Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep244: Episode 244: Horror Stories from the Wild West

Episode Date: May 15, 2025

Today’s opening feature-length story is ‘The Blood Trails’, an original work by Chili 1220, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/Chili1220 Featured İn today’s story are the fine vocal talents of Nature’s Temper. Please visit his channel and subscribe!  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UClVVgQbEUPxJZXCawn3Bexg Today’s second tale of terror is ‘The Horror from the Mound’, a classic work by Robert E. Howard, a story in the public domain but recorded here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks06/0601761h.html We continue 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 wonderful 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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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Sometimes we tell ourselves that we have a choice. But do we really have a choice? Just because there are alternatives doesn't mean that they apply to us. And all we're left with is compulsion. The compulsion to move forward with potentially disastrous results, as we will see in tonight's two stories.

First, we have the feature-length story, the blood trail. The Blood Trails by Chilai 1220, which also features the fine vocal talents of nature's temper. And that's followed with the horror from the mound, a classic work by Robert E. Howard. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery.

If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. I was 19 years old in the late summer of 1997 when my maternal grandfather suddenly became ill and passed away. He was 72 years old. In the span of only five short but grueling weeks, he was diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of pancreatic cancer, went into hospice care, declined, and finally passed away on Tuesday in late August. The whole affair had been quite stressful and emotionally draining, especially for my mother who had been quite close to him throughout her life. What was most distressing was how quickly it had all passed.

Hardly enough time for him, his estranged wife or his only daughter to get his affairs in order, and when he finally lost his battle, many issues remained unsettled. The principal issue that took some time to resolve was what would become of his few possessions, an issue complicated by the nature of what he'd left behind. He was a tenured professor of anthropology at the University of Texas in Austin, a man of some academic distinction as I later learned. He was specialized in the study of Native American cultures, and he left behind a veritable treasure trove of academic materials and historical documents. Why he left them to us is beyond me, since it would be better served if these materials were donated to the university for use by his former colleagues. But at the time, I believed it was simply an oversight on his part.

I myself was fairly upset by the loss. Although I had drifted apart from my mother's side of the family over the years, this wasn't over any personal issue, but simply a matter of distance. He was living in Texas and our family was living in suburban Denver, and the years had offered few opportunities to visit or get to know him. However, I was much closer to him as a child when we visited more often, and I liked to think he was the one who inspired my own passion for human and social sciences. At the time of his passing, I had just completed my freshman year of college at the University of Colorado and Boulder, and was giving up to begin my sophomore year, my chosen major being anthropology, like my grandfather.

Thess forward just over 20 years, and I myself am a professor of anthropology at my alma mater. Although my area of expertise is in Mississippian cultures of the pre-Columbian era, while his was the study of Pueblo peoples of New Mexico and Arizona. Until this point, I had largely forgotten the quantity of academic materials he had left us, since they were mostly collecting dust in my parents' attic, although bits and pieces had been donated to the university over the years. It wasn't until the holidays when I was visiting my parents that I remembered anything about them. And, being an academic myself, it occurred to me just how valuable these precious historical artevacs could be. Out of intellectual curiosity and looking for a possible subject to research for a paper I was preparing,

I took possession of these materials for my own use. The documents were kept in quite an ancient engraved wooden chest, some of which were my grandfather's own research notes, while others were a collection of old books and census reports going all the way back to the 1870s. But the most intriguing of the bunch was a leather-bound journal. into which was took to series of annotations written by my grandfather during his own research. It was this journal that piqued my interest, even though it was a more modern source than what my area of expertise entails,

but I was interested nonetheless. The journal was written by a man named Joseph Sheridan, my grandfather's great-grandfather, and I was immediately excited by this find, if only for its importance in our family history. My mother was quite interested in my mother was quite interested in my father, genealogy and actually kept quite an extensive family tree, where I located this mysterious Joseph Sheridan. I immediately dived into research about this man, who I learned was actually an

agent of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in the 1880s, and was actually a man of some renown. In 1880, he was the one credited with capturing Miguel Canales, a bandit chief who terrorized South Texas for years prior. And in 1884, he shot and killed a notorious Utah cattle rustler and thief named Lawrence a red cob, earning a $150 bounty in the process. Being something of an old West aficionade on myself,

I was quite enthusiastic about the find and sent myself to reading his journal. I spent the next week reading the journal cover to cover. And now that I've completed it, I'm not sure I feel quite the same way. In fact,

I'm not sure just how I feel about having read it. It might be cliche to say that I regret it, but in a strange way, even though I can't process what was written in it, I'm glad I know, even though I feel some dread about what he wrote possibly being true. In this journal, he chronicles the pursuit of an outlaw band across New Mexico, Arizona, and down into Mexico, which took place in late 1889. What follows is something so bizarre, so twisted and horrible that I'm not sure I even believe that any of it's true. It is quite possible that his writings were just the product of a disturbed mind, but reading it and seeing his sincerity firsthand, I can't imagine why he might fabricate something so strange. It's been a few weeks since I completed reading it, and I still can't decide whether or not I believe it.

and what any of it might even mean. I think perhaps you find people want to read it for yourself and make your own decisions. I've taken the liberty of transcribing the journal, its entirety for you to read, with a few small interjections here and there, but completely preserved. And so, I suppose, here goes nothing. July 28, 1889, Denver. Colorado. I have my first meeting with one of the men in charge at the Denver field office this morning. A man named J. M. Withers. Must admit, I rather dislike him. Rather brusk, and lacking in professional courtesy,

but brief and succinct. Describe the details of the new assignment, a long one. He estimates two months at work and high risk. But he claims I was one of the first considered for it. thought perhaps it was a clumsy attempted flattery, but I am still interested. No family obligations to tend to. Perhaps sobriety and fresh air will do me some good. Job pays five thousand dollars upon completion, and that's an individual reward too, not split amongst the others. Should mention, the job is a five-man operation, including myself, though Mr. Withers would not say who else was offered. Claims the precise details are to be known only by those chosen for this task. I rather dislike having details withheld, but for $5,000 plus expenses, a worthy trade.

July 29, 1889, Denver, still. Met again with Mr. Withers. Still dislike him. Anyhow, I made it clear that I would accept, and he followed through with the specifics. five-man team, including myself, pursuing a suspect in a number of murders committed throughout Arkansas, the Indian Terities and Texas. Offered no further specifics than that, but instead disclosed a dossier detailing the suspect and all pertinent information. Claims that the information in the dossier is for my eyes only, but I can disclose pertinent details to the four others at my discretion. This caveat, I found to be rather strange, as I am unaccustomed to this level of secrecy, even with the Pinkertons. I will have a look at that dossier later, try to determine why exactly the identity of this man is kept confidential, possibly politically sensitive.

Should save speculations for later. August 1st, 1889, Las Vegas, New Mexico Territory Read the first. dossier on the train from Denver. Miserable train journey as well. All that money, the Pinkertons won't spare a cent more than they have to for travel expenses, had to ride a rather packed carriage. Anyhow, I'm now staying in a hotel in Las Vegas on the New Mexico Territory. In two days, I'll meet with the others, and then we shall depart on our mission. The dossier report states that the Trail of Asseville,

suspect seems to lead to a point some miles southwest of here, where we will reacquire the trail and pursue it wherever it leads, even into Mexico, if the trail should point this way, although they were quite clear that we could not depend upon any official support should this become necessary. August 1st, 1889, addendum Las Vegas, still. Still have some time to spare, as I await my comrades on this mission. so I have studied further on just who we are pursuing, or why the urgency that demanded a sudden departure. Pursued across the desert at the height of the summer season seems quite foolish to me,

but, as I understand, the urgency is so great, and the risk of the trail being lost so compelling, that we are expected to trudge across desert in the middle of August. Mr. Withers and the others did not say much about sharing information within the dossier, other than it was not to be expressed to any others outside of our group. Still, they did not say anything about documenting the details in our personal writings, so I will write down some more details here, for posterity, if nothing else. Our subject is a man named Deacon Chogan, alias is Red Horse, Pico and Black Heron, among others. Even the name Deacon Chogan is a matter of conjecture.

Subject is thought to be around 50 years old, perhaps older, some amount of Indian ancestry, either a half-breed or quarter-breed, though is thought to mostly resemble a white man. The given name was determined by a record of a student at a Presbyterian seminary in Kentucky from 1853, whom they have determined is the subject in question. as far as is known, this is the only official documentation of his existence. Thought to have been born in the Creek Nation, though this and his exact age are indeterminate. A manner of religious inclinations, though his denomination or his exact faith are unknown and undocumented. He has, apparently, lived and traveled in the Indian territories for much of his life.

has no known criminal record under the assume name Deacon Chogan, though it is possible that he might under other names. Even this is not clearly known. Reports of a religious movement in the Choctaw, Creek and Seminole nations, name one of his alias, Red Horse, as the principal figure in a series of disturbances in the region. Crimes amongst the Indians in the territories

are not always well documented. But the U.S. Marshal's office in Fort Smith did provide some speculation that he was involved in some other known cases, possibly under an unknown alias. They describe him as a very dangerous and treacherous individual, leading a group of like-minded religious fanatics. If this is true, then I can see why they are concerned with apprehending him, given the anxieties expressed by the federal government over the ghost dances in Dakota. However, while the subject is described as a religious figure, I can quite say that they know anything about his professed faith. Perhaps some native superstitions, or, given his Christian education, something of a more biblical bend. Some speculation that it might be devil worship in some form, involving animal or even human sacrifice, or so the rumors go. subject was largely unknown until eight months ago, when named as a suspect in several murders in Arkansas

and later tentatively linked to similar crimes in Mississippi and as far east as Georgia. The murders in question are thought to be the work of several individuals in addition to our prime suspect. The reports themselves are frustratingly unclear about precise details or circumstances of the crimes. Other reports do disclose rather. macabre details, grotesque mutilations, gouging of eyes, even some reference to flaying. Others described strange symbols marked upon the remains and unusual totems left at the scene. These symbols and totems are what led to speculation of native involvement, though none of the Indians who formed a part of the investigating force could recognize them. But it was clear,

according to the investigating officers, that there was some mark of religious ceremony regarding these murders. Number of victims total is labeled at 19, not including those crimes which have not yet been conclusively linked with our suspect. Such hideous displays of violence called into question the nature of the men who committed them.

For how little we know about this Deacon Chogun figure, we know even less about his purported compatriots. The dossier is quite specific that what is known or believed regarding these men is purely conjectural, and among our directives is to attempt to identify as many of these men as possible. According to rumors and assumptions, many of our subjects' followers are thought to be white men, many of possibly mixed ancestry, and some full-blooded Indians as well. Negro freedmen are also speculated to be among their numbers.

As of yet, the precise racial composition of the group is still largely unknown, and in fact, there are no precise estimates as the size of this group, with some reports speculating a varying amount from as few as 15 to as many as 100. What is most remarkable about all of this is how few of these details and assumptions have clearly documented sources. police reports are generally authentic records, which offered some insight into the nature of these crimes. But other statements about our suspect's identity, motives, and his accomplices, are made as definitive statements with no clear records or sources. Whoever compiled this dossier was either sloppy or failed to appreciate that every possible detail, even the source itself, is relevant in such an investigation. Or, perhaps there was some ulterior motive in withholding this information. Anyhow, I've been writing for quite some time. I'm sorry we'll stop at this, and peruse the dossier later, and report my further musings.

August 3, 1889, Las Vegas, New Mexico Territory. No entry for yesterday, nothing noteworthy, just carousing in the saloon and purchasing some addition. tack and supplies. Even purchased a bottle of rye for own private reserve. Can't always trust the water out there. More importantly, my comrades in arms for this mission just arrived in town today, and we gathered at the saloon for appropriate introductions. Besides myself, there are four men who will take on specific responsibilities of our company.

First was a tall, burly fellow with a prominent red beard named are J. Hanigan, a very jocular and pleasant individual, with an infectious good humor. He will be appointed our expert on matters of survival in the wilderness, who will maintain our stores of provisions, or what little we can carry without a wagon. Second was our wrangler, who will attend to our horses in tack, a man named Wilfred Sharp. He is rather the opposite of Hannigan, being a very sullen and easily agitated man who made numerous complaints right away and did not offer to shake hands. Third is the tracker. An Indian chap who goes only by the name of William rather than a more typical native epithet.

I believe he is either creak or a seminal, though I did not inquire. He is a rather quiet and stoic man, as Indians are wont to be, but still projected an air. of competence that I found reassuring. And lastly, is a fellow agent like myself, named Henry Quinn. I rather like him as well, and though he is not as humorous or cordial as Hannigan, he is still quite agreeable and listened intently to our conversations. Almost immediately, Mr. Hannigan began to lecture us about survival tactics in rugged desert, and given my previous apprehensions about pursuing a party across the desert in the midst of

I was quite interested in what he had to say. According to him, daytime temperatures will routinely exceed 100 degrees, though, as he points out, the situation is not much different here in town, other than that we have ready access to supplies and shelter. We will be eating light, and sleeping relatively little, and spending as much of the day in the saddle as we can, so as to make good time with as little expenditure of supplies and provisions as possible. Sharp kept piping in with his own questions and seemed unimpressed with Hanigan's reassurances, but Hanigan sticks by them. William seemed to concur with Hanigan, or at least did not object as Dick Quinn. If the heat is too trying, he says, we can always opt to rest

during the day and travel at night, to avoid the worst of it. I admit, I don't know that much about survival in the wilderness, but I will defer to Hannigan's recommendations. Sharp has provided our horses, which were actually shipped in this morning on the train. I received a standard quarter horse mare, actually a rather fine filly, who is rather well-trained. Whatever Sharp's misgivings about us, he has an excellent way with horses, and speedily prepared our tack and saddles. Quinn has provided our weapons, a Winchester repeating carbine and Colt's single-action army for each of us, all chambered in 44-40 from convenience,

with several dozen shells for each of us. However, while I appreciate having the rifle, I think I'll stick with my Colts Frontier double-action revolver instead, even though it takes a different cartridge. Still, having two pistols just may come in hand, depending on what we find. William is taken charge of our maps and compass, and I'll be right at his side directing our expedition. I must admit, perhaps my previous apprehensions about my comrades were unfounded.

