they had to be exterminated. You murdering coward! Get out! shouted, leaning forward in my crutch so that our faces were inches apart, looking at him with my one good eye. Get off of my land, I growled.

George stood up. It's not your land, William. We're a family business, and you have no right to command him to leave. He's right, David chimed in. We make decisions as a family. Make decisions as a family, I asked. Then why was I not informed? of the decision to kill our humble guests last night.

We knew how you'd react. We knew your opinion already. You were outvoted. Outvoted. I wasn't even present to cast my ballot in the matter. Your presence was not needed, for our decision was unanimous amongst ourselves. John stated.

Do you not hunger for justice for our last brother Adolphus? David asked. What does the death of Adolphus have to do with the killing of a widow and her children? "'Well, what are your girls, then?' George suddenly opined. "'My fair nieces, are we to leave them in torment? "'Not to try to save them. "'But now you dare to throw out the one man who can help them, can save them?'

"'I wonder at his sorcery. "'Duteronomy, 1810. "'Let none be found among you who practice his divination.' "'The priest stared hard at me. "'Slowly he raised a steam. a flaming cup to his lips, sipped his coffee, then he calmly replied. Verily, I'll say unto thee, careful where you tread and spread not columnies.

What we have done, we have done for the sake of you and your daughters. We are at war with the devil, and you must learn to accept that. Put not your foul deeds on me, I spat, swung around on my crutch, storming away from them. We're forming a militia, William. George shouted at my back, because I opened the door and a cold whim blew into the hole. Something must be done about this situation. It's us or them. You must accept this.

I answered him not and stomped out into the snow and storm. The sky above me is grey and forlornly dismal as the ache within my ribs, ice cascading down from the heavens. February 26, 1860. Lurching through the deep snow that lay heavy upon the courtyard I spied my brother George with a cluster of workers and limped steadfastly toward him Pulling him away covertly so that we might whisper among ourselves in secrets I do not trust this priest

He appears not a man of God to me Why is that William He locks himself in with my daughters Does strange acts he allows no one else to see But you yourself said you've seen him improvement in their condition. Maybe, maybe their infirmity leaves of its own volition. They call him black number.

Say they smell blood on his breath and hands. What of that? Good brother, my elder, you must not listen to the words and lies of the beast. The reverend is a good man, I know, long have we talked into the night. We're not so different. He was a settler once just as we are.

He had a family in a large, ranch. He went on a carol run and came home to discover his ranch had been raided by a war party of Indians. His wife, his children, they were axed into tiny pieces, mutilated beyond recognition. He knew only devils could do such a thing, demons. So, he gave himself over to the work of God. Work of God, killing natives. If their murders make them demons, then pre-tell what do ours make us? How could you? How could you? Can we condemn them for acts of violence when we strive to annihilate them with our own? Brother, you're embracing your weak in nature.

I have business to attend to. There'll be a meeting tomorrow. All the farmers and ranches for miles around will be there. You may voice your concerns then. He strolled back to the workers and left me alone in the snow. My eye ached and I could feel a leakage of pus dripping down out of my patch. I wiped it with a handkerchief, spun on my crutch, shuffled off. In the barren branches of an old oak tree, some ravens quarreled, and their

cause of avarice echoed over the frozen land. February 27, 1860. The meeting tonight has left me shaken to the core, and I found myself in doubt of God and country, wondering what it even means to be a Christian. My faith itself seems in peril, all the more so as I hear my daughter's pleading and wailing cries echo through the darkness. The meeting was held in our large dining hall. Many presided. My estimate would be 60 members of our settler community. The notorious Indian killer, Henry Larraby, was present, a man whose very existence

fills my soul with dread. Many are the tale of how he took great pleasure in smashing her up in the heads of squaws, children and infants. Yale Davis presided. He stood at the head of the hall, the reverend to his right and my three brothers to his left. We have petitioned Governor Downey that the Humboldt volunteers be mustered into service, and he declined our petition, stating that the U.S. Army was sending an additional company irregulars to Fort Humboldt. Have we seen them? No.

Saman Wright then stood up, shouting, Our police to the federal government fall on deaf ears. already South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas have succeeded to the Union. They're poised on the brink of civil war and can spare no troops to help us. We are on our own. A great clamor of agreement with cheers of, here, here, rose up and echoed through the chamber. Davis began to irate once more. This company is needed for the lives and property of our family and friends.

if we can't get our just protection from state or federal government, a protection that the citizens are entitled to, I for one oppose paying any more taxes. We'll fight our own battles in our own way, exterminating the Indians from the face of the earth as far as this county is concerned. His cry was met with boisterous shouts of approval and the pounding of feet and fists. I, in the back of the hall, could hold my silence no longer,

and spoke up over the den. Am I the only man amongst you who beseeches peace with the natives? No good can come of bloodshed. Violence only begets more violence. We must find brotherhood, or I fear we are all doomed. Brotherhood, someone shouted. They are not our brothers. There are no kind of me.

