Gillian's Marsh

by Faun, Michael

  Reiterman fed three bullets into his gun. He craned his neck around the oak and saw the back of a burly man in blue overalls escape into the coppice. Driven by fear and fury, he cocked the Colt and let the hammer down, chasing after the killer like a blood hound, guided by the scent of grime and sweat.

  The yellow moon-wrapped woods were eerily silent save for the sound of fast footsteps and the thrashing of wings from a curious crow that followed the intense hunt from above.

  Reiterman's heart pumped with such ferocity it felt as though his temples would burst. A good while into the disadvantageous hunt he had to stop and catch his breath, cursing the fact that he had lost track of the man. Panting, he tried to fend off the growing concern why the killer had kept such a straight course northward. This deep in the forest, its countenance had grown more sinister, as though the gnarled trees were sneering at him.

  Tightening his clammy hand around the gun, he cautiously rotated, when something came charging him from a branch above his head and shattered his front teeth.

  He pin wheeled backward and fell on his ass; dropping his gun. The coppery taste of blood spread in his throat and when he came to from the blow, he was staring straight into the bestial eyes of the killer.

  Red bared his brown teeth and took a step forward, pointing his shotgun at Reiterman's groin from point blank range. “I bet you's prayin' for one of them divine interventions now, huh?” he mocked.

  Seeing the gleam of his revolver in the corner of his eye, Reiterman staked everything on one card and rolled aside.

  The shotgun thundered, its fiery hail macerating Reiterman's left foot to a thready stew of blood and tendon.

  With a coyote howl he gripped the cold handle of the six-shooter, and twisting his body back around rapidly discharged two slugs that burrowed into the woodsman's upper chest and right shoulder.

  Red squealed as he spun and staggered back, his rifle slipping from his hold.

  Reiterman raised his aim and fired two more shots, both hitting the assailant's face, which flared up to a scarlet mess followed by a heavy thud as Red collapsed into a puddle of silt.

  A faint splash stirred from his death rattle.

  The forest fell silent.

  THE STATEMENT OF CYRUS REITERMAN

  (Filed in the town records of Gillianswick)

  During the night between August 1st and 2nd, sergeant constable Sebastian Delcroix, Constables Walter Lockwood and Morgan Burkhart, and I, chief magistrate Cyrus Reiterman, ended the curse that has hung over Gillianswick like a haggler’s hood for ten years.

  Our nocturnal mission was met with such malice, it will be impossible to capture on paper the horrid impressions and blasphemous discoveries that we were subjected to at the summit of our trespass into the heart of evil. I will, however, try and pen down the gruesome events that took place at the given date.

  Armed with guns and axes, the four of us set out to the black woods that border Gillian's Marsh to fell the tree known as the Blood Oak, on the account of my firm conviction of it being the root to the practice of witchcraft in Gillianswick.

  Immediately after our arrival at the dismal clearing, wherein the abomination of a tree stood, we made our first morbid find. Rotting away in a cradle-like root system, were the remains of James Graham, the local missionary who, some time prior to our expedition, had been reported missing. The man's hands and feet had been severed and most of his head was missing.

  This triggered in us an uncanny urge to know what might be hidden below our feet; and after some strenuous digging, we were standing in what might best be described an archaeological exhibition of the macabre. Of the nine corpses we unearthed (not counting the headless infant whose birth remains a mystery since it is not registered in any of the town records), we could only identify six, owing to specific garments and/or jewelry. The three remaining bodies we will assume are among the missing men. For the sake of the mental soundness of the victims' families, I will not go into detail regarding how these lives were taken, other than to establish the fact that their deaths involved ritual sacrifice.

  Shocked and repulsed, we began the laborious task of chopping down the massive oak when, after about an hour of rather satisfactory progress, a shotgun was fired from the inhospitable woods, and instantly killed sergeant constable S. Delcroix.