All things considered, I couldn't have asked for a more competent team. August 5, 1889, 20 to 25 miles southwest of Las Vegas, New Mexico Territory. First day on the trail. Made 23 miles by my estimation. Departed at 6 o'clock this morning, before the worst of the heat, and I'm rather satisfied without pace. Yesterday evening we gathered for supper. As Hannigan advised we should try to eat a large meal before departing, as we will not

have the opportunity to eat much for quite some time. We stopped some six miles short of our first destination, where we are meant to pick up the trail. I considered having the party push up the trail. on to this point during the first day, but given the conditions, I decided against it to avoid pushing ourselves and the horse is too hard early on. I believe spirits are relatively high, since we have now gotten to the task at hand, rather than all that insufferable waiting. William the Indian has shown himself a highly competent navigator, as well as a tracker.

Hannigan is notably more quiet now that we're on the trail, but resumed his joking demeanor once we make camp. He advised that we keep our campfire some yards away from where we sleep so as to avoid revealing our presence in unsettled country. Sounds rather inconvenient, so I accounted by saying we could do so

later on when we were closer to our intended goal. He seemed to agree. Regarding our mission, today I disclosed some of the relevant details to my comrades, and I was surprised they did not inquire much further. I told them the name of our suspect, his general description, some of his alleged crimes, and where they happened, and told them about the number of men thought to be following him.

Oddly enough, they all seem to take the information in stride, asked few questions, must be tired from our time in the saddle. The country south of Las Vegas is rather rugged and sparse, but the evening hours were still relatively pleasant. You set up camp on a small hillock some 300 yards off the trail With some amount of scrub brush surrounding it Which will hopefully deter any prowling hostiles during the night The rest are preparing to turn in For we will depart at sun up tomorrow to complete the next leg of our journey Now that the temperature has dropped

I think I can sleep comfortably And I'm quite confident about the days ahead August 6th 1889 Somewhere south of it the Pecos River Valley, New Mexico Territory. I have slept on the ground many nights in my life, but it has never gotten any more pleasant. Thankfully, some of the evening sounds in the high desert

are rather relaxing and conducive to sleep. That said, I think my general feeling of well-being has diminished a bit since yesterday. I ought to get used to it, I know, as we will be spending many more days on the trail. Still, a fairly productive day. We awoke at dawn as planned And I saw that the hill upon which our camp was set

Overlooked a small valley with the Pecos River running through it At least I think it's the Pecos according to our map I didn't notice this at waning twilight yesterday evening Although I knew we should be getting close We reached the point where we're meant to pick up the trail At half past nine o'clock in the morning And upon seeing the area I was rather discouraged at first

The point on the map turned out to be a small cliff overlooking an area at the base of a hill that William claims is called Mesasola, and upon arriving there seemed to be no obvious sign of human presence. I was frustrated with myself for not pushing on the previous evening, but looking back, we would have arrived here in darkness and been at an even greater disadvantage. There's a small ranch some two miles north of here, and I considered going there to question the locals about any strange happenings or notable travellers, but I decided to find that against it. Still, not all was in vain. William and Hannigan surveyed the scene, and pointed out that

small tracks did remain, having been hastily and imperfectly covered up. This is a compelling find, as it means that our prior intelligence seems to be somewhat accurate after all. We consider that the tracks might be those of another party, and not necessarily our quarry, but the obscurity of this area and the fact that the track showed signs of being deliberately covered pointed to our previous assumptions being correct. William immediately began following the traces, and thus our pursuit has officially begun in earnest. August 7, 1889, 2 miles south of some place called Arroyo Calaveras, New Mexico. It's been yesterday evening ruminating about certain details that have become more apparent now.

One thought that kept coming to mind was regarding our prior intelligence as to how and where we should reacquire the trail of our suspects. This was one of those details in the briefing that had no real source, but was stated with great emphasis, and which turned out to be correct. And now, I wonder, how exactly did they come by this intelligence? I thought about how I was never told if any others before us were on Chogan's trail. I considered how the report used the passive tense when regarding any previous attempts to pursue him. I never mentioned any specifics about who. Indeed, since the last definitive report of his crimes occurred in northern Texas. I wonder how they were able to so confidently track his whereabouts to that exact spot.

I might discuss these thoughts with my comrades later. We spend much of yesterday and today following an actual trail, and our pace is slow considerably. Now, we're often pausing to examine clues and traces. We're making less than ten miles in a day. It seems our quarry has taken some great pains to conceal his passing, but not enough to deter an astute tracker. Currently, the trail is pointing away south.

I have rather mixed feelings about this. I'm hoping that the trail might divert west, rather than potentially lead us into Mexico, which I am hoping to avoid. However, further south is more settled country, which is good news if we need to procure further supplies. The resting is out of the question. We have tried to eat and drink sparingly, in spite of the heat in long days, but there is only so much we can tolerate. Hannigan, in particular, needs much to eat, as the man is probably six foot six and quite large,

and always in need of food under his belt. For now, we've made our camp on the open country And perhaps tomorrow we can discuss where to find provisions And if we should question the locals August 9th, 1889 Near Estancia, New Mexico Haven't ridden in a few days Nothing too notable in that time

The trail has veered a bit westward to my relief In the morning we debated travelling to a nearby town Called Estancia on the map We came to the consensus that we should at least try to find an opportunity to resupply, though we're not in agreement about questioning the locals. I, for one, am against it, as even though following the trail is slow and weary work, we are not likely to obtain any useful information from the locals, and we might risk the secrecy of our mission, or even be misdirected by local rumours.

William and I are in agreement. Hannigan is decidedly neutral, while Quinn and Sharp, especially sharp, are getting impatient without progress. As the leader of our group, I made an executive call to all of them to refrain from questioning the locals. The town of Vistancia itself is rather pitiful, being only a very small trading post. The local general store was not particularly well stocked, but we more or less found what we required. Apart from this, nothing truly notable. I have mostly spent the day thinking further about it.

situation. I've revealed further details in the dossier to the others, but again, they seemed relatively undisturbed and asked few questions. Now I'm wondering if, perhaps, they already know some of these details themselves, were they briefed individually beforehand? I was led to believe, through my orders, that these men were unaware of the specifics, and that it was my responsibility to reveal them as necessary. Well, I can't say for certain. I'm rather exhausted, so perhaps my mood is being affected negatively. Rest and a nip of rye might do me some good.

I've been upstanding these last several days, so I think I've earned it. August 9th, 1889, addendum. My God, I am bloody goddamn irritated with sharp. I haven't expressed it before, but it has been

growing ever since we left Las Vegas. His interjections, unsolicited comments, general complaining have been a steady feature of his company, but until now I have been ignoring it successfully, and refusing to engage with him has worked, well, for a time. But now I hear this fool went against my explicit orders and has been interrogating the locals about the men we are pursuing. He hasn't grasped that the locals are already wary of us, a group of strangers in these parts who go about conspicuously armed, and his

questioning could throw suspicion on us. We could find ourselves a target of local law if we are careful. I let him know this in the sternest of possible terms, and he's been sulking for the past hour, muttering under his breath. I'll say it now. If that glorified stable hand doesn't shut his mouth and stick to caring for the horses, I'll smack him into next week. I'm also fairly annoyed with Quinn as well, for not stifling sharp during their trip to town, but Quinn seems genuinely repentant, so I'll avoid antagonizing him. That is all. I simply needed to express this before it boils over.

August 10th, 1889, near Estancia, New Mexico. I'm writing this entry midday, so I'll keep it brief. I desperately hate to admit this, but it seems that fool sharp managed to uncover something useful after all. Still, I can't concede this to him. He would only encourage him. Anyhow, it seems the locals have reported unusual strangers in the region. and, well, besides ourselves, of course.

And their description not only matches what had been speculated in the dossier, but also occurred quite recently, well, within the time frame established by prior reports. The local owner of the General Store mentioned a white man who came through a fortnight prior, who was decorated strangely for a white man. He wore a mixture of American and Indian garb, and some regalia sporting strange totems that were unrecognizable, and even had some strange markings. possibly tattoos, around his temples.

Around this time, a young woman from a nearby farm was said to have gone missing, and remained missing at the time of our passing. Sharp inquired without any attempt to find the young woman, and it was said that the only evidence of her whereabouts were a spotty series of blood trails, assumed to be hers, leading westward. I must say this is a remarkable find, but I must not concede this to Sharp. We may remain in the area for a short time longer to consider our next move, and see if this information concurs with the trail we've been following. August 13, 1889 in the ruins of a Spanish mission called Abel, New Mexico.

I have not written for a few days, but today we made a rather disturbing find, and so I should write it down now. We wasted a day and a half debating our exact plan based on the information we discovered back in Estancia, and it was only yesterday that we finally resumed the trail. It seems my fears of being misdirected by faulty intelligence were not entirely justified, but we also debated whether or not we should investigate the story of the missing woman, in the vain hope that some meaningful clue might be discovered. I came down firmly against it, as did Sharp. Finally, some agreement from him,

although Quinn and Hannigan have shown themselves to be softer and more concerned. It took some prodding. but eventually they saw things my way. Getting back on the trail was a slow process, as we stopped frequently to consider our options for following the trail, while still heeding the information we'd obtained in town. We proceeded further south, and then west of short ways,

when we discovered it. We had no expectation of finding anything in that particular spot, as we'd only ascended the hill to gain a commanding view of the terrain, and scope of the possible campsite for land. later. And indeed, we did find the ruins of a camp already there. There it stood, the campfire long dead, and a headless corpse sitting upright on a log in front of it. It just sat there, with its hands on its knees, as if listening intently to an interlocutor, with a copious stain of blood having spilled from his neck and onto his chest. It was a man's body, fully clothed,

in some type of garb that resembled rags. But the most strange and unsettling feature of the scene was the utter lack of activity in the area. The corpse had clearly been there for several days, the skin having gone slayed gray. But in all that time, no animals had bothered the scene. Coyotes or wolves had obviously not ravaged it. No vultures circled overhead.

No insects explored the sight. There weren't even any flies settling. on the corpse. This fine silenced act grouped for a time, and only William came out of his astonishment and moved forward to inspect the scene. He actually dabbed some blood from the stump onto his finger and smelled it, as if it had a distinctive odor. It was then that William pointed out the abnormal serenity of the scene.

Nobody spoke for a time. But when the spell broke, we openly asked one another what to do next. William did not detect any trace of a trail at the site, and in fact we never did find the head. We searched all around the scene, but came up with nothing. Quinn asked if we ought to report the obvious crime as soon as possible, and even broached the idea of turning back to his stancia. This, I rejected, as we'd wasted enough time already just getting this far, and reminded him that we could report it at a later opportunity.

Hanigand questioned if we should bury the body. but this I also rejected because it would take too much time. We left the scene as we found it and moved on to our next chosen destination. The ruins of Pueblo and old Spanish mission at a place called Arbo. I spend the remainder of the trip thinking about that camp, and I do wonder if perhaps we ought to have done something about the body after all. Quinn, Hannigan and Sharp have been uncharacteristically quiet since then. I could tell they regretted leaving the remains of the poor devil, probably wondering if his loved ones knew what had come of him.

We've settled in the ruins of the mission for the night. Finally glad to spend a night under a roof, even one with so many holes. I've been rather irritated with the others for the past few days. I think my attitude has finally softened towards them. And I think we can say for certain. We are certainly on the trail of something. August 14th, 1889, in a village on the Rio Grande, New Mexico. We have finally reached a more settled region, at least more settled than that pitiful scrubland

around Distancia. And we've decided to rest up a bit in a small village on the Rio Grande. I've heard the name once or twice since we've been here, but I didn't quite understand it, nor could I hope to spell it, but I know roughly where it is. The settlers here are mostly Mexicans. whose ancestors have lived here since the time this land was a Spanish domain. They were quite wary of us at first, given our ragged state and being openly armed, but they quickly came around and welcomed us.

I must say, despite their initial suspicions, the Mexicans showed remarkable hospitality that outstrips any I've experienced anywhere else. However, they remained wary of William, the Creek Seminole fellow, who I suppose the Mexicans took for an Apache at first. They still have clear and none too pleasant memories of fighting the seemingly endless raids of the Apache going back well over a hundred years. This hamlet in which we found ourselves

was mostly composed of family members and the elderly patriarch invited us to share his home for an evening and dine with them. I never told them our purpose for coming through their village, although some did ask. I simply told them we were tracking, renegade Indians, to which they responded quite positively. For the first time in several days, we enjoyed a full meal with his extended family,

enjoying the tasty cuisine he'd prepared for us, beans, a rich stew of pork and vegetables, even some peppers he'd been saving. It was a welcome respite for us after so much hardship on the trail, and all of our spirits, even that irascible shop, were greatly restored. I will pass the night here before heading out in the morning. I think I can sleep quite well here, with good food in my stomach and a roaring fire at my back. And then, maybe, I can forget where I am for a time.

August 15, 1889, Socorro, New Mexico. The people of the village gave us a fond farewell upon our departure. They even gave us some extra provisions for our use, which I was all too grateful to accept. So far we have followed the Rio Grande, further south through the day, to a town called Socorro. I am familiar with this town, though I am puzzled why we have come here, or why the trail has led south along such an obvious route, where before it went through remote wilderness.

I'll have to keep a closer eye on my comrades, as they've shown remarkably poor judgment when they find themselves back in civilization after so long in the country. It was a relatively short ride from the village to Socorro, so we arrived in the mid-afternoon. We might need some supplies, though, thankfully not much, thanks to our previous gracious hosts. For now, I'll find a hotel and see if I can sleep in an actual bed for the first time in nearly two weeks. Morale seems to have held strong, and I hope it'll stay this way. August 17, 1889, somewhere southwest of St. Sikoro.

