by Tim Curran
"Something had better well be done."
"Oh, we're trying, Mr. Rikers, I assure you of this," Longtree said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "But you see, this is a strange situation, a very strange one indeed. I'm of a mind that these deaths are connected with the lynching of that Blackfoot last year. You saw it, didn't you?"
Rikers swallowed. "I saw it, all right. But there was nothing I could've done for that boy except gotten myself killed, if that's what your insinuating."
"No, you did right, Mr. Rikers. No sense in tangling with outlaws like that."
"I don't know who they were-they wore masks."
"No, that's not what I'm interested in either. I want to ask you about the murder that led to all that."
Rikers features went slack. "The Carpenter girl?"
"Yes. What do you remember of her?"
Rikers sat down, licking his lips. "She was a pretty girl, Marshal. That and a very nice one. She was liked by everyone. Just a nice kid who never did any wrong by anyone."
"Did she have suitors that you recall?"
Rikers laughed. "She had too many, Marshal. Men crawled out of the woodwork when they got a look at her."
"You remember any in particular?"
"Hell, Marshal, " Rikers said, "it was some time ago. There were ranch hands, some of the miners, even Liberty, the dentist."
"A real popular girl, eh?"
"Yes, but a moral one, you understand. She never so much as dated a single man that I remember." Rikers laughed again. "She really did have her choice, though, even married men took a shine to her. I recall Sheriff Lauters was pretty sweet on her."
"Lauters?"
"Yeah, Big Bill was in love, I think."
10
Jimmy Lauters, aged twelve, collapsed in the snow outside his house. His head was spinning with dizziness, his eyesight blurred. As he lay there in the snow, trembling with shock, dry heaves wracking his body, he thought only of death.
In his mind, he saw only slaughter.
He tried to will himself to crawl the last few feet to the door, but movement, any movement seemed a chore. He heard the barn door swing open and slam against the wall. It made a great hammering noise as if it had been reduced to kindling. And no wind, Jimmy knew, had the strength to do that. He could hear heavy footfalls behind him and knew that the beast was coming.
He could feel its hot breath on his back.
Let it think I'm dead, he decided with iron nerve. Let it think that.
The beast sniffed a line down his spine and withdrew, just standing above him, tasting the air.
Jimmy launched himself to his feet with a cry, already running by this time. The beast howled and Jimmy felt the tips of its claws rip gashes into the back of his neck. Then he was at the door. A split-second later, through it. He threw the bolt and snatched the shotgun from above the hearth. He broke it open and fed shells into it with numbed fingers.
"What are you doing, boy?" his mother asked, crossing the room quickly.
He said: "The monster." Nothing more.
Abigail Lauters, her steel gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, wasn't impressed with this foolishness. "I told you to fetch your brother," she snapped. "It's bath night…"
He looked at her with crazed, dreaming eyes and the words died on her lips. His face was colorless, vomit smeared down the front of his shirt. His throat was bleeding.
"Dead," he muttered, "Chauncey's dead."
Abigail said nothing for a moment, the impact of those two words weighing in slowly, heavily. She could hear her cousin Virginia upstairs, singing a song as she bathed Jo Jo, the youngest. Dead? Chauncey couldn't be dead, why that was sheer nonsense-
"The monster got the horses," Jimmy sobbed. "It tore them apart…and Chauncey…it was eating him…"
His mother snatched the shotgun from his hands. There was a thud against the door.
Another.
Then another.
"Get upstairs," she said calmly, but with iron behind her words.
Jimmy had never heard her use that tone before. Mechanically, he backed to the stairway, tears running from his eyes. The door was hit again and again. The plank that held it secure splintered, then split in two. The door seemed to bulge in its frame and then it exploded inward.
The beast stood there, breathing with a low, bestial grunting.
Abigail looked on it and decided it was a demon from hell. It could be nothing else. It had to stoop low to come through the door, a horror knitted with tufts of matted fur and scaly skin, stinking of slaughterhouses, dusted with snow. Its huge tail swung back and forth, casting aside tables and chairs. It came forward hunched and bent, but still its skull brushed the ceiling rafters. Ribbons of drool hung from its mouth.
Abigail shot it twice and it reeled with the impact, but never stopped. It came at her like a freight train, the gun slapped from her hands. As Jimmy watched, cowering on the third stair, the beast tore his mother apart. She looked, if anything, like a burst feather pillow stuffed with red. Bits of her rained in the air, sprayed and exploded in every conceivable direction..
Jimmy scrambled up the stairs.
His Aunt Virginia was standing up on the landing, little Jo Jo in her arms. She stared, shocked into stillness. Jimmy looked back and saw the beast, its armored torso red with his mother's blood.
"Jesus in Heaven," she whispered.
"Run!" Jimmy yelled. "Run for godsake!"
Virginia scampered down the hall, slamming and locking the door of the children's room behind her.
Jimmy dashed into his father's room and returned with a knife.