Another holler as a wave of jeers and james descended upon me. Think of the message of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I regaled them. Think at the proverb of the Good Samaritan. Then the reverend stood up. We are engaged in a great spiritual war with evil here. Do not vacuously use the words of our Savior to make this Christian army weak. Our Lord saith in Luke 1251,

Do you suppose that I came to grant peace on earth? I tell you no, but rather. division. May I ask who? I yelled. Good clergyman, dear reverend, who are your clergy? My clergy, he shouted, are any and all men who dared to ride with me against the heathens on those hills? Here is a humble county who dare to face the devil. Tis they to whom I preach, and they to whom I bestow my blessing. I went to speak, but was drowned out by the cries of appreciation from the raucous crowds. The reverend went on,

screaming at the top of his lungs, spittle flying from his mouth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. So saith our saviour. What's more, let him who hath no sword sell his robe and buy one.

Now, as commanded, let us make war. Suddenly everyone was up on their feet, clapping and stomping, marching out of the hall, and into the night. I noticed George in the throng streaming by me and grabbed him by the shirt-sleeve. Brother, I pleaded, this is madness.

What would our father think? He taught us kindness to our fellow man. On Prince Edward's Island he struggled to make peace with the natives. Surely no good can come from this. We are in Canada no more, he replied to me. Cold as a century-old tombstone. we must manifest our destiny here. He cast a quick, disdainful look upon me.

Look at what has become of you, brother. Feclous, a half-blind cripple. Your duty lies with your daughters. Go to them, watch over them. We will do what must be done. He shook himself free of my grasp and rejoined the masses. The mob mounted their horses and took off at Gallup, out the gates of our fort and swallowed by the knights.

leaving only their echoed screams for bloodshed and vengeance. February 29, 1860, I feel the grip of insanity tighten over my mind as the howling of my daughters fills my head like a swarm of bees may fill the hollow of it log. I write, as penance, as confession, to find atonement and divine forgiveness for the deeds I have done and them about to do,

to rid me of the black number, to find redemption for this number of darkness that stains my soul. What great anguish it is to write this. Indeed, I beat my fists upon my head and weep into my hands. My tears staining this parchment and smearing the black ink. It appears that I too have fallen under demonic influence. How else could what has befallen me be possible? I was tormented with the most heinous of dreams,

foul visions of fornication of the most illicit manner, with my own daughters, my twin girls of only fourteen years. We lay together in ways I have never conceived before, strange and unnatural positions. I woke bathed in sweat, the sheets tangle about me and pushed the foul dreams from my mind, determined to forget them, thinking them obviously the product of stress and exhaustion. I dressed and went to check on Bethany and Josephine. I opened the door to find them unbound and naked, entwined with their arms about, each other, kissing most loosely with their tongues in each other's mouths.

Back for more, Father, Bethany said as she blinked one eye in a horrid wing. Then, looking down, I saw my pants, my work shirt and frock, there in a tangle on the floor, and with a gasp made the sudden realization that those horrid visions last night were no dream. Suddenly I remembered creeping to their room to unbind them and lay with them. Josephine looked to me now and spoke. I will name my son after you, father, for you'll be his father too. They threw their heads back in laughter, foul, taunting cackles, and Bethany said, and I shall name my son Michael after the reverend.

A staggered back, crushed by the levity of their words. What's the matter, Daddy? Said that we had your little priest kill cake. We saw the way you looked at her. Nauty, naughty. Maybe you'll see her again in hell. Do you know what we have your reverend and your brother's doing now? Caving in the heads of babies on an island in the bay. They burst back into laughter, then leapt to their feet in a most unnatural way, levitating, floating off the ground as they came at me. Their fingers curled, claw-like, and predatory. Just as they reached me, I regained my sense.

and slammed the door shut, pushing home the large iron bolt. When they slammed against the door it bulged, and for a moment I thought it might shatter, but it held firm. Then they began to beat and pound upon it, scratching at it while they howled banshee-like. Let us out, father, their muffled cries from within. As pleased you as we did last night. But now, as I sit and write, my hand trembling so that the quill barely scratch these words out upon the page. I can only hope I can erase my black number with these confessions.

I can escape that incestual number of darkness which has somehow found its way upon my weak shoulders which are unable to bear it. Seeing only one recourse to this abominable situation, I go to fetch the turpentine, the whale fat, the gear grease, anything flammable I may find, and cover the house in it. of myself in it and hope that the flames of this earth can appease our lord and saviour and spare me

from the sulfurous flames of hellfire below and so once again reach the end of tonight's podcast my thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen now i'd ask one small favor of you wherever you get your podcast from please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.