Words cannot express my current fury. I just read my last two entries, and it still pains me how much my former sense of well-being has fallen since then. I am beyond enraged with my team, and I'm now wondering if perhaps their sheer idiocy of the last few days may have ruined this entire mission. Two weeks trudging across New Mexico in the height of summer, all for nothing.

When I went to rest at a hotel in Socorro, I was expecting to have a bath and a quiet evening, perhaps a decent meal and a few drinks at the saloon. Imagine my surprise when I awoke at three o'clock in the morning, having fallen asleep in the early evening before. It must have been the rain. I was rather looking forward to a sudden late summer tempest that moved in over town and brought some much-appreciated rain to the desert. Well, I must have fallen asleep listening to it.

Instead, I awoke to shouting, gunfire and screams in the street, wondering just what was going on. I remained inside, looking cautiously out the window, pistol in hand, when I caught sight of the source of the ruckus. It was my team, all four of them, charging up and down the street, howling like Indians, firing their guns into the air and nearby windows, bottles in hand. I ran down as soon as possible and accosted them, wondering just what the hell they got up to. I had to Buffalo that idiot sharp to stand still and listen to me. I even held my gun on Hannigan and Quinn, while William was seemingly nowhere to be found. The rest I pieced together from interrogating these damn fools after we bid a hasty retreat after a confrontation with the local constable.

I hope to God these idiots didn't actually hide. anybody, because we didn't stay to see what came afterward. It turns out my man had gone to the local saloon early in the evening, intending to relax and amuse themselves, when the drink got the better of them, and they decided to try their luck at a card game with some locals. Drunk as they were, their foray went poorly,

and a brawl of some kind ensued, whereupon they went out into the streets, amusing themselves with wild gunfire and general revelry and chaos. They know for certain They severely beat a man in the saloon And assaulted several others And Quinn admitted that he struck a lawman in the face With his pistol butt on their way out

We came upon William some ways outside of town And he had apparently escaped the fracker By absconding over the rooftops In possession of several bottles of whiskey I was so angry when I saw those bottles And I threatened to shoot him If he didn't toss every single one of them into the river I gave them as fierce of verbal lashing as I could,

but still in their relatively drunken state, I can't say how much of it stuck. But I could see them returning to their senses by mid-morning. Hopefully recounting the lurid details of their excavate made them ashamed enough to consider their behavior. Damn it all, I am not a school headmaster. I shouldn't have to do something like this. Undoubtedly, we will have the local law searching for us.

So for the time being, we shall head as far south as the trail goes and then deviate west. This, of course, assumes that our mission is in the bust, thanks to them. August 20th, 1889, unknown mountain west of Socorro, New Mexico. Again, I haven't ridden in some days. There seems no point right now, but I suppose our progress, or lack thereof, still needs to be recorded. After our retreat from Sikoro, we headed south for a brief spell, and then west and up into the foothills of a mountain just west of Sikoro. We're only a few miles from town, but we are relatively secluded here. Once again, our morale is quite low, low as it has been so far.

After recovering from their drunken stupor, I think the men have mostly realized just what they did and how it could cost us dearly. Now, even though I am confident about disciplining them, I wish that I hadn't scolded them like children. After all, these are mostly grown, rational men, and my anger has largely subsided. Quinn has been openly repentant about his actions, as is Hannigan, though he is mostly embarrassed and humiliated, rather than genuinely sorrowful. Sharp, as ever, is unrepentant, and seems to conceive of his behavior as some kind of rebellion against our city. situation instead of anyone in particular. I hope that fool doesn't force me to do something rash and to put him back in order. I assume that their ill-advised rebellion was born from an insatiable desire for recreation after so long on the trail,

although Quinn spoke to me earlier today, suggesting otherwise. I was resistant to the idea that their behavior was the product of anything but general irresponsibility. but Quinn's story, if I believe it, has made me see differently. Time on the trail was exhausting, he said, and they were in fact desperate to relax and forget their troubles, but for other reasons. He says that he and the others are struck by a growing dread, a fear that has been growing all these weeks while pursuing our man.

It was a strange, almost unaccountable kind of fear, whose source was not clear and this intense dread had been shared amongst themselves all this time growing precipitously especially at times when supplies were short and days were long even the ever stoic William

was struck by this fear even though he did a good job of concealing it I asked if it was a fear of what we were doing about our mission and the men we sought he says at first he could not identify the source of the fear, that the early days of our expedition were relatively benign. What changed that was what we found at the camp near Arbo. The sight of that headless corpse, sitting upright in the unnatural stillness around him,

cemented his fear, and that it severely perturbed the others as well. I admit, I felt a similar feeling after that moment, though I had dismissed the scene as a savage but meaningless atrocity. That fear, said Quinn, motivated them to seek escape wherever they could, as if their drunken revelry was akin to some sort of last meal. This all struck me as odd, yet strangely illuminating. I wonder now if it's true. I see now that I never really interacted closely with the others, never palavered with

them, so perhaps it's no surprise that their private fears were never apparent to me. Another day or two, and I think we can safely rule out any sort of pursuit against us by the authorities in Sikoro. We were in town only a few hours, so it's entirely possible that nobody there could conclusively identify us. I just hope the trail of our suspect hasn't gone cold in the meantime. Whatever their fears, whatever our fears, having come so far, seeing this thing through is all that makes sense anymore. August 24th, 1889, estimated 40 miles northwest of Las Cruces. Morale is still quite poor. I'd hope for an improvement after we left our hideout three days ago, though obviously in vain.

We've kept quite a brisk pace the past few days, making over 80 miles in that time. It's taken some motivating to get these men to accept such a pace, though now I know the source of their poor spirits. I am a bit more sympathetic. Sharp is complaining as usual, but he hasn't changed much, which is actually a relief. The others are more concerning,

particularly Hannigan, who has mostly abandoned his jocular demeanor. The trail is still continuing south, though it has deviated some ways from the Rio Grande. The spirit's so poor, and many of the supplies running short, I thought better of asking them about what they knew of our mission situation. Perhaps it is just excessive suspicion on my part, but the question remains, and now I wonder

if knowing about what we're up against is the source of their fear. It's even starting to affect me, though I mostly feel despondent about our apparent lack of progress. I might cease my journaling for a while. Whatever relief I feel when expressing myself in writing is more. or less gone. August 28, 1899. Location unknown exactly. Somewhere near Arizona territory boundary.

I've been praying these past four days for a definite sign. Any sign, any more of a trace of the men we're after than whatever tracks and traces that William and Hannigan can divine from the dirt and mud across this awful desert. And today, I got one. God have mercy for my sins I got what I asked for Another dull day on the trail Nearing Arizona

I thought the monotony was getting to me That horrible, caustic type of boredom I remember from my days in the cavalry Waiting for a battle to erupt Fearing a Sue brave waiting around every rock And tree on the plains I'm rambling So around three o'clock

we spotted men on the horizon, two of them, who seemed at first to be moving away from us. But as we continued forward, it seemed they were heading in the same direction, but would wait periodically for us to close the distance, then move again for a short time. It almost seemed like they were waiting in ambush, or luring us into ambush. Bandits, renegates, whatever they were, I didn't care. It was something, after so much of... nothing. It's stupid, being so willing to thrust into an apparent ambush, but we did. My comrades must have felt the same, because they followed without hesitation.

We caught up with them after an hour or so. Well, they weren't at all what I expected, what little I did expect. These men were fearful, desperate, even terrified of us. They were emaciated and pale, clothed in animal skins like cavemen. and their hair shaved off. I saw those scars on the sides of their heads. Ugly, ragged scars that were still bright red.

One of them was missing an ear, and they were terrified of us when we caught up to them, so scared they could hardly move. They weren't visibly armed. Before we could ask them anything, one demanded in hysterics to know who we are, and the other chimed in,

saying we were with them, whoever that was, and we could not calm them. We could hardly even get a word in between their hysterical questions. The one asking started asking faster, louder, more shrill, and even our shouts in return could not make ourselves understood. Before I knew what had happened, the other had pulled a great big horse pistol from nowhere and fired upon us. Well, gunfights are like that.

They start and end so quickly. In a second we pulled our pistols, gunned down the both of them. We emptied our revolvers and just riddled them. And when the smoke cleared, both were sprawled in the dirt. One with his skull smashed open by a bullet. The other releasing a loud, rasping death rattle. We leaped off our horses and immediately checked to make sure they were dead. The whole incident transpired over the course of 45 seconds at most.

we could still hardly believe what had just happened. Both men were stone dead as we saw. It was a minute or two before we realized that Quinn had been struck by one of their shots. The shot hit him in the hip and knocked him clear off his horse. The shot hit him in the hip and knocked him clear off his horse, and his groans went unnoticed for several seconds while we processed what had happened. Sharp was the first to come out of his astonishment and went to check on, Quinn. As much as I hate, Sharpe, he has a toughness in him that I had never suspected.

He knows something of medicine, and inspected the wound and applied pressure to it. By then, we'd come around and did what we could to assist Sharp. The wound is quite bad, he says, and the bullet lightly struck the bone and shattered it. After nearly a month of following an endless trail, pursuing a dangerous criminal, and now in a matter of seconds, one of our companions is being lost. Quin is not dead and won't die soon, but we are far from anywhere civilized, and the man may lose his leg to this grievous wound. We have few medical supplies, many of which are for horses, not men. But Quinn has put on a brave face. I always rather liked him and now I have to admire the manful way he is bearing the pain, the strength beyond his years.

He insists that we push on, even though we tell him we can turn back, bring him someplace where he'll be treated. He's earned that, at least. But he insists and says that we can bring him someplace along the way, but he does not want to impede us. Secretly, I'm relieved that he insists we push forward, because it is all that we can do anymore in spite of everything. And despite agriam situation, we have a clue, a clue of the kind we haven't seen in weeks. Those slain men bear strange markings about their heads. They have bizarre totems carved into their backs, the animal skins, those strange mutilations across their scouts.

It can't possibly be anything else. It has to be connected to our man, this Deacon Chogan, Red Horse, Peacote, or Black Heron, or whatever they call him. For weeks, he hasn't seemed even real. All he's been is faint markings in the dust and dirt, a headless corpse around a campfire, a veritable road to nowhere of scattered blood trails. But now he is real. I'm not cracking up. I feel it indelibly in my gut that something is happening.

I prayed for a sign when I thought I'd die in dirt for nothing. God is my witness. I got one. And God have mercy on me. It may just have cost Henry Quinn his young life. August 29th, 1889, near territory boundary of Arizona and New Mexico. I'm writing this in the morning.

It has taken me to be. nearly an hour to accept what has just happened. I was lying before. I think now I might actually be cracking up. Sharp has been ranting and raving for an hour now. Hannigan just seemed sick. He won't mean anyone's eyes or even respond. Sharp has been yelling at him intermittently this whole time,

and William is just staring off to the west at nothing in particular. We set up camp and bedded down for the night. night, not far from where Quinn was shot. We thought we should rest after what happened, to brace for the long journey ahead with that awful wound in his right hip. I never thought I could sleep with everything that was going on, but sometime in the night, while I stared blankly at the stars, it came. I awoke when I heard Hannigan and Sharp shouting frantically around the perimeter of our camp, calling Quinn's name. Quinn was missing. Some of my in the night he'd slipped away from our camp.

How exactly I cannot say. We should have noticed that his scones of pain had suddenly disappeared. He couldn't have walked in his condition, much less get far enough to be out of sight. And then, I noticed that horrendous stench, an incredibly foul miasma that seemed to permeate the entire camp. Quinn's bedroll was lumped together, with all of his supplies and weapons gone. But his horse and saddle was still there. I joined Hannigan and Sharp in calling for Quinn,

while William scoured the edge of the camp, searching for whatever trace could be found. Hannigan went over and checked Quinn's bedroll, and that's where he found it. He made this horrible gasp when he unwrapped the bedroll, and that immediately got all of us to pay attention. That bedroll was the source of the stench. and we soon saw why.

Inside the roll was a pile of organs and innards, lumped together like the awful in a slaughterhouse. The entrails were covered in faint splotches of blood and unidentifiable fluids. But there was no mistake. These were real entrails, in Quinn's bedrole, and we couldn't account for where Quinn was. The thoughts that occurred to us in these moments paralyzed us. Sharp immediately said

It couldn't be him No one could say what kind of antriles these were All we know is that we found it in Quinn's bedroll And that Quinn was missing He has a resilient mind, I must admit Nobody had suggested that Whatever was in that bedrole was what was left of Quinn But he gave voice to what all of us were thinking

And I couldn't dispute him But I can dismiss what we're thinking How could something like this be possible? How could he leave or be spirited away in the night without our noticing? How could that hideous pile of innards and gorse suddenly appear within his bedroom? Sharp has ceased his tirade finally. Now, I have seen his many faces, but this is the first time I have seen him defeated. The once-jovial Hannigan is a shell of his former exuberance and good humor.

William has just come back and he seems frustrated, exhausted and defeated just like Sharpe. I think they have all come to the same conclusion. Our foe is very much real. Whatever became of Quinn cannot be anything other than his doing. I've read the dossier.

I've seen the details of his crimes that this Deacon Chogan accused of 19 murders across three states and territories is capable of such things I have no doubt suddenly I don't think I want to know just what exactly happened to young Henry Quinn a faithful stalwart companion for only too short a time what we found in that bedroom is anybody's guess

but it won't be mine September 1889, Arizona, according to our map. I have not kept track of the precise date for several days. I imagined it must be September by now. We left what remained of Quinn at the campsite, still wrapped in his bedroll, taking his few supplies with us.