  Just as I caught sight of the shooter, I also, regretfully, became witness to the executions of constables W. Lockwood and M. Burkhart, who were next to perish in the line of duty due to consecutive rounds of shots discharged by the bloodthirsty wild-man, who howled in praise after his triumvirate of death and cowardly took flight into the dark forest.

  I gave chase, convinced that I had met the Blood Oak's sorcerous hand of nurture—the very Arborist of Abaddon himself.

  The intense hunt pulled me far into the unfamiliar woods, whose terrain and plant life grew viler with every step deeper I ventured. Soon my strength depleted and my body claimed its right to rest and so I stopped amid a circle of trees.

  I was sensible of the cold hand of failure slapping my face, bitterly thinking I had lost trail of the killer when he suddenly came flying down from one of the trees before me and kicked me in the mouth, depriving me of several teeth. I fell over and dropped my firearm and suddenly found myself face to face with evil itself.

  I cannot recall the following sequence of events. My mind was shrouded in a fog of blood and fire and when my senses once again returned to normalcy, the Arborist of Abaddon was lying dead before me, and my left foot was blown to kingdom come.

  I tended to my severe injury and proceeded with gathering stones which I stowed into the mouth of the witch monger. Lastly, I thrust a hefty branch through his heart and nailed him to the ground before covering his body with dirt and leaves.

  The loss of my foot made the return back through the woods a painful and lengthy endeavor to say the least, and by the time I reunited with my horse a bright dawn was lighting the gloomy woods.

  Upon my re-entry in Gillianswick, I hastily sent out a posse of able men, namely the town's own mill-workers, to finish the mission of felling the Blood Oak.

  Below, I've included the names of the men whose lives were so tragically stolen from us by the black hand of evil, along with a final prayer for their souls. May they rest in peace.

  Go forth, O Christian souls, out of this world, in the name of God the Father almighty, who created you; in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living

  God, who suffered for you; in the name of the Holy Spirit, who sanctified you; in the name of the holy and glorious Mary, Virgin and Mother of God.

  May your place be this day in peace: through Christ our Lord.

  Amen

  ~

  Josiah Wishum

  James Graham

  Matthew Ashfield

  Arthur G. Dunn

  Edward Knowles

  Archibald Culley

  Henry Warrick

  Robert J. Lyndon

  William Stringer

  ~

  Sebastian Delcroix

  Walter Lockwood

  Morgan Burkhart

  ~

  Chief Magistrate Cyrus Reiterman

  The Reiterman Mansion Estate

  Gillianswick, September 10, 1876

  THREE

  ~

  There are guardians in the swamps, who see through the rift of the mire

  Whose eyes behold the arcane secrets, and croak of bewitched desire

  Gillian's Marsh, Gillian's Marsh, find the coral head

  Take a bite and there descry, the colors of death and dread

  On the threshold of deception, amid the misty veil

  Aglow ye see a thousand eyes, and hearken to the Serpent's scale

  Gillian's Marsh, Gillian's Marsh, heed its pagan laws

  If you breach it you will meet, the Imperator's jaws

  Stung by the maker, cursed be its spawn

  Slithers in yer dying womb, awakens at the fertile dawn

  Gillian
's Marsh, Gillian's Marsh, nurtured by the grim illusion

  Cometh the end of mankind, and the reptile's retribution

  ~

  BATTERED OLD BELLE IN GILLIAN'S MARSH

  July, 1933

  Curly McGee was peering out over the fetid banks of Gillian's Marsh when he spotted the home of his dreams. Though the weathered steamboat lay half submerged in the sludgy mire, he was spellbound by her charm.

  “What scoundrel's left you here all by yourself...,” he mumbled under his red whiskers and pushed his honeycombed clod-hoppers toward the putt-putt. “You just sit tight.”

  A few hours later, when he had ridden the steamboat of nearly all the moss and seaweed that covered her rotten hull, he saw that she once had been painted green. Sadly, time and weather had deprived her of that luster and the now sallow flakes made her look nauseous.

