by Scott Hale
The Gravedigger straightened up. “Will you keep watch on the barn tonight?”
“Don’t even need to ask.” Gary hopped off the altar and shoved the rest of the spleen down his throat. “You know, Mr. Haemo wants his tribute from you.”
“Mr. Haemo can kiss my ass.” The Gravedigger turned away. “If he wants his tribute, he needs to come get it himself. Otherwise, I’m just going to keep on killing his kids.”
CHAPTER III
When the Gravedigger woke the following morning, it was because Will had been shouting for him.
“Dad! Dad!”
The Gravedigger’s eyes slowly opened. He’d fallen asleep outside in his father’s rocking chair. He leaned forward, his back cracking in a thousand places he couldn’t begin to name. His throat was dry and his skin hot. He felt like shit, and probably looked it, too.
“Dad!”
Will’s voice flanked him from the left. When the Gravedigger looked over, he saw the shape of his boy running towards him, waving his arms to make sure he had his father’s attention.
“Son, son, son,” he said. He paused as he rubbed an itching mosquito bite. “Son of a bitch got me.”
Will stopped at the front steps and said as he panted, “Didn’t… you hear me… calling for you?”
“Thought it was the wind whistling my name.”
Will scratched at his poor excuse for a beard. “You’ve got to see this,” he squeaked, his voice snapping, as it always did, at the most inopportune moment.
“Give me a minute.” The Gravedigger came to his feet and let his thirst lead him back inside the house.
“Dad, it’s the barn.”
The Gravedigger stopped. He could see a cup of water sweating in the kitchen from where he stood. “Where’s your mother?”
“In the barn. You’ve got to… there’s something wrong with the barn.”
The Gravedigger turned and followed his son outside. They went to the front of the barn, where Clementine stood, one eyebrow raised, both hands thrown up in the air.
“We had a break-in,” the Gravedigger said. “I scared them off.”
“It’s not that, Atticus.” Clementine pulled the barn door back and pointed to the annex.
The Gravedigger slid past his wife. “What were you in there for?” The broken boards on the back wall taunted him to finally fix them.
“Door was open.” Clementine took her husband by his wrist. “How’d Brinton die?”
The Gravedigger considered his wife, but didn’t say anything. He reached for the annex door—didn’t he shut it last night?—and went inside.
Brinton was where he’d left him—on the table, in his casket—but wasn’t as he’d left him. A tangle of bright red, vein-like structures had grown out of his neck. Like ivy, they clung to the places where they touched, and where they touched had been the table, the wall, and half the floor. The annex itself appeared to throb as the veins pumped vermillion liquid through its crystalline casing.
“What is it?” Clementine asked. She whispered something to Will that sounded like “stay back.”
The Gravedigger shook his head. A portion of the thick mass slowly spread its way toward the ceiling. What was all this life doing here? The annex had been created and coated in such a way to ensure the only thing that thrived in it was death. Had this been the work of the thieves? The vermillion veins looked similar to Petra’s Pest, but the coloration was all wrong. The Gravedigger had heard of something like this before, but what?
On approach, Gallows looked abandoned. It always did. Like the killing thing from which it took its name, the town was wide and made of wood. When the wind hit it, it howled. When the sun touched it, it bled. For those who lived there long enough, they could point to the dark stains on the ground and buildings and say to whom they’d belonged. Gallows was not a nice place, but it was a place made nicer by its lack of pretentions.
Whirlwinds of dirt danced through the center of town, spinning after the children who’d dared to gather there. The sounds of swinging doors and shuffling feet rang out across Gallows, as those that could work went off to ply their trade.
The Gravedigger moved through the rows of sleep-deprived citizens, the hint of their hangovers souring the air, and headed for the place they likely just left not long ago.
The tavern was closed, so the Gravedigger banged on the front door until it wasn’t.
“Go away, god damn it,” Poe shouted from inside the tavern.
The Gravedigger rattled the doorknob until he heard the barkeep’s fat feet bounding across the floor.