His horse as well will remain with us as long as we can manage. Sharp has taken responsibility for his saddle and tack. Quinn had no other personal belongings in his kit, or had them on his person when he disappeared. No journals, photographs, or even a small Bible. There was nothing I could bring back to his next of kin. Assuming I do notify his next of kin, I'm not sure I could bring myself to tell the truth of what became of him, or what we assumed to have happened to him.

We've ridden all through the day since then, stopping rarely and keeping a brisk pace. Sharp no longer seems concerned about pushing our horses too hard. I assume by now we must be well inside the Arizona territory, and now we're heading south yet again. If the trail should lead down into Mexico itself, I shall not hesitate. My desire to see this thing through has overridden my feeble concerns about doing so.

The nights have been getting worse. Every night, without fail, the horses will become supremely action, and Sharp will spend well over an hour trying to calm them and prevent them from running off. Hannigan has finally come out of the worst of his torpor, but his moods have been shifting wildly. He swears blind that during the night he can hear strange sounds, like the call of wild animals in the distance, but like none he has ever heard before. I have never heard them myself, but in my state I can hardly focus on anything, much less no. notice anything beyond the perimeter of our camp.

My private reserve of whiskey has finally run out. I wonder how I will now get to sleep. We have been leaving our campfire lit throughout the night, in spite of the risks. Not one of us can bear the thought of passing another night in darkness. September 4th or 5th, 1889 near the Mexican border. By God, I heard those sounds. that Hannigan has been warning us about. I heard them in the night coming from the south,

directly in the path we are headed. And like Hannigan said, these weren't any kind of animal that I have ever heard in this country or any other I visited. It almost seemed like the noises came from the sky itself, rather than them from some distant point on the horizon. It was like a deep, wavering howl, almost like a wounded animal.

and despite its faint report, it echoed definitively across the plains. Sharp claims he hasn't heard them, but I saw everyone in camp become riveted in place when those echoes went out. He has heard them. I have no doubt. We're coming close now. I'm sure of it. But now I wonder if it's not them, but us that is being followed, or lured to wherever our trail should lead us. I wonder how long we've been followed,

perhaps since the mission at Arbo, or even before, when we discovered the corpse at the camp near there, or from Estancia, where we interrogated the locals, or maybe even from the very beginning. Hannigan is cracking up. William has hardly said a word for days, and despite Sharp's frequent denials, I know he is fraying at the edges as well.

I have held my silence long enough. Before too long, I will confront them about what they know and do not know. I'm starting to crack up myself. But there is no reason my comrades should be so forlorn, unless they know something I do not. Perhaps tomorrow, after another night of sounds and distant threats, they will finally come around. September 6th.

1889, Mexican border. I knew there was something on that hill. Our camp the previous evening was set in a depression between two hills. One bear, the other with a small grove of cottonwoods surrounded by thickets of tall scrub brush set in its slopes. I spotted that gap in the thicket, like the entrance of a cave, but surrounded by creosote and low-hanging branches. I pared it no mind at first, but all through that evening, I was transfixed by that gap.

Maybe there was a convenient spring to water the animals, or a place to set up a secluded camp, but that wasn't the reason I'd noticed it. This morning, only a few minutes ago, I finally worked up the nerve to go and investigate it, and I found something, something so terrible and edifying that whatever doubts I have about our task had now gone.

I went into that gap in the thicket, where it was several yards deep, and I emerged in a small clearing, overshadowed by those cottonwoods. That's when I found it. Suspended by those low-hanging branches was an enormous totem, perhaps six feet across,

hanging several feet over the clearing. And it was made of bones. Animal bones, maybe some. Some human bones as well, all arranged like spokes on a wheel, with feathers and animal skins. Around his border were mummified limbs, both human and animal, with a similarly mummified head of a goat at his crest, and a string of dried human skulls hanging down from the bottom. But those animal skins were the worst. They were fresh, some still dripping blood.

It can have been here more than a day or so. The message is unmistakable. We are most definitely closing in. Whether we are closing in on them, or if they are closing in on us, we shall soon find out. September 6th. Addendum, same location. I finally confronted these fools about whatever they've been hiding this whole time. And despite some early resistance, they fight.

I was right before. They were in fact individually briefed about what was going on. Each one had a copy of the very same dossier I was given, with subtle alterations to specific details. Each was told that they were the sole possessors of the information, and that the others would not know and could be only told sparingly. But they found this out for themselves when I freely shared the details I was given against the I was given against orders.

Why would the agency have done this? Do they expect none of us to come back? Is that what they actually hope for? It's the only reason I can think of. Each man believes only he knows what is going on. And when the others are lost or killed, he becomes the sole witness to what happened. But why tell us in the first place?

No, I've answered my own question. if I had not known what was going on, I would have deserted this mission back in New Mexico. We have just enough information and reason to push on. And when each man believes only he knows a full story, he will have all the more reason to turn on each other or leave the others to die. They want as few witnesses to this operation as possible.

This is only conjecture, but it is the only reason I can think of. I'll be keeping a much closer eye on these men from now on. The secret is out. I won't have them turning on me or deserting us. They will see this thing through. I will make sure of that. That lingering, unnameable fear that Quinn told me about in Socorro is clear to me now.

But he will not get the best of us. September 7th, 1889, 12 miles past the border. in Mexico. That miserable cur, William, has deserted us. Our designated tracker, the one who so capably led us across the wastes, using nothing more than faint prints in the dust, a faithful hand stalwart companion

that showed himself no more than a feckless, no-account coward. He stole away in the night, presumably while we slept, and was long gone by sunrise. He took with him, him, his own horse and supplies, and left few traces of his leaving. Hannigan will be taking over his duties as the tracker, although his slow pace and reluctance to go on could impede us.

It is no matter. His demeanor has hardly changed, even after the revelations of yesterday. Sharp turned Quinn's horse loose this morning. Quinn's supplies were long since exhausted, and the extra horse was no use to us any longer. He even broached the idea. that we should turn all the horses loose and continue on foot. When we reach wherever we're headed,

we'll have no more use for them. I can't say that I disagree, but we will press on further before doing so. And depending on what we find, a return journey may not be necessary. September 10th, 1889, the forest of skins in the Sierra Madre. We turned our horses loose yesterday,

when we reached the foothills of the mountains. They lingered for a minute, and then bolted abruptly. Since then, we've moved further into the mountains. Then, we reached it. Less than 100 yards into the trees. We found our first definite signs of the men we are following. Animal skins nailed to trees, totems of sticks and bones. And at the edge of Narayo, we saw the clear sign that we have been waiting for.

A symbol painted on a rock face of a man with many arms and legs, and a head painted completely black, with narrow white slits for eyes. It was like a gatekeeper, for beyond that was what we have called the forest of skins. Dozens, even hundreds of skins Of animals, perhaps even humans Stuck to trees, draped over branches, Peltz of animals of different species Stitched together in horrible shapes

Every tree inside is covered with them And some are so fresh that they drip blood from overhead Like a light drizzle of rain I think I can see torches ahead in the distance Deeper into the forest We are here, I know it. Hannigan is on the verge of hysterics. Sharp is bracing himself.

Everything ahead of us is our enemy. I've been so preoccupied with getting here and I haven't even thought of how we should take our quarry, alive or dead. But it will come to us. We're at the end, and our end will make itself clear. Deacon Chogun, alias Red Horse, alias Peco, alias Black Heron is finally at our door. This is when the journal entries end, but not where the story of Joseph Sheridan ends. The second portion of his writings is much shorter and was apparently written many years after the events he describes in his journal, in the year 1896.

In it, he reveals just what happened in the forest in the Sierra Madre Mountains of northern Mexico, in terms much more coherent than his earlier writings. He evidently survived the horrific ordeal and returned to a normal life a few years later, having spent many months in a sanitarium recuperating from what happened. He left the United States for South America in 1898, settling in Argentina and living out the rest of his life. It is unknown when and where he eventually died, although he left behind his estranged wife and their young son. Again, I'm not quite sure what to think about what I read in this journal. It all seems so surreal. Too strange to even be true, but I can't imagine why Joe Sheridan would fabricate something so revolting and horrible.

But the fact is, not long after this, He did indeed spend time in a sanitarium to recover from an extremely poor physical and mental state, which points to two possible conclusions. One, that his writings really are the product of a diseased mind, which led to his placement in the mental institution. But the other, more worrying possibility is that perhaps there is at least some amount of truth in what he wrote, and that his condition was a result of it. I have a hard time imagining a world where something like this is possible

but he seems so certain especially in his recollections afterward that it was all quite real but I just don't know and I can't say for certain I suppose it is up to the readers to draw their own conclusions what follows next is a transcription of his writings after the incident in which he details what happened after the final entry in his journal.

Perhaps you people can read it and draw better conclusions than mine. May, 1896. It has been a full five years since my release from the institution, and the personal vow of silence I opposed to my myself has run its course. I spend the years since those faithful months in 1889, rebuilding my courage and resolve to one day describe what happened and the fate of my former comrades. Indeed, it is the memory of these men that has spurred on my desire to come clean. Though we were companions for only a short time and were not always on cordial terms,

I feel a certain kinship with these men. Not unlike that I forged with my former comrades during my time in the U.S. cavalry. In fact, I dare say that there is some deeper bond with us. are J. Hanigan, Henry Quinn, Wilfrid Sharp, and that stoic Indian William, than any I felt before or since. We are all victims of a horror beyond reckoning, one that is thrown into question my own faith in the sanity of the world. But alas, I feel I owe them a certain debt, one that I intend to repay in their memory. I was found in the village of Agua Prieta on the Mexican border in early November of 1880.

My state, both physically and mentally, was one of profound deterioration, covered in strange wounds and scars, babbling nonsense and completely naked. In only my bare skin, I wandered into the village in the wee hours of the morning, having walked a considerable distance through first, hunger, and inclement weather for several days and nights. The locals were naturally disturbed by my appearance, though their alarm became genuine concern and I was taken into the care of the local convent, where the sisters helped restore me to some health. I am eternally grateful to those wonderful women, particularly Sister Mary Agnes,

whose ministrations were among the first to bring me out of my deranged state. A message was sent across the border, where, evidently, word, was reached that I, Joseph Sheridan, was found alive, though not well, and within days I was retrieved from the care of nuns by my sister Mary. Meredith, in the company of two men from the agency. Even before my convalescence in the institution in Colorado, those two agency brutes attempted to debrief me, even though my dismal state should have precluded any clumsy attempts at interrogation. Meredith, God bless her,

came to my defense and saw to it that I was placed into better care and that I would be safe for a time from there prodding. I was in the institution for 13 months. all the while frequently visited by Meredith and even my wife Eleanor, whom I have not seen for quite some time. She did not, however, bring our son, which I suppose is a small mercy given my state. The doctors and nurses at that institution treated me quite well, and with their treatment and kind considerations, I'm glad to say I made progress. But I have incurred some wounds that I believe shall never truly heal.

in an interview with my primary doctor. I described my state as being one in which my mind and soul were shattered in many pieces, and though my recovery managed to meticulously piece it together again, it shall never again come together in its original shape. But, God willing, I will find the strength to push ever on and make peace with my new self. Almost immediately upon my release, I was called to the Denver office of the Pinkerton Agency

for a thorough debriefing of the events of those, faithful weeks in 1889. And I did give them thorough report, though the exact truths of what happened to remain mine, and mine alone. I did indeed get their man, this deacon Chogan fellow, but, as things turned out,

I could not conclusively prove to them that I had. But my sincerity swayed them, and they could not deny the evident truths of my predicament, that I returned with a broken body am mind, a living testament to some horrific ordeal that they could scarcely fathom had I not corroborated it with my own words. But the five men that departed Las Vegas, New Mexico, that August seven years ago, only I remained, and only I can say what exactly became of most of them. The mystery of what happened to Quinn remains a mystery, but I am confident

that he shall never be seen again. After that, I imposed that vow of silence upon myself, which I have maintained for five whole years now. The act of conveying my tale to the Pinkerton so soon after my release was quite painful and trying. I have since left the agency, and I have moved back home to Ohio and found employment with my brother-in-law, Frederick, at his grocery store. I received the $5,000 reward I was promised, and despite my urging to offer the same reward to the next-of-kin of my compatriots, I cannot say if they ever received it. I reread my journal, which I had fortunately saved, making some private annotations about certain statements I'd made.

My God, I can hardly believe just how fragile mind was in the latter days of that time. But even then, I distinctly remember how little truth I expressed about myself, like my feeble quotes about finding sobriety on the trail. I drank like a fish that whole time and had no business making a similar expectation of my comrades nor did I ever express that I indeed was struck by a dread a mercurial fear throughout the early days of that expedition just as my fellows were

in these self-criticisms I found a reserve of strength to recount the latter half of my tail and no matter what fears and reservations may come flooding back I am committed to putting my memories to the page. My last journal entry puts the three of us in what I call the forest of skins, which is precisely as it sounds, and as I described those many years ago. I knew that we were quite close to our intended goal, and I felt an insatiable desire to confront our man, and to see from my own eyes the men we had pursued through thick and thin these many weeks.

When night fell in that ghastly forest, we were set upon by our enemies. For all this time, we'd only ever heard rumors or seen faint traces of their passing. And it was only when we'd laid eyes upon them, the men who were formerly distant nightmares in our imaginations, that, well, they were more horrible than anything I expected. They were dressed entirely in animal skins from head to toe, strangely stitched together, so nothing of human visage could be identified, not even a patch of skin. Those horrible faceless demons, with bones and sticks in their hoods to resemble antlers or horns, and descended upon us in near darkness and complete silence.

They said, not a word, no warnings or threats. They appeared from all directions, hunched over like stalking animals, carrying primitive weapons, but in those numbers we could not hope to ward them off without a guns before they reached us. With knives, spears, and clubs fashioned from wood and animal bones, they charged with murderous intent. We had drawn our pistols and rifles, and with that horrible fear and icy feeling in our veins, we did not hesitate to pull those triggers.