  He was scrubbing dirt off the bow when she suddenly presented herself:

  Louella Lee

  Read the white elegant lettering, and for some reason, now that he knew her name, he felt curiously attracted to her. “Birds of a feather flock together, I surmise,” he said and gently caressed her dilapidated wheelhouse, sending a torrent of old paint into the mud.

  * * *

  A sprightly picked banjo and a bopping gutbucket sounded from the porch to the Swanson cabin where Dwayne and Silver sat jamming. A savory meat aroma lingered in the air from the seasoned rabbit tendering in the smoke hut.

  Silver suddenly stopped playing. “Jimbo's back,” he grumbled, narrowing his milky eyes.

  “That's one hell of a fast trip to town,” said Dwayne and propped his beat banjo against the house wall. He drank from his bottle of sun-warm beer, the hideous lump on his cheek quivering with each swig.

  They both watched as Jimbo came shuffling on the weedy path toward the cabin, clutching a brown paper bag in one hand and a jug of moonshine in the other.

  “Reckon the bastard's bringin' bad news agin,” Silver complained.

  “Now why'd ye go an' say somethin' like that!?” Dwayne roared back, stomping his boot so hard against the porch step the loose planks rattled.

  Silver's eyes shrank to a pair of black streaks. “Cause wherever Jimbo sets his darn foot, turds pop up! You's an imbecile for never learnin'...”

  Dwayne's squinty-eyes began to twitch. He whirled up, jabbing his crooked finger at his brother. “Now ye take that back!”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I'll fit your ugly head into my banjo...”

  “Looks like we's got ourselves some trouble,” Jimbo sighed as he stepped up on the creaking porch.

  Dwayne lowered his banjo with a sullen face.

  “I saw somebody pokin' around down by the boat,” Jimbo said and seated himself on a chair between his brothers.

  “Ye sure?” Dwayne replied while Silver went inside and fetched three mugs.

  Jimbo nodded, picking his teeth.

  “We's better get movin' then,” Dwayne concluded with a frown.

  “Dern tootin',” Silver chimed in as he came back out. A wet plop sounded as he unplugged the cork of the moonshine, filled up his mug and passed the rotgut.

  * * *

  Dragging up a hefty log from the swamp, Curly took a few steps backwards, and then charged the locked stowage door which caved in with a wet crack. A cloud of rank air escaped from the gaping doorway along with a swarm of blowflies. He tore loose the remaining wood from the shattered door, peered into the dark hole and crinkled his nose as he sidled into the damp storage space.

  Grains of dust whirled in the sunlight that flooded the compartment, which at a first impression suggested it had served as some sort of study for a madman considering the strange scribbling and crudely drawn figures that filled the walls top to bottom.

  Because of the boat's slight tilt, a large pool of turbid water had leaked in and formed a lesser pool on the starboard side, in whose gunk floated myriad documents dissolved to yellowish pulp.

  “Don't worry, Louella Lee, I'll tidy you up,” he said, whistling cheerfully as he rolled up the sleeves of his rag shirt and started the onerous job of sorting out the mess.

  After hours of picking out trivial junk commonplace on nautical vessels such as lanterns, hooks, tarry nets and bulky implements used for maintenance work, he laid eyes upon something of meatier interest. Screwed onto the floor in the far corner on the larboard side, stood an aged wooden desk on which sat a tattered shoe-box.

  Shambling toward it, he held onto hangers and rope not to slip into the murky pool, accidentally hitting his head in a brass bell that tolled eerily as he reached the pulpit. He eagerly lifted the lid of the box and peeked inside, his curiosity itching as he picked up the single item contained in there: a leather-bound journal engraved with the initials M. H.

  He gently opened the mildew-ridden book and began to read:

  JOURNAL OF MAXIMILIAN HORNS.

  April 6, 1899

  The whispers have taken me to my final harbor. Though abhorrent backwoods such as this evokes a deeply rooted distaste in me, I have decided to go through with bringing her into this realm and make her my bride in the flesh. I just have to complete the final drawings.