“Listen,” Poe started, as he ripped the door open and presented himself, shirtless and soiled, to the world. “Atticus,” he said, surprised. “Atticus,” he went on, stepping outside, crossing his arms to hide his sagging breasts. “I’m sorry. Shit, I didn’t know. What… How can I help you?” Poe’s body coughed out an odor of oil and sweat.
The Gravedigger gave up breathing for a bit. “Two dumbasses broke into my barn last night. What do you know about that?”
“I don’t.” Poe took a step back. “I don’t know anything about that. Come in, have a seat, have a drink.”
“Who you got staying here?” The Gravedigger followed Poe into the building and up to the bar. He dropped onto a stool and stared the man down like he was meat. The bar was sparse but spacious; if one were to take out all the lopsided tables and busted chairs, they could turn it back into the barracks it once served as so many years ago.
Poe stuttered as he puttered about the floor, picking up his garments that lay strewn across it. He dressed himself in the colorful rags.
Once he was satisfied with his squalid appearance, he said, “Just them soldiers that dropped off Brinton.”
“Fetch them for me.”
“It’s best you wait.”
“It’s best I don’t.”
Poe made his way behind the bar and had himself a swill of ale. “You think they’re the ones who broke in?”
The Gravedigger eyed the drink and then thought better. “Brinton’s corpse has something growing all over it. It’s spread across my barn. I need to know what it is. I’m not going to bury his body and risk contaminating the property.”
Poe’s voice grew deep with concern. “You think something hitched a ride on him from Eldrus?”
The Gravedigger shrugged. “I think it’s strange they brought Brinton back here to be buried. Never heard of that before.” He slid off the stool and onto his feet. “Which room is theirs?”
“Atticus, wait.” Poe tripped over his feet as he ran to stop the Gravedigger from marching up the steps. “They had a lot to drink. They got people up there with them. They’re not nice men like you or I.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” The Gravedigger shouldered past the barkeep. At the landing, he turned and said, “What’d they do that’s got you so scared?”
Poe shook his head. “Nothing. Unlike you, there’s just some kinds of people that are best… Just go. Room three, room four.” He wandered into his own room underneath the stairs.
The second story floorboards announced the Gravedigger’s approach, but no one would hear it. The eight doors that lined the hall ahead were thick slabs of wood that sucked up sound like a rag would water. Because of this, the tavern had developed a reputation. It became a safe haven for those villainous travelers who couldn’t distinguish business from pleasure. In the end, not much was done about the matter, because the worst vices tended to bring out the best customers.
The Gravedigger found the third room—after all these years, he knew them by heart—and pushed it open. He didn’t have a weapon to defend himself with, but given the soldiers’ likely states, he didn’t need one.
“No, please,” a young man begged as the heavy door swung back.
The Gravedigger’s eyes widened as he saw what waited on the other side. In a tangle of bloodstained sheets, James lay naked on the floor. Knees to his chest, chin to his knees. He quivered, the red welts on his
backside throbbing, weeping.
“Where’d they go?” The Gravedigger grabbed a pillow from beneath the bed. “Damn it.” He dropped it; it was soaked with shit.
James shook his head and held on tighter to himself. The Gravedigger hadn’t seen him in three years, not since he’d walked off the farm to chase after a boy he had no reason to be chasing after. He looked at the twenty-two-year-old and wondered what choices he’d made that had led him to this moment. Had it been one “yes” in the place of what should’ve been a “no”? Or had it been something else, something less obvious? A quiet, seemingly insignificant moment not handled quite as well as it could’ve been? The Gravedigger thought of Will, got pissed, and then thought of something else.
“Don’t tell anyone,” James pleaded, sniffling. He wiped his nose on the sheets bunched up in his fists. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” The Gravedigger looked around the room for something to comfort him, but there were only splinters and glass. “Let’s get you up and out of here.”
When he went in for his arm, James tensed and pushed the Gravedigger away. “Leave me alone, Atticus. I… I can manage.”