And yet, it did nothing. I know for a fact that our bullets struck home, yet our assailants did not drop. not that they even react to being shot. With their speed, we had only seconds of fire before they came upon us, and with great violence they pummeled us without mercy, raining down blows on our hapless heads with their clubs, and the blunt end of their spears. For many agonizing minutes that seemed like ours,

we were beaten without a sound from any of our foes, struck constantly without any regard for where their blows landed. In those moments, I felt the sting of failure, feeling that we had come to our deaths and that our enemy would be victorious. Somewhere in those moments, I lost myself, thinking vaguely that I just died, that I was in those strange moments just before meeting my maker. But it was not the end. In spite of that vicious beating, I and my comrades had only been rendered unconscious, badly injured but still alive. As I awoke, I was strung up by my hands and feet in a strange position, in considerable pain from the beating and from the strain on my wrists and ankles. I was suspended face down, a short ways above the ground, by three ropes between a group of trees.

My arms were pulled full span, my ankles tied together and pulled painfully tied to a tree behind me. I was positioned almost like a man on a cross, though held up. up only by ropes, suspended like a marionette some four feet above the ground. It was still night, though this part of the forest was quite well lit, with many torches staked into the ground, and when I gathered the energy, I could look up to a degree. I saw, through a haze of blood in my eyes, that others were about, dressed in a manner similar to our assailants, regarding me in complete silence. I said nothing, but as I looked about, I could not see my comrades anywhere.

I was held in this state, drifting in and out of consciousness for a time whose length I cannot determine. It was twilight when I was finally cut down for my painful situation, and though I was not restrained, I had no energy to resist with more than feeble struggles. I was simply dragged through the forest by my arms, and then rough-reaching. thrown down into the dirt, where I lay for some time before being grabbed again. I was raised to my knees, and it was only then that I realized that my captives had completely stripped off my clothes, except for some torn rags around my nether regions, and that I was in front of a roaring fire, facing a man completely cast in shadow of the bright flames.

He was completely bald, with no trace of beard, but had numerous patterns paid. upon his scalp and face. He regarded me with cold, empty eyes that showed nothing but contempt for a pitiful man before him. I could only stare blankly at his face, saying nothing. With the start, he briskly signaled the man restraining me to bring me to another spot. It was there that I saw what had become of my comrades. William, the Indian tracker, was among them. Despite his best efforts to flee our desperate predicament, he had not evaded capture. Having come as far as he did, perhaps he was faded to be among us at the end of the journey. His state was horrific beyond words, but I shall do my best.

He was restrained to an X-shaped crucifix elevated above the ground, fully illuminated by the firelight. His head, like the others, was completely shaved of its long, flowing blue. black hair, with numerous fresh lacerations made into the side of his skull, some of which still trickled blood. His eyes were wide open, with a haunted look and a trembling jaw that showed a man utterly broken. Across the front of his torso were even larger cuts and lacerations, some of which were stitched closed, with two main slashes in the shape of an X running from shoulder to hip. And his limbs.

Good God, his limbs. They had been completely flayed, and in that place were a patchwork of animal skin sewn into his flesh. They held up my face to regard this horrific sight for several minutes, tugging on the skin of my forehead to keep my eyes open.

They then lowered the cross with a violent drop. William led out a brief, blood-cirling shriek that was utterly ignored by our captors. Still on the cross, he was dragged away into the dark forest, out of my sight, to God knows where. By this point, the bravado with which I had pursued these men was completely gone. As they dragged William away, I went into a pitiful wail, and my nerves utterly collapsed. As I still wailed, the man once again dragged me off to my head. another spot, a crude enclosure made of sticks, where I again came face to face with a man

from before. There was an altar in the centre, and on it I recognised my friend Hannigan, who lay completely senseless and weak. He was still alive, I saw, and over him stood that painted man, who glared at me balefully in the dim light. I saw then in the corner, was sharp, in a state of shop not dissimilar to mine and two men were at work trimming the hair from his head shearing it off with a knife and then dry scraping the scalp of any stubble not caring if the blade sliced the skin

they forced my attention back at Hannigan who lay completely incontinent and at this man's mercy he raised Hannegan's head in the altar and drawing out a long thin instrument he began to vigorously thrust it into Hannigan's bare scalp. The poor devil began to come around as that horrible tool began to root under his skin

and was soon making gasping cries of agony through his sluggish state. I know now the reasons for the hideous markings about the scalps of the other victims. That horrible blade was pushed ever deeper into Hannigan's head. I was sure that it must have punctured his skull, and all the while his cries became screams, but he could do nothing

as this evil surgeon used his considerable strength to restrain the poor man. In an instant, the scream stopped, and Hannigan's head lulled over for me to look into his face. That look of abject horror remained, but his eyes were now black,

darling back and forth without comprehension. I could see that this horrible surgeon's blesteader, had gone completely through his head, just behind the temples. Then the blade was violently pulled out, and then the surgeon turned his attention to driving the blade into his victim's chest, ripping a deep gouge that resembled those I'd seen on William. I was rendered utterly speechless by this spectacle, but I could not look away.

This dark figure spayed open Hannigan's torso again, and started rooting around without object, as if out of curiosity, occasionally plunging his tool into some unseen viscerer. Hannigan was still alive, but could only make faint struggles against this horrific torture, and no sound would emanate from his mouth. But those eyes of his, those blank eyes,

would still come alive for brief instance, and I would feel faint, but I could not lose myself. Some time later, Hannigan was dragged off that altar. and Sharp, whose preparations were apparently complete, was put in his place. But Sharp, still in possession of his faculties, struggled with great force, crying and shouting at the top of his lungs. When the surgeon grabbed the sides of his head and began to push his thumbs into Sharp's eyes, the cries became shrieks, and the pain had hobbled Sharp long enough.

The surgeon's assistant could strike a vicious blow against the side of Sharp's head, which stunned him. It was then that the surgeon retrieved a horrible object, a mummified human head with no eyes that had been fashioned into some sort of chalice with the liquid draining from its open mouth. They forced Sharp's mouth open and poured down his throat some hideous concoction that resembled dark blood, but which gave a sharp, accurate chemical odour similar to carbolic acid. Within moments, Sharp was rendered as senseless as poor Hannigan before him, and this guy Lastly, Surgeon repeats his horrific mutilations on Sharp, but with greater violence and force than with Hannigan.

As before, Sharp still showed some vestige of life behind his eyes, but that grievous wound to his brain had permanently stifled his struggles. When the surgeon completed his work, he came around the altar to look me close in the eyes. His hands almost completely slathered with fresh blood. Then he gave a cold, baleful smile, sneering in my face, even chuckled. Then he quietly said, later on, he briskly got to his feet and walked out. It was then that a tight, smothering rag was pulled over my head, starving me of breath, and as I was sure I would suffocate, I was struck over the head and left in blackness. I came back to my senses seconds later.

and saw I was being dragged away yet again to a new place. I was quite afraid that I would again be strung up by those ropes, but I instead was dragged in front of a hole in the ground, looking into a small covered dugout, into which I was pushed and left alone. I was in utter shock as I lay on that frigid, sod floor of that dugout, unable to comprehend the meaning of what I had just witnessed. I was horrendous, meaningless mutilations,

The apparent death of my comrades, the knowledge that I was likely next for such treatment. All of it imposed on my fragile mind and left me in complete despair. I remained like this for days, held in this filthy dugout that was so small that I could not stand up, and was forced to lie in my own waist. One night I awoke to find myself being brusquely ripped out of the dugout, and again dragged off and forced to face the surgeon. I was convinced that my time on the altar had come. And knowing that the grotesque mutilations of the brain would not kill me, but leave me to suffer, I was deathly afraid.

Instead, I was brought again before this surgeon. To my utter horror, I saw that he was flanked on both sides by Hannigan and Sharp. They stood on their feet, though unsteadily, and swayed mildly while their blank eyes regarded me. They still had those terrible lacerations on their chests, with bits and pieces of animal hide stitched into their shoulders and arms, and the surgeon leaned down to scrutinize me with that familiar dead glare. But to my further surprise, he ushered my guards back and leaned forward to whisper in my ear. I cannot remember his precise words, but I distinctly recall his cold, soft voice, and I recall what sort of things he told me. He said that humanity would not inherit the earth, and that the world did not belong to the first men or to men like us, nor would it belong to anybody that comes after. Instead, he said, that the next man who rule the earth would not be born, but made, fabricated out of the pieces of the old world.

He claimed that he and his men were the parents of new order, and I am my comrades and countless others who suffered that horrible fate would be the chance. children, and those we bore after us would inherit the earth. I could not fully understand what he meant, and for all I knew, it was simply the ramblings of an insane man, but what he said next came with perfect clarity. In a soft, taunting voice, he said, You found me. And then I realized just who this diabolical surgeon was. It was the man I sold, this deacon Chogan.

and all his other aliases. I studied his face in the better light, trying to make out his features. At first glance, he did indeed seem to be a white man, but on further examination, he seemed to defy any firm classification of race. His skin was a very pale brown in the torchlight, but his painted face made it difficult to define any exact features.

He was not at all what I'd imagined, not the wise and sorcerer or hideous monster that I had pictured. With another brisk signal, his guards brought me to my feet and dragged in the direction of the altar. Having seen what became of Sharp and Hannigan, I began to panic, despite my defeated state. But I was taken by complete surprise when I felt a long-so-sharp object slide into my hands. I looked behind in confusion and saw that Sharp was following close behind. us. And I could swear then that I saw a faint glimmer of human life in his eyes, and a small nod touched his features. My panic turned to confusion, and then determination. Had I been granted

a slim chance of escape? But sharp, in his diminished state, had a brief resurgence of humanity and recognition. That feeling of hot-blooded determination that I felt in the days before our arrival returned to me. I had a chance again. I was placed on my back upon the altar, presumably destined for the same fate as sharp William and Hannigan. Chokin leaned over again, glaring into my face as he had done all of these times. And he gave an evil grin as he waved that horrible surgical instrument in front of my eyes. His men restrained my arms, and once again he bore that head chalice with foul elixote within. My face was forced open and the substance poured into my mouth. It was foul tasting beyond belief and as if some costed chemical had been

poured down my throat mixed with blood. I'd seen what this foul stuff had done to shop before and so I thought I could fake swallowing it, but it was so foul that I spit it out into Chogan's face. This absolutely enraged him, and for a man of his appearance, his rage very nearly drove me to panic again. Then he gave me that distinct evil smile, apparently intending to continue the procedure, even without his elixir to paralyze me. As I looked around, I saw sharp and Hannigan standing by my side, as if to guard me, but they were both glaring at Chogun. some of that spark of life having returned to their eyes. As Chogun raised his instrument to strike my head, they acted. With an enraged, animalistic cry,

Sharpe and Hannigan struck at the two other men guarding the altar. They drew concealed knives, and with tremendous fury plunged them into the faces of their targets, drawing screams and dropping them where they stood. Chogun was briefly frozen with astonishment, and I seized my moment. I'd hidden that long knife under the small of my back and in one motion I drew it and regarded Chogun

For a moment time slowed And I saw his attention shift to me With confusion and fury clouding his eyes And after a brief hesitation I swiped that knife with all my strength The slice caught him across his throat Completely ripping open the front of his neck And a warm jet of blood pelted my face

He stumbled back, not understanding at first, and his eyes became incredulous at his state. He teetered back, and, with his eyes still fixed on me, collapsed flat on his back, and lay still. As I saw this, I returned to my senses and realized I had been bellowing a loud and vicious war cry as I struck him down. I turned and saw that Sharpened Hannigan had already charged out into the camp, weapons in hand. striking with unbelievable speed and fury at other men who had come to challenge them. They suffered numerous blows in return, being slashed and skewed, but they did not slow, hacking away at their foes with boundless fury. I turned to my heels and fled into the forest,

heading whichever way I thought was north. But as I ran, I turned back to see my comrades, still fighting, surrounded by slain foes, and they began to succumb to their wounds, their bodies hideously torn, but not deterring them. With an energy that I never knew I possessed, I ran, sprinting with all my might in the direction from which we come. I must have been running for hours, when I was finally drained of energy, I was well clear of the forest and could see no pursuers. It was early evening by now, but even in my exhausted state, I stayed on my feet, keeping a brisk trot to the north.

The delayed sense of relief at being out of there finally came to me, and even in my dismal state, I exalted. Sharp and Hannigan were surely dead, overwhelmed and mortally wounded, as they were when I last saw them. But their fury and courage had given me my opportunity to escape. It's here that my recollections fade. I only remember walking endlessly with a vague sense of time

that seemed like the passage of days I did not sleep and rarely stopped to rest it was in this state that I stumbled into the village of Alcoirietta and the rest of my tale I've already told by now

it's taken me three days and numerous stops for me to completely write down my memories of the events of those horrible days now that it is out I can already feel a certain relief coming on, even though I am quite drained emotionally. My recovery from this chapter of my life may never be quite complete. I do not expect the pain that still reoccurs to ever cease. I still bear the marks of the ordeal on body as well as my mind.

With scars and marks from the beatings on my legs and back, a strange symbol carved into flesh between my shoulder blades. I have never laid eyes on it myself, but I can feel the raised scar tissue and get a sense of the pattern it makes. My doctors in the institution have been quite skeptical of my story, or what little of it I told them, and even the scar on my back never convinced them, believing that I did that to myself in my fugue state. I've come to some realizations over the past few years, about life, about human history, about our general place in the universe. When my ancestors came across the ocean to the Americas, they called it the New World.

But this could hardly have been a more inappropriate title. The land beneath our feet is ancient, ancient beyond reckoning, and over the centuries it has swallowed whole, countless generations of men. War, famine, disease and the slow march of time drenched this land in blood, and in the process changed the shape of men. and beasts that roam it. I still ruminate on what Chogan told me in those faithful moments about how mankind will not inherit the earth.