  April 7, 1899

  I was taking a quiet stroll among the woods last night when it dawned on me that I have yet to name my bride-to-be. But lo, how does a mere practitioner of Stygian Magick baptize a creature of such carnal lust as aforementioned? I will, however, do my utmost to provide her a fitting name before she comes to me anew. Perhaps the Ipomea seeds will accord some inspiration?

  April 8, 1899

  'Tis a horrid morning to awake. Rain has leaked through the roof of the accursed boat and the night was lacking the pleasure of her company. I wonder what kept her at bay. Abandonment now would verily crush me after the draining months I have spent hunting her down. At least the drawings are done. I made the last one in the wee hours, and though I lacked the proper light, I am quite content with its outcome. I bestowed her same erotic traits as those in the dream. This, I hope, is also her wish. I will present them to her soon as darkness falls. What if she loathes them?

  Oh, how wretched the ruins of love can be!

  April 10, 1899

  Louella Lee is the name she claimed last night and the boat shall be named in her honor! I am counting the hours until our bodies will finally rapture together. She told me she is very weak, but gladly she approved of the drawings and I can now initiate the second phase of the ritual. If only I could find the proper tools in these horrid outskirts of civilization!

  Completion of my work is so close now; I can nearly taste its sweetness on the tip of my tongue. I must stop using those devilish Ipomea seeds, though, as they are making me see hostile shapes moving about outside...

  April 11, 1899

  I am laughing with glee as I jot this down. Louella Lee, I've learned, is as much a tease as a blabbermouth. Last night she whispered in my ear the secret how to make her stronger thus complete the final stage of the ritual. Oh, Maximilian Horns, thy wonderful wizard. Time to fetch a gimlet!

  Curly turned to the next page and noticed to his dismay that it was blank. In raptures over the story unfolding throughout the bizarre entries, he thumbed past a few torn pages before Maximilian Horns resumed his writing. These latter entries appeared to have been penned with a sort of strained, almost convulsive, hand. Moistening his lips, he kept reading:

  April 13, 1899

  Something evil broods in that ramshackle in the woods. The other day, as I headed up there hoping to borrow a few much needed tools; I was treated to a reception bordering on hostile by the three disfigured residents.

  After having forced some small talk out of the leery and taciturn bumpkins, they reluctantly lent me an antique gimlet which they fetched from a crumbling smoke shed. As I thanked them and bid them good-bye (receiving only scowls in return) I left at a quickened pace and with a creeping sense of fear. From now on I will keep Louella Lee's door locked at all times not to tak
e any risks. Failure is not an option.

  April 14, 1899

  By all the sexual powers of Tlazolteotl! My phallus is quaking still as this ink flows over the paper. I completed the ritual last night and painted the image of Xochiquetzal above the drilled hole. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest when the stark colors of the goddess started to come alive, just as Louella Lee had promised, and beckoned me to the hole. This sheer canal of otherworldly delights, the secret gateway into Louella Lee's oral domains, I greedily entered like a curious explorer of lust. My reward cannot be clad in mere words; bereaved is the man who has not experienced the sensations of a hungry mouth! The only complication, however, was the rough edge of the hole that left my genitals bleeding. Must smooth it down before our next venereal embrace. I cannot wait!

  This was the journal's final entry. The last pages had either been ripped out or withered away. Curly frowned, his head a tumbling miasma of sexually invoked images of the woman born out of the originator's drug-addled chimera, Louella Lee.

  Yet, no matter how incredulous the diary was, it had set a wheel spinning inside his head, and it wasn't long before he, with keen gusto and a broken bucket, was scooping out muck from the stowage.

  * * *

  “I remember the last time one of them whore-mongers came and disturbed the peace 'round here,” Dwayne gritted. Stroking his scraggly beard, he shuffled over to a rickety bookshelf that held only one book: the Swanson family bible, which he took down. “That won't happen agin'.”

  Jimbo slammed his fist on the kitchen table. “If only pappy hadn't been stubborn as a mule, we wouldn't be dealin' with ma and her deviltry traps. And I told the wayward geezer to set her on fire!”