“Which soldier was it that raped you?”
James swallowed hard. He closed his eyes and whimpered. Clearly, he still saw the night on the back of his lids. “He didn’t… I agreed. He just… took it too far.” He clenched his legs together.
The Gravedigger could feel the sickly heat of suffering pouring out of James’ body. He wished he still possessed some sympathy, some empathy for the boy. But what little he’d managed to muster years ago disappeared the day James skipped town.
James sat up. “That was us last night.” He propped himself against the frame of the bed. Embarrassed, he covered his crotch.
“Who’s us? Elijah’s still with you?” He looked over his shoulder, into the hall, at the door to room four. He imagined finding James’ boyfriend dead inside, having finally gotten what he’d so long deserved. It made him smile.
“It was my idea.” James tried to look defiant. Now that he wasn’t on the floor, the Gravedigger could see the red patches on his neck from where someone had been sucking on it. “We needed money. Figured we could hock some things from the annex.”
“You trying to piss me off?” The veins in the Gravedigger’s head pulsated with three years of unspoken rage. “I caught you, so you came back here. Ran into them, and they ran you into the ground. You get your money?”
James nodded. “They say jobs are hard to find around these parts. But we’ve all the parts for at least one job.”
“Well isn’t that poetic?” The Gravedigger knew there was nothing more to be said. They were both too stubborn to apologize, and too calloused to truly care. “They’re gone? Where to?”
James shrugged and said, “Next is Bedlam, but I think they’re still around. Said they had another body to deliver. That’s where we were going. Back home to Bedlam.”
“If you’re quick, you just might catch up with them.” The Gravedigger turned and left the room. He stood in the hall, staring down room four. “Did you do anything to the body in the annex?” he asked through his teeth.
“No,” James said, his voice weak, his resolve gone. “Heard it was Brinton. Thought he might have some badges or something we could sell. Why?”
By the time the Gravedigger got back to the barn, the vermillion veins had completely filled the annex. If he wanted in, he’d have to cut his way through.
Clementine went behind her husband and wrapped her arms around him. “Did you find them?” She rested her head against his shoulder and smelled him. “This scares me, Atticus. Will this cost us a lot?”
The Gravedigger took his wife’s hands, and kissed the tops of them. “I’ll make the mayor reimburse us, if need be. What is it, though? What’s in it? I have an idea, but I don’t want to put you and Will in danger if I start tearing it down.”
“Got to do something,” she said, biting his earlobe. “It’ll take over the whole house at this rate.”
“I saw James at the tavern.”
Clementine gasped and pulled away. “You did?”
“He and that fat fuck Elijah are the ones who tried to break in. After I chased them off, they ran into the soldiers from Eldrus. They did a number on him. Karma, I guess. Whatever that means.”
Clementine twisted her mouth. “Were you mean to him?”
The Gravedigger shook his head. “Didn’t need to be.”
Clementine smiled and, taking her husband by his arm, led him toward the house. “He was a good kid. We did what we could. We didn’t have to, but we did. Shouldn’t expect anything in return.”
The Gravedigger looked across the road to the abandoned chapel, where they’d found James. He then looked at the overpopulated graveyard, where the boy had spent most of his days. He hadn’t been a smart kid, nor had he been particularly talented. But with some guidance, their guidance, they had hoped to avoid the very future he had just fucked his way into.
“What’s for dinner?” the Gravedigger asked, snapping out of it.
Clementine shrugged. “Oh, the same old, same old.”
The Gravedigger waited for the evening to go through its motions. He watched the sun crack against the earth, spilling the last of its light like yolk across the land. He listened to the wind as it ripped through the rows of the dead before laying down to die among them. The grass started to tremble, to shake, as things woke to hunt those that now slept. The world dimmed, became intimate, smaller, as though it were closing in to have a look at what deeds were being done in the sweating dark.
The Gravedigger waited for the evening to go through its motions, and then went to work.