And I wonder if perhaps he was crept. Trains, telegraphs and steamships have made the earth somewhat smaller, broad distant corners closer together. But even the most remote and dark places on this planet, even a place like the forestry skins, are not truly different from any other spot on Earth. Every inch of it has feasted upon the flesh of all the poor beasts in creation. I cannot escape it anywhere.

In time, I think I will travel elsewhere. Perhaps South America, I find a corner of my own to fertilize one day. We follow blood trails all our lives. And on mine, if I look hard enough. I think I can see the end of it. and the end of Joseph Hay Sherrod Our second and final story for this evening is The Horror from the Mound

by Robert E. Howard The horror from the mound Steve Brill did not believe in ghosts or demons Juan Lopez did but neither the caution of the one nor the sturdy skepticism of the other was shield against the horror that fell upon them the horror forgotten by men for more than 300 years

a screaming fear monstrously resurrected from the black lost ages. Yet Steve Brill sat on his sagging stoop that last evening. His thoughts were as far from uncanny menaces as the thoughts of man can be. His ruminations were bitter but materialistic. He surveyed his farmland and he swore. Brill was tall, rangy and tough as boot leather, true son of the iron-body pioneers who wrenched West Texas from the... a wilderness. He was browned by the sun and strong as a long-hored steer. His lean legs and the boots on

them showed his cowboy instincts, and now he cursed himself that he'd ever climbed off the hurricane deck of his crank-eyed Mustang and turned to farming. He was no farmer, the young puncher admitted profanely. His failure had not been all his fault. Plentiful rain in the winter, so rare in West Texas, had given promise. of good crops. But as usual, things had happened. A late blizzard had destroyed all the budding fruits. The grain which had looked so promising was ripped to shreds and battered into the ground by terrific hailstorms just as it was turning yellow. The period of intense dryness, followed by another hailstorm, finished the corn. Then the cotton which had somehow struggled through,

fell before a swarm of grasshoppers, which stripped Brill's field almost overnight. so brill sad and swore that he would not renew his lease he gave fervent thanks that he did not own the land on which he had wasted his sweat and that there was still broad rolling ranges to the west where a strong man could make his living riding and roping now as brill sat glumly he was aware of the approaching form of his nearest neighbour juan lopez a tacit an old mexican who lived in a hut just out of sight over at the hill across the creek and grobs for a living At present he was glaring a strip of land on an adjoining farm and in returning to his hut he crossed a corner of Brill's pasture. Brill idly watched him climb through the barbed wire fence and trudging along the path he'd worn in the shore dry grass. He'd been working at his present job for over a month now, chopping down tough, gnarly mesquite trees and digging up the incredibly long roots. And Brill knew he always followed the same path home. and watching, Brill noted him swerving far aside, seemingly to avoid a low, rounded hillock,

which jutted above the level of the pasture. Lopez went far around this knoll, and Brill remembered that the old Mexican always circled it at a distance, and another thing came into Brill's idle mind. Lopez always increased his gait when he was passing the knoll, and he always managed to get by it before sundown. yet Mexican labourers generally worked from the first night of dawn to the last glint of twilight, especially at these grubbing jobs when they were paid by the acre and not by the day. Real's curiosity was aroused.

He rose and sauntering down the slight slope on the crown of which his shack sat, hailed the plodding Mexican. Hey Lopez, wait a minute. Lopez halted, looks about, and remained motionless but unenthusiastic as the white man approached. Lopez, said Brill lazily. Ain't none of my business, but I just wanted to ask you, how come you always go so far around that old Indian mound?

No, Sabi, grunted Lopez shortly. You're a liar, responded Brill genially. You're savvy, all right. You speak English as good as me. What's the matter? You think that mount's haunted or something? Brill could speak Spanish himself and read it too, but like most Anglo-Saxons, he much preferred to speak his own language. Lopez shrugged his shoulders.

He is not a good place, no bueno, he muttered, avoiding Brill's eyes. Later, he don't think's rest. I reckon you're scared of ghosts, Brill bantered. Sharks, if that is an Indian man, them Indians been dead so long their ghosts would be plum worn out by now. Brill knew that the illiterate Mexicans look with superstitious aversion on the mounds that are found here and there through the southwest, relics of a past and forgotten age,

containing the mouldering bones of chiefs and warriors of a lost race. Best not to disturb what is hidden into earth, grunted Lopez. Bosch, said Brill. Me and some boys busted into one of their mounds over in Paulo Pinto country, Tug up pieces of a skeleton with some beads and fin, arrowheads and the like. I kept some of the teeth a long time, until I lost them. I had never been haunted. Indians?

Storted Lopez unexpectedly. Who spoke of Indians? There have been more than Indians in this country. In the old-time, strange things happened here. I've heard the tales of my people, handed out from generation to generation. My people were here long before yours, Signor Brue. Yeah, you're right, admitted Steve. First white man in this country was Spanias, of course.

Coronado passed along not very far from here, I hear tell, and Hernando de Estrada's expedition came through here. Way back yonder, well, don't know how long ago. In 1545, said Lopez, they pitched camp yonder where your corral stands now. We'll turn to glance at his rail. fence corral, inhabited now by his saddle horse, a pair of workhorses, and a scrawny cow. How come you know so much about it? He asked curiously.

One of my ancestors marched with Estrada, answered Lopez, a soldier, Porfirio Lopez. He taught his son of that expedition, and he taught his son, and so down the family line to me, who have no son to whom I can tell the tale. No, I didn't know you were so well connected, said Brill. Maybe you know something about the gold the Estrada was supposed to have hit around here somewhere. There was no gold, growled Lopez. The Estrada's soldiers bore only their arms, and they fought their way through hostile country. Many left their bones along the trail.

Later, many years later, a mule train from Santa Fe was attacked, not many miles from here by Comanches, and they hid their gold and escaped. So, well, the legends got mixed up, but even their gold is not there now, because Gringo Buffalo Hunters found it and dug it up. Brill nodded abstractly, hardly heating. Of all the continent of North America, there's no section so haunted by tales of lost or hidden treasures in the southwest.

Uncounted wealth passed back and forth over the hills and plains of Texas and New Mexico in the old days. when Spain owned the golden silver mines of the new world and controlled the rich fur trade of the west and echoes of that wealth linger on in tales of golden caches some such vagrant dream born of failure and pressing poverty rose in brill's minds aloud he spoke well anyway i got nothing else to do and i believe i'll dig into that old mound and see what i can find the effect of that simple statement on lopez was There was nothing short of shocking. He recoiled, and his swarthy brown face went ashy. His black eyes flared and he threw up his arms in a gesture of intense expostulation. "'Dios! No!' he cried.

"'Don't do that, Signor, Bril. There is a curse. My grandfather told me.' "'Dorjua,' asked Brill. Lopez lapsed into sullen silence. "'I cannot speak,' he muttered. I am sworn to silence. Only to an eldest son could I open my heart,

but believe me when I say better had you cut your throat than to break into that accursive mouth. Well, said Brill, impatient of Mexican superstitions. If it's so bad, why don't you tell me about it? Give me a logical reason for not busting into it. I cannot speak, cried the Mexican desperately. I know, but I swore to silence to the Holy Crucifix, just as every man of my family has sworn. It is a thing so dark, it is to risk damnation even to speak of it.

What I had to tell you, I would blast the soul from your body. But I have sworn, and I have no son, so my lips are sealed forever. Oh, well, said Brill sarcastically. Why don't you write it out? Lopez started, stared and, to Steve's surprise, caught at the suggestion. I will. Dios be thanked the good priest taught me to write when I was a child. My oath said nothing of writing.

I only swore not to speak. I will write out the whole thing for you if you will swear not to speak of it afterward and to destroy the paper as soon as you have read it. Sure, said Brill to humor him, and the old Mexican seemed much relief. Well, I will go at once and write. Tomorrow as I go to work I will bring you the paper, and you will understand why no one must open that accursed mount. When Lopez hurried along, his home would par.

His stooped shoulders swaying with the effort of his unwanted haste. Steve grinned after him, shrugged his shoulders and turned back toward his own shack. Then he halted, gazing back at the low, rounded mound with his grass-grown sides. It must be an Indian tomb, he decided, what with its symmetry and its similarity to other Indian mounds he'd seen. He scowled as he tried to figure out the seeming connection between the mysterious and all and the martial ancestor of Juan Lopez. Brill gazed after the receding figure of the old Mexican. A shallow valley, cut by a half-dry creek, bordered with trees and underbrush, lay between Brill's pasture and the low-slipping hill beyond in which lay Lopez's shack. Among the trees along the creek bank, the old Mexican was disappearing.

And Brill came to a sudden decision, hurrying up the slight slope. He took a pick and a shovel from the tool shed built onto the back of his shack. The sun had not yet set, and Brill believed he could open the mound deep enough to determine its nature before dark. If not, he could work by a lantern light. Steve, like most of his breed, live mostly by impulse, and his present urge was to tear into that mystery. serious hiller can find what, if anything, was concealed therein? The thought of treasure came again to his mind, peaked by the evasive attitude of Lopez. What if, after all, that grassy heap of brown earth did hide riches,

virgin awe from forgotten minds, or the minted coinage of old Spain? Is it not possible that the musketeers of de Estrada had themselves reared that pile above us treasure that they could not bear away, mording it in the life. lightness of an Indian mount of fool seekers. Did old Lopez know that? It would not be strange if, knowing of treasure there, the old Mexican refrain from disturbing it. Written with grisly superstitious fears, he might well live out a life of barren toil rather than risk the wrath of lurking ghosts or devils. For the Mexicans say that hidden gold is always accursed.

Surely there was supposed to be some special doom resting on this mound. Well, Brill meditated. Brill meditated. Latin Indian devils had no terrors for the Anglo-Saxon, tormented by the demons of drought and storm and crop failure. Steve said to work with the servage energy characteristic of his breed. The task was no light one. The soil, baked by the fierce sun,

was iron-hard and mixed with rocks and pebbles. Brill sweated profusely and grunted with his efforts, but the fire of the treasure-hunter was on him. He shook the sweat out of his eyes and drove in the pig with mighty strokes that ripped and crumbled the close-packed dirt. The song went down, and in the long, dreamy summer twilight he worked on, almost oblivious of time or space. He began to be convinced that the mound was a genuine Indian tomb, as he found traces of charcoal in the soil. The ancient people which reared their sepulchres had kept fires burning upon them for days, at some point in the bottom. At some point in the building, all the mouth Steve had ever opened had contained a solid stratum of charcoal a short distance below the surface.

But the charcoal traces he found now were scattered about through the soil. His idea of a Spanish-built treasure trove faded, but he persisted. Who knows? Perhaps those strange folkmen now called mound builders had treasure of their own, which they laid away with the dead. And then Steve yelled with exultation. as his pick rang on a bit of metal. He snatched it up and held it close to his eyes, straining in the waning light. It was caked and corroded with rust,

worn almost paper thin, but he knew it for what it was. A spur relive, unmistakably Spanish, with its long, cruel points. He halted, completely bewildered. How Spaniard ever reared this mound, with his undeniable marks of Aboriginal wormanship.

Yet how come that relic of Spanish caballeros was hidden so deep in the pack soil? Brill shook his head and said to work again. He knew that in the centre of the mound, if it were indeed an Aboriginal tomb, he would find a narrow chamber built of heavy stones, containing the bones of the chief for whom the mound had been reared and the victim sacrificed above it.

And in the gathering darkness he felt his pick strike heavy against something granite-like and unyielding. Examination by sense of feel as well as by sight proved it to be a solid block of stone, roughly hewn. Doubtless it formed one of the ends of the death chamber. Useless to try to shatter it. Brill chipped and pecked about it, scraping the dirt and pebbles away from the corners, he felt that wrenching it out would be but a matter of sinking the pick point underneath and levering it out.

But now he was suddenly aware that darkness had come up. In the young moon, objects were dim and shadowy. His Mustang knickered in the corral whence came the comfortable crunch of tired beast's jaws on cor. A whippoorwill called eerily from the dark shadow of the narrow winding creek. Brill straightened reluctantly. Better get a lantern and continue his explorations by his life. He felt in his pocket with some idea of wrenching out the stone, exploring the cavity by the age of matches. Then he stiffened.

Was it imagination, but he heard of faint sinister rustling which seemed to come from behind the blocking stone. Oh, snakes! Doubtless they had holes somewhere about the base of the mound, and there might be a dozen big diamond back. rattlers coiled up in that cave-like interior, waiting for him to put his hand among them. He shivered slightly at the thought, and backed away out of the excavation he'd made. It wouldn't do it to go poking about blindly into holes.

For the past few minutes, he realized he'd been aware of a faint foul odor exuding from instercese about the blocking stone, though he admitted that the smell suggested reptiles no more than it did any menacing scent. It had a Charnel house reek about it. Gases formed in the chamber of death, no doubt, and dangerous to the living. Steve laid down his pick and returned to the house, impatient of the necessary delay. Entering the dark building, he struck a match and located his kerosene lantern hanging on its nail on the wall.

Shaking it, he satisfied himself that it was nearly full of coal oil and lit it. Then he fared forth again for his... his eagerness would not allow him to pause long enough for a bite of food. The mere opening of the mound intrigued him, as it must always intrigue a man of imagination, and the discovery of the Spanish spur had whetted his curiosity. He hurried from his shack, the swinging lantern casting long, distorted shadows ahead of him and behind.

He chuckled as he visualised Lopez's thoughts and actions when he learned, on the morrow, that the forbidden mound had been pried into, A good thing he opened it that evening, Brill reflected. Lopez might have tried to prevent him meddling with it, how do you know? In the dreaming hush of the summer night, Brill reached the mount, lifted his lantern, swore, bewilderately. The lantern revealed his excavations,

his tools lying carelessly where he dropped them, and a black, gaping aperture. The great blocking stone lay in the bottom of the edge of the air. excavation he'd made, as if thrusts carelessly aside. Wharily, he thrust the lantern forward and peered into the small cave-like chamber, expecting to see he knew not what. Nothing met his eyes except the bare rock sides of a long, narrow cell, large enough to receive a man's body,

which had apparently been built up of roughly hewned square-cut stones, cunningly and strongly joined together. "'Lopez!' exclaimed Steve furiously. "'That dirty coyote. "'He's been watching me work, "'and when I went after the lantern, he snuck up "'and pried the rock out and grabbed whatever was in there, I reckon. "'Blast his greasy hide, I'll fix him.'

"'Savagely he extinguished the lantern "'and glared across the shallow, brush-grown valley. "'As he looked, he stiffened. "'Over the corner of the hill, "'on the other side of which the shone. shack of Lopez stood, a shadow moved. The slender moon was setting, the light dim and the play of the shadows baffling. But Steve's eyes were sharpened by the sun and winds of the wastelands, and he knew that it was some two-legged creature that was disappearing over the low shoulder of the

mesquite grown hill. Ah, beating it to his shack, Snar Bill. He sure got something or he wouldn't be traveling at that speed, Brill swallowed, wondering why a peculiar trembling had suddenly taken a hold of him. What was there unusual about a thieving old greaser running home with his lute? Brill tried to drown the feeling that there was something peculiar about the gate of the dim shadow, which had seemed to move at a sort of slinking lope. There must have been need for swiftness when stocky old Juan Lope is elected to travel at such a strange pace. Whatever he found is as much mine as his, swore Brill, trying to get his mind off the abnormal aspect of the figure's flight. I got this land leased and I'd done all the work digging.

The curse, no wonder he taught me that stuff. Wanted me to leave it alone so he could get it itself. So wonder he ain't dug it up long before this. You can never tell about them spigs. Brill, as he meditated thus, was striding down the gentle slope of the pasture which led down to the creek bed. He passed into the shadows of the trees, intense underbrush, and walked across the dry creek bed, noting absently that neither Whippoorwill nor Hoot Owl called in the darkness. There was a waiting, listening tenseness in the night that he didn't like. The shadows in the creek bed seemed too thick, too breathless.

He wished he'd not blown out the lantern, which he still carried, and was glad he had brought the pick, gripped like a battle-axe in his right hand. He had an impulse to whistle, just to break the silence, then swore and dismissed the thought. He was glad when he clambered up the low opposite bank and emerged into the starlight. He walked up the slope and onto the hill. and looked down on the mesquite flat, wherein stood Lopez's squalid hut. A light showed at the one window. Packing his things for a getaway, I reckon, grunted Steve. Oh, what the?

He staggered us from a physical impact, as a frightful scream knifed the stillness. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears to shut out the horror of that cry, which rose unbearably and then broke in an abhorrent gurgle. Oh, good God! Steve felt the sweat sprang out upon him. Lopez or somebody. Even as he gasped the words, he was running down the hill

as fast as his long legs could carry him. Some unspeakable horror was taking place in our lonely hearts, but he was going to investigate if it meant facing the devil himself. He tightened his grip on his bow. pick handle as he ran. Wandering prowlers, murdering old Lopez for the loot he'd taken from the mound, Steve thought. I forgot his wrath. It will go hard for anyone he caught molesting the old scoundrel, thief though he might be. He hid the flat, running hard. Then the light in the hut went out and Steve staggered in full flight, bringing up against a mesquite tree with an impact

that jolted a grunt out of him and tore his hands on the thorns. rebounding with a sobbed curse he rushed for the shack nerving himself for what he might see his hair still standing on end at what he'd already seen brill tried the one door of the hut and found it bolted he shouted to lopez had received no answer yet utter silence did not rain from within came a curious muffled worrying sound that ceased as brill swung his pick crashing against the door The flimsy pole splintered, and Brill leaped into the dark hut, eyes blazing, the pick swung high for a desperate onslaught. But no sound ruffled the grisly silence, and in the darkness nothing stirred, though Brill's chaotic imagination peopled the shadow corners of the hut with shapes of horror. With a hand damp with perspiration, he found a match and struck it. Besides himself, only Lopez occupied the hut. Old Lopez, stark dead on the dirt floor.

Arms spread wide like a crucifix, mouth sagging open in a semblance of idiocy, eyes wide and staring with a horror, Brill found intolerable. The one window gaped open, showing the method of the Slayer's exit, possibly his entrance as well. Rill went to that window and gazed out warily He only saw the sloping hillside on one hand And the mesquite flat on the other He stared Was that a hint of movement among the stunted shadows Of the mesquites and chopperer

Or had he imagined he glimpsed a dim, loping figure among the trees And turned back As the match burned down to his fingers He lit the old coal oil lamp on the rude table, cursing as he burned his hand. The globe of the lamp was very hot, as if it had been burning for hours. Reluctantly he turned to the corpse on the floor. Whatever sort of death had come to Lopez, he had been horrible,

but Brill, gingerly examining the dead man, found no wound, no mark of knife or bludgeon on him. Wait, there was a thin smear of blood on Brill's questing hand. Searching, he found the source, three or four tiny punctures in Lopez's throat, from which blood had oozed sluggishly. At first he thought he'd been inflicted with a stiletto, a thin round, edgeless dagger. Then he shook his head. He'd seen stiletto wounds. He had the scar of one on his own body.

These wounds more resembled the bite of some animal. They looked like the marks of pointed fangs. Yet Bril did not believe they were deep enough to have caused death, nor had much blood flowed from them. A belief, abhorrent with grisly speculations, rose up in the dark corners of his mind. That Lopez had died of fright, and that the wounds had been inflicted either simultaneously with his death, or an instant afterward, and Steve noticed something else, scrawed about on the floor lay a number of dingy leaves of paper, scrawled in the old Mexican's crude hand.

He would write over the curse of the mound, he had said. There were the sheets on which he'd written. There was the stump of a pencil on the floor. There was the hot lamp globe. All mute witnesses that the old Mexican had been seated at the rough-hewn table writing for hours. And it was not he who'd opened the mound chamber and stole the contents. But who was it in God's name?

And who or what was it that Brill had glimpsed Loping over the shoulder of the hill? Well, there was but one thing to do. Saddle his Mustang and ride the ten miles to Coyote Wells, the nearest town, and informed the sheriff of the murder. Brill gathered up the papers. The last was crumpled in the old man's clutching hand, and Brill secured it with some difficulty.

Then as he turned to extinguish the light, He hesitated and cursed himself with a crawling fear that lurked at the back of his mind. Fear of the shadowy thing he'd seen crossed the window just before the light was extinguished in the hut. The long arm of the murderer, he thought, reaching for the lamp to put it out, no doubt. What had there been abnormal or inhuman about that vision, distorted though it must have been in the dim lamplight and shadow? As a man strives to remember the details of a nightmare dream Steve tried to define in his mind some clear reason that would explain why that flying glimpse had unnerved him to the extent of blundering headlong into a tree

why the mere vague remembrance of it now caused cold sweat to break out on him cursing himself to keep up his courage he lit his lantern blow out the lamp on the rough table and resolutely set forth grasping his pick like a weapon. After all, should certain seemingly abnormal aspects about a sordid murder upset him.

Such crimes were abhorrent, but common enough, especially among Mexicans who cherished unguessed feuds. Then as he stepped into the silent, Starfleck night, he brought up short. From across the creek sounded the sudden soul,

shaking scream of a horse in deadly terror. And a mad drumming of hooves that receded into the distance. And Brill swore in rage and dismay. Was it a panther lurking in the hills? Had a monster cat slain old Lopez? And why was not the victim marked with the scars of fierce hooked talons? And who extinguished the light in the hut? As he wondered, Brill was running swiftly towards the dark creep.

Not lightly does a cowpuncher regard the stampede. of his stock as he passed into the darkness of the brush along the dry creek Brill found his tongue strangely dry he kept swallowing and how at the lantern high it made but faint impression in the gloom but seemed to accentuate the blackness of the crowding shadows for some strange reason the thought entered Brill's chaotic mind that though the land was new to the Anglo Saxon it was in reality very old that That broken and desecrated tomb was mute evidence that the land was ancient to man. Suddenly the night and the hills and the shadows bore on Brill with a sense of hideous antiquity.

Here had long generations of men lived and died before Brill's ancestors ever heard of the land. In the night, in the shadows of this very creek, men had no doubt given up their ghosts in grisly ways. With these reflections, Brill hurried through the shadows of the thick. trees. He breathed deeply in relief when he emerged from the trees on his own side. Hurrying up the gentle slope to the rail corral, he held up his lantern, investigating. The cora was empty, not even the plastic cow was in sight, and the bars were down. That pointed to human agency, and the affair took on a newly sinister aspect. Someone did not intend that Brill should ride to Coyote Wells that night. It meant that the murderer intended making

his getaway and wanted a good start on the law, or else, Brill grinned Riley. Far away across a mesquite flat, he believed he could still catch the faint and faraway noise of running horses. What in God's name had given them such a fright? The cold finger of fear played shudderingly on Brill's spine. Steve headed for the house. He did not enter boldly. He crept clear around the shack, peering shudderingly into the dark shadows, listening with painful intensity for some sound to betray the presence of the lurking killer. At last, he ventured to open the door and step in. He threw the door back against the wall to find if anyone were hiding behind it, lifted the lantern high and stepped in, heart pounding.

a pick gripped fiercely, his feelings a mixture of fear and red rage. But no hidden assassin leaped upon him, and a wary exploration of the shack revealed nothing, with a sigh of relief, brill locked the doors, made fast the windows, and lit his old coal oil lamp. The thought of Lopez lying, a glass-eyed corpse alone in the hut across the creek, made him wince and shiver. But he did not intend to start for time. town on foot in the night. He drew from its hiding-place his reliable old Colt 45, spun the blue steel cylinder, and grinned mirthlessly. Maybe the killer did not intend to leave any witnesses to his

crime alive. Well, let him come. He, or they, would find a young cowpuncher with a six-shooter as easy prey than an old unarmed Mexican. And that reminded Brill of the papers he brought from the huts. Taking care that he was not in line with a window through which a sudden bullet might come, he settled himself to read, with one ear alert for stealthy sounds. And as he read the crude, laborious script, the slow, cold horror grew in his soul. It was a tale of fear that the old Mexican had scrawled. A tale handed down from generation to generation, the tale of ancient times. And Brill read of the wanderings of the caballero Hernando de Estrada and his armored pikemen who dared the deserts of the southwest when all was strange and unknown. There were some

fortiot soldiers, servants and masters at the beginning the manuscript ran. There was the captain, de Estrada, and the priest, a young Juan Savilla, and Don Santiago de Valdez, a mysterious nobleman, a mysterious nobleman who had been taken off a helplessly floating ship in the Caribbean Sea. All the others of the crew and passengers had died of plague, he had said, and he'd cast their bodies overboard. So de Estrada had taken him aboard the ship that was bearing the expedition from Spain, and de Valdez joined them in their explorations. Brill read something of their wanderings,

told in the crude style of old Lopez, as the old Mexican's ancestors had handed down the tale for over three years. hundred years. The bare-written words dimly reflected that terrific hardships the explorers had encountered. Drought, thirst, floods, the desert sandstorms, the spears of hostile redskins. But it was of another peril that old bloke is told,

a grisly lurking horror that fell upon the lonely caravan wandering through the immensity of the wild. Man by man they fell, and no man knew the slayer. Fear and black suspicion ate at the heart of the expedition like a canker, and their leader knew not where to turn. This they all knew. Among them was a fiend in human form. Men began to draw apart from each other, to scatter along the line of march, and this mutual suspicion that sought security and solitude made it easier for the fiend. The skeleton of the expedition staggered through the wilderness, lost, dazed and held. and still the unseen horror hung on their flanks, dragging down the stragglers, preying

on drowsing sentries and sleeping men. And on the throat of each was found the wounds of pointed fangs that bled the victim white, so that the living knew with what manner of evil they had to deal. Men reeled through the wild, calling on the saints or blaspheming in their terror, fighting frenzedly against sleep, until they fell with exhaustion. and sleep stole on them with horror and death. Suspicion centred on a great black manor, cannibal slave from Calabar,

and they put him in chains. But young Juan Saville went the way of the rest, and then the priest was taken. But the priest fought off his fiendish assailant, and lived long enough to gasp the demon's name to Deistrada, and brille, shuddering, wide-eyed, rat. And now it was evident to Deistrana. that the good priest had spoken the truth, and the slayer was Don Santiago de Valdez,

who was a vampire, an undead fiend, subsisting on the blood of the living, and deistrada called to mind a certain foul nobleman who had lurked in the mountains of Castile since the days of the moors, feeding off the blood of helpless victims which lent him a ghastly immortality. This nobleman had been driven forth, and a new way he had fled, but it was evident that he and Don Santiago were the same man. He had fled Spain by ship, and Deistrada knew that the people of that ship had died, not by plague as the fiend had represented,

but by the fangs of the vampire. Deistrada and the black man and the few soldiers who still lived, went searching for him and found him stretched in a bestial sleep in a clump of Chaparral. Full gouged he was with human blood from his last victim. Now it is well known a vampire, like a great serpent, when well-gourged, falls into a deep sleep and may be taken without peril. But deistrada was at a loss as to how to dispose of the monster, for how may the

dead be slain. For a vampire is a man who has died long ago, yet is quick with a certain foul unlife. The men urged that Caballero drive a stake through the fiend's heart and cut off his head, uttering the holy words that would crumble the long dead body into dust. But the priest was dead, and Aestrade feared that in the act the monster might awaken. So they took Don Santiago, lifting him softly, and bore him to an old Indian mound nearby. This they opened, taking forth the bones they found there, and they placed the vampire within and sealed up the mound. Dios Grant until judgment day.