Gary sat on a stack of hay. He watched the Gravedigger pace back and forth in front of the annex. “You know what they look like?”
The Gravedigger stopped, entranced by the vibrant liquid coursing through the vermillion veins. “Nameless Forest.”
“Never seen it myself, but those things there sure fit the bill.”
“It’s supposed to be addictive.” The Gravedigger ducked into the shadows and returned with a machete. “Any idea what’ll happen if I starting hacking at it?”
The ghoul shook his head. “I don’t think it’s them.” He picked at his skin, his doubt leaving a tear on his palm. “You think the soldiers knew? What are their names? What did they—”
The Gravedigger dropped his arms to his sides. “Something’s wrong.”
“I know. You’re not usually this thoughtful.”
The Gravedigger sighed and started for the front of the barn. “Let’s go… see what Mr. Haemo knows.”
It took the Gravedigger and Gary an hour traveling east from the graveyard, but they finally reached Mr. Haemo’s haunt. It was a dense, murmuring marsh that had formed at the edge of the fields. Standing on the marsh’s sickly shore, the Gravedigger searched for passage.
The waters here were too deep to walk in, and too hungry to swim through. He tapped Gary and pointed to the isle ahead, where the trees, like sickles, curved out of the earth. They skirted the waters, and then came to a stop. At their feet, a path of petrified bodies stretched across the marsh. This bloated bridge of bruised backs was the only way to reach the secluded isle.
The Gravedigger bent down and picked up the candle at the flesh bridge’s beginning. “The soldiers aren’t gone.”
It was always there, and as always, when touched, the candle ignited.
“Soldiers never leave that quickly,” the Gravedigger explained to Gary. “They’re still around. We need to find them.”
An audience with Mr. Haemo came with a strict adherence to ritual. It wasn’t a necessity, but it was a good way to get on the good side of the sick son of a bitch.
The Gravedigger went slowly across the slick backs of the bridge of bloated dead. A quarter of the way, he stopped, knelt, and lit the ephemeral candle in the skull floating beside him in the water. Gary, ahead of the Gravedigger, sc
ratched their names into the soggy flesh of the eighth corpse in the chain.
They then moved one after the other, until they were halfway to the isle. There, they each bit their own fingers until a droplet of blood appeared. Holding their hands out, they waited for a mosquito to buzz by and collect their offering. When it did, they proceeded forward, taking off their clothes as they went.
They stepped upon the isle, naked and bleeding, just the way Mr. Haemo preferred all his visitors to be. A wild thicket of black trees greeted them, daring them to enter with sinister sneers and wooden whispers. If they wanted to get to the center, this was the only way through.
A plume of red smoke rose out of the middle of the thicket. “Let’s not do this,” Gary said.
“Do you know a better way?” The Gravedigger found the entrance. It was a narrow corridor of clawing branches. He placed the candle he held in one of their wooden hands. “What are you afraid of? You’re already dead.”
“That’s cold,” Gary said, shaking his head. “You should be nicer to us dead folk. You’ll be amongst us one day.”
The passage always took more than it deserved, so when they finally slid out of it, they were covered from head to toe in thin, stinging cuts. Crotches still covered, because that was the place the branches liked the best, they walked towards the center of the thicket, where the red plume was finally dispersing.
Mr. Haemo stirred within the crimson cloud and said, “Did you bring me something to drink?”
The Gravedigger cleared his throat. His eyes went to the small, but infinitely deep, pool of blood a few feet away. “I need your help.”
Mr. Haemo laughed and stepped out of the smoke. Draped in a cloak of human skin, the six-foot mosquito walked towards them on two legs, its massive, ruby-like eyes staring them down like the pathetic creatures they were to him. His body, black with splotches of pale yellow, moved with an unnatural gait as he strolled over to the blood well.
“Come here,” Mr. Haemo said, leaning in to it. He moved his hands over the surface of the pool, divining from the gathering waves its sanguine secrets. He dipped his two-foot proboscis into the swirling cruor and said, “Sit. Now.”