It is a place accursed, and I wish I'd still to stand. starved elsewhere before I came into this part of the country seeking work, for I have known of the land and the creek and the mound with its terrible secret ever since childhood. So you see, Signor Brill, you must not open the mound and wake the fiend. There, the manuscript ended with an erratic scratch of the pencil that tore the crumpled leaf. Brill rose, his heart pounding wildly. His face bloodless, his tongue cleaving to his palate.

He gagged and found words. That's why the spur was in the mound. One of them Spaniards dropped it while they was digging. I might have known it's been dug into before. The way the charker was scattered out. But good, go. Agast, he shrank from the black visions. An undead monster stirring in the gloom of his tomb,

thrusting from within to push aside the stone loosened by the pick of ignorance. A shadowy shape loping over the hill toward a light that beckoned a human prey. A frightful long arm that crossed a dim lighted window. It's madness, he asked. Lopez was plumb loco. They ain't no such things as vampires. If they is, why didn't he get me first instead of Lopez? Unless he was scouting around, making sure of every.

everything before he pounced. Oh hell, it's all a pipe dream. The words froze in his throat. At the window, a face glared and gibbered soundlessly at him. Two icy eyes pierced his very soul. A shriek burst from his throat, and that ghastly visage vanished. But the very air was permeated by the foul scent that had hung about the ancient mound. And now, the door creaked, bent slowly inward. Brill backed up against the wall, his gun shaking in his hand. It did not occur to him to fire through the door. In his chaotic brain he had but one thought that only that thin portal of wood

separated him from some horror borne out of the womb of night and gloom and the black past. His eyes were distended as he saw the door give, as he heard the staples of the bolt grow, and the door burst inward. Brill did not scream. His tongue was frozen to the roof of his mouth. His fear-glazed eyes took in the tall, vulture-like form. The icy eyes, the long black fingernails, the mouldering garb, hideously ancient, the long-spurred boot,

the slouch hat with its crumbling feather, the flowing cloak that was falling. to slow shreds. Framed in the black doorway, crouched that abhorrent shape out of the past, and Brill's brain reeled. A savage cold radiated

from the figure, the scent of mouldering clay and Charnel House refuse. And then the undead came at the living like a swooping vulture. Brill fired point-blank and saw a shred of rotten cloth fly from the thing's breast.

The vampire reel beneath the impact of the heavy ball, then righted himself and came on with frightful speed. Brill reel back against the wall with a choking cry, the gun falling from his nerveless hand. The black legends were true then. Human weapons were powerless. For may a man kill one already dead for long centuries, as mortals die. Then the claw-like hands at his throat roused the young cowpuncher to a frenzy of madness. As his pioneer ancestors fought hand to hand against brain-shattering odds, Steve Brill fought the cold, dead-crawling thing that sought his life and his soul. Of that ghastly battle, Brill never remembered much.

It was a blind chaos in which he screamed beast-like, tore and slugged and hammered, where long black nails like the talons of a panther tore at him, and pointed teeth snapped again and again at his throat. rolling and tumbling about the room, both half enveloped by the musty folds of that ancient rudding cloak. They smote and tore at each other among the ruins of the shattered furniture, and the fury of the vampire was not more terrible than the fear-crace desperation of his victim. They crashed headlong into the table, knocking it down upon its side,

and the coal-oil-lamp splintered on the floor, spraying the walls with sudden flames. Brill felt the bite of the burning oil that spattered him, but in the red frenzy of the fight he gave no heed. The black talons were tearing at him, the inhuman eyes burning icily cold into his soul. Between his frantic fingers, the withered flesh of the monster was hard as dry wood,

and wave after wave of blind madness swept over, Steve Brill. Like a man battling a nightmare, screamed and smote while all about them the fire leapt up and caught the walls and the roof. Through darting jets and licking tongues of flames they reeled and rolled like a demon and a mortal, warring on the fire lance floors of hell. And in the growing tumult of the flames, Bril gathered himself at one last volcanic burst of frenzied strength. Breaking away and staggering up, gasping and bloody, he lunged blindly at the foul shape and caught it in. in a grip, not even the vampire could break.

And whirling his fiendish assailant bodily on high, he dashed him down across the uptilted edge of the fallen table, as a man might break a stick of wood across his knee. Something cracked, like a snapping branch, and the vampire fell from Brill's grasp to writhe in a strange broken posture on the burning floor. Yet it was not dead, for its flaming eyes still burned on Brill with a ghastly hunger. and it strove to crawl toward him with his broken spine as a dying snake crawls. Brill, reeling and gasping, shook the blood from his eyes and staggered blindly through the broken door.

And as a man runs from the portals of hell, he ran stumblingly through the mesquite and chaparral until he fell from utter exhaustion. Looking back, he saw the flames of the burning hells, and thank God that it would burn until the very bones of Don Santiago de Valdez were utterly consumed and destroyed from the knowledge of men. 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 me. 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 fervour, 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 set 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 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 coursed through every fibre 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 gait. 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. coction 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 foreign. 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 cellmate, George said, beckoning to me. Mort fell back onto the bed, breathing a sigh of relief, as they were. 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 he were going to take a bet on how long it would be before I croaked. The scowl etched along the man's face said 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. Mott 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 centre 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 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 cons. 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. "'Oh, don't let them all bother you,' said George. "'He's no different to any of the newcomers. "'Always giving him a hard time, "'seem 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. I suppose is 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?

Nope. 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 dissolved. 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 shop. 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. Smart as you college, Loddard. you know always the most observant bunch. George chuckled slightly. I truly didn't notice your oddity slur. 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. School, I never had the luxury of attend in school. I don't know if I could go as far as to go. call it a luxury, I said. Oh, 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 would know any difference. My mother knew different. 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 notice 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. Wherever I do not feel I have to have to be. have the liberty to repeat this story, well, not yet anyway. George's past made even the most ludicrous of upbringing's 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 refer to our motley crew as the Travelling 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. Well, 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 inferno. Courtesy of Morton Lucas, the hunt earlier in the day had proved fruitful, the savoury 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, Malt 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 uni, said George, beckoning towards Cole, who scampered up behind him. Cole was a jumpy little fellow, born of the gold rush, 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 a 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. It 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 shared blood.

This was different, replied Cole. I suppose, um, battle is the incorrect term. It was an ambush. A collected of Cheyenne and Arapahoe 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. A supply 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. A McKeever? asked Mort. Filled with arrows, answered Cole. Dead? asked Jeb, seemingly unable to read between the lines. Very, replied Cole. widely regarded as the devil himself by the indigenous tribes general mackiva earned himself a dastardly and feared reputation as the scorn of the natives a ruthless tactician and brutal man mckeva drew the ire of any good-natured folk throughout the nation outlaws academics and natives alike unfortunately for the natives mckeva's ban lacked such individuals "'serve that bastard right,' said Lucas.

"'Hope it wasn't too quick. "'Well, we should get a move on "'before the fields pick clean,' said Jeb, "'rising to his feet. "'Even in my hunger, my stomach gave a quick twist "'as thoughts of sifting through the bloodied, "'muttilated dead flooded my mind. "'We are no longer scavengers,' 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. Aye, said George. Where is this headed?

interjected Lucas. Robbed their coffins? Ransom? I responded, finally entering the conversation and believing I knew George's intention. I, we hold the body as for ransom, said George, a proud glint written across his face.

The same look a 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 makiva 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 be able to be. Bring hell to him, Lucas said. 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. 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 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 slide.

"'Don't pay this any heed,' interrupted Mort. "'Cursed or no, those bodies will fetch us a pretty penny. "'It's not the first time we've ever been threatened with an Indian curse, "'and I very much doubt it'll be the last. "'Although I do not wish to ignore your concern, Lucas. "'I must stand with Morton. "'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 had 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, men survived, who were we to blame him? Well, 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 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 chalked 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'd never known a man more resolute in his decision-making the 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. Baring down upon the inferno, the train still did. 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 engulfed 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 alongside 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 darkness 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 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.

"'Mothetically, 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 a 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 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 round, 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 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 sound. 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, no different from soldiers in barracks, one next to the other,

lying on their backs, arms to their sides. Had the skin not been melting off their bones, it would have been easy to mistake the unfortunate trio as asleep rather than dead. 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'd 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... 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 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 disbelief, everything seemed in order, and there were none of the telltale 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 vowsing. 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 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. 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 car 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 palm 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 wandered 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 end of 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 box cars, but it unsettled me nonetheless. I knew that just beneath each lid lay 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 soda. 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 mothled 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 in 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 come to 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 tried to downplay the unbelievable events from the past 20 minutes, I could no longer feigned disbelief at the obvious suicides. Suicides that seemed 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-shocked gate to my usually short-footedness. I began to sweat once again, the salty beads dribbling down my chin end. 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-scratched 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. as 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, possible. 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 actually... 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 George's once again. A moment of clarity materialising 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 Cooperton. February 9th, 1860. I 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 lean upon a crutch. I have 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-backed 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 up. 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 sale. 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 Heidsville, 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 sea, 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 as were 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. 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 crestfallen. 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, 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 one dollar 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 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 head. hayfork of the Trinity River. I was shot with an arrow in the thigh. It went deep into the muscle, and its tip embedded 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, and I wish for death with such whole-hearted fervor. 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, and 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, this whole fence with sharp pointed tops, turning it into a fortress. This is also when the troubles with Bethany and Josephine began, because of my infirm,

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, their cheeks rosy and, well, I knew silly games were all the norm of a girl's 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 two burst into a fit of laughter, "'her face going flush. "'But when I shouted him, "'Here, hear, and loudly slapped my hands together, "'they stopped their antics and crawled obedience, 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'd 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 raised 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. 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 visor of the gutted animals, drenched crimson in blood and writhing in the gau. 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 bathed 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, 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 beds sweating and shaking. They began to bleed from out of their ears and noses, and a petulant blue slime leaked from their eyes. No longer did they appear as my lovely twin daughters, brimming with womanhood, ready to bloom as a rose-bud may grow, plump before it unfilent.

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. The 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 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 whites. Lips are dark crimson, dripping blood. And they spoke in unison, sultry and heavy. Come, come and join us, Father. It was 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 very very. 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 mill 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 compound. 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 I offer them food. The widow, Kikwesh, she is called.

It's 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 girl. 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 my only friends. February 14, 1860. The priest arrived today.

He rode through the snow to the guarded gate of the mill atop a sway-backed steed of iron-gray. A few workmen who had 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 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, Kekwosh and the other natives huddled around a small file, while her toddler chased a chicken through the snow. 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?

They that take the sod 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, 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've 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 unlatch 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, and circling the room began to chant in Latin. Pater Nostel, he is Sincayelis, sanctificator nomentou.

It is the black number, Bethany began to moan. He with the first. 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 him. Do you know him? He suddenly spun about to face me, his face like that of a ranta. 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 Mordios, Zabolon, moaned Bethany. He then spun towards Josephine, pressing the crucifix against her forehead.

"'Dresia, Amand!' "'Well, Josephine, the priest turned to me. "'Can you bring me a plate of hot coals "'in 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 laid, and 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 colt. 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 unatomish. sinner, unrepentantant, 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, texts concerning the demonic underworld. He lifted a large book bound in black leather, Dictionaire infernal by Jacques Oguess Simon Collin de Plancy. He creased another, this one bounding crimson cloth with the flat of his hand. The dragon rouge, written in 1517 by Alebek the Egyptian. He cast a glance at another, still in his back. Ah, book of Abramel. 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? If 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 called 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? 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've 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 Asmortius, the dark angel of lust and perversion, awesome of his underlings. The truth is, they are legion. Do you know what a Cambion 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 plane. 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. then 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 and 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, repugnance. 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. 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 campions, 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, Reverend, 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. Preverent! 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 bines 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 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, made them eat slowly, lest they make themselves sick. It was a glorious reunion, and I sat with them till night.

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, 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. Face is pale and eyes gone white. I grabbed a rope and wrapped it around the wrists of bed. She hissed at me like a cornered cat. As I went to grab her other wrist, she reached out her hand,

bent into her 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 well the priest assures me this is normal and that we make headway i fervently pray he's right i've called on 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 twenty first eighteen sixty having received word that my brothers shall arrive on the 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 above 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 and 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. A strain 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. Flex 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, scourge, and they had to be exterminated. You murdering coward! Get out! I shouted, leaning forward to 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. why was I not informed of the decision to kill our humble guests last night?

Well, 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 woman? widow and her children. Well, what are you girls then? George suddenly opined. My fair nieces, are we to leave them in torment? Not to try to save them. Now you dare to throw out the warm man who can help them, can save them. I wonder at his sorcery. Deuteronomy 1810. Let none be found among you who practice his divination. The priest stared hard at me. Slowly he raised a steaming. 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 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 knights we're not so different he was a The settler once just as we are. He had a family in a large ranch. He went on a cattle 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... Pray tell, what do ours make us? How 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 and shuffled off. In the barren branches of an old oak tree, some ravens quarrelled, 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 Larrabee was present, a man whose very existence fills my soul with dread.

Many are the tale of how he took great pleasure in smashing open the heads of squaws, children and infants. Yell 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 regulars to Fort Humboldt. Have we seen them? No. Samin Wright then stood up, shouting,

how pleased 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 errate 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 dim.

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 saviour 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 saviour to make this christian army weak our lord saith in luke twelve fifty one 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 dared to face the devil. Tis they to whom I preach, and they to whom I bestow my blessings. 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, spit all 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 is 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 master. 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 a log. I write, as penance, as confession, to find a-y-felling of my daughter's. atonement and divine forgiveness for the deeds I have done and them about to do to rid me over 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 looedly 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 Kayquish. 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 bed. 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 senses 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 please you as we did last night and now as I sit and write my hand trembling so that the quill

can 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 to minable situation. I go to fetch the turpentine, the whale fat, the gear grease, anything flammable

I may find, and cover the house in it, cover myself in it, and hope that the flames of this earth can appease our Lord and Savior and spare me from the sulfurous flames of hellfire below. And so once again, we 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 wrong, 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.