The beast came to him, vaulting up the stairs, its massive weight collapsing individual steps as if they were fashioned from balsa. Its obscene, hideous face was hooked in a crooked grin. Its nostrils flared at the boy's smell. It saw the knife and was unimpressed, two gaping bleeding holes already open in its chest.
Jimmy lifted the knife to strike.
The beast's lips drew back slickly from its dripping gums, rows of razored and serrated teeth gnashing together. Saliva spilled down its jutting chin, blood and bits of viscera were dropping from its mouth.
Jimmy threw himself at it, sinking the knife in its throat. Then it had him. The blade still buried in its neck, it brought its jaws together on Jimmy's head, his skull going with a muted wet pop. It ate him this way, feeding him between those rows of teeth until there were only bones, hair, and stringy tendrils of meat to show for twelve years of struggle.
Virginia held no illusions that she was safe in the bedroom. She was next and there were no two ways about this. The door shattered to brushwood and the beast stepped in, squeezing its bulk through and taking most of the doorframe with it. Virginia read from her Bible in a high, shivery voice.
"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night," she read, "nor the arrow that flieth by day; nor the pestilence that walketh in darkness-"
Skullhead stood there, drunk with blood, listening to these words and disliking them for reasons he wasn't even sure of. In two steps, he was on her. He pulled her head free, examined it, turning up his nose at the perfume in her hair, and tossed it away through the door. It bounced down the steps like a meaty ball. He had no use for this one.
It was the child he wanted.
Under the bed, he heard it crying. Such sad sounds that were music to Skullhead, a choir of angels. He flipped the bed over and snatched the child up in his arms, crushing it against him.
In silence, he ate, pulling its juicy limbs free like a butterfly's wings.
11
Reverend Claussen heard the doors to the church slam open with a crash.
One was nearly torn off, snow and wind blowing in, but they did nothing to disguise the figure which stood there. Claussen was laying at the foot of the altar, bruised and hurting and filthy with his own urine and excrement. His mind had gone to mush now and he did not doubt what his eyes showed him.
The beast.
It came forward slowly wit
h a raw and vile smell of death lingering about it. Its eyes found and held the reverend and in those eyes, dear Christ, was… deliverance. In those red and glistening orbs was a promise of purity. For, Claussen saw, it was no beast, it was a god. Not some storybook deity who couldn't be bothered to put in an appearance, let alone speak to and instruct his flock. This was a god in the flesh. Huge and pulsing and jutting and stinking and anxious to claim the faithful as his own.
It occurred to Claussen as his mind raged with religious awe, that this was one of the creatures mentioned in the book on Indian folklore. But unlike the phantoms and fairies of Christianity, it was real. It lived and breathed and lusted.
Its stink was like sacred incense to Claussen even though it put his stomach in his throat and made his bowels ache to be voided. It came forward and towered above him. He was on his knees before it, trembling, sickened by the noxious bouquet of its stench. It filled him, roiling his guts, and turning his thoughts to mud.
"Take me, oh Lord," he said in a screeching voice, "take me as sacrifice."
It reached down and grasped him by the neck with one immense hand, hoisting him skyward so his face was in its own. Its breath smelled of decay and vomit and blackness, hot and appalling. Claussen gazed into those unblinking red eyes and jolts of electricity thrummed through him, boiling his blood and filling his skull with white light. He saw-
He saw the world before man. He saw the civilizations that had risen and fallen. He saw things unknown and unguessed. He saw the Skullheads and their kingdom. He saw the world change and the red man come and the great, fierce Lords of the High Wood sicken and die. Their herds thinned as they could no longer bear children. Until there were only a few left that were worshipped, then entombed by the Indians. Where they waited and waited in solemn, suffocating darkness until they were called forth.
Yes, the knowledge had been passed.
Claussen was to become its priest.
To prove this, it bit off his left hand at the wrist and swallowed the meat and bone without chewing. The agony was beautiful. It dropped the reverend and mounted the altar. Its lashing tail shattered and tumbled the effigies of Christ and Mary. It pulled down the cross and urinated over holy relics and missives.
It claimed the church as its own.
Claussen, at last, had found meaning to his existence.
12
Early the next morning, just before light, Dr. Perry was up and about. His back wasn't too bad today, a bit sensitive. His cells were content, having been fed their ritual breakfast of morphine. Perry made rounds in his wagon, treating two cases of frostbite and mending a shattered leg up at one of the mining camps. When day broke, the sun came out, parting the clouds. There was every indication that today-though cool-would be a lovely day, Perry decided.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
On a whim, he stopped by the church.
He didn't like to think that Lauters had killed the reverend. It was the last thing he wanted to believe, but, as Marshal Longtree had pointed out a few days before, the sheriff was entirely out of control. And Reverend Claussen was missing.
In the church, much to the doctor's surprise, he found Claussen at the altar, reveling in something. He soon saw what. The altar had been destroyed. It was smeared with excrement and worse things. Everything was destroyed and defiled.
"Good Christ," Perry said. The church smelled like an abbatoir.
Claussen turned. "Do not profane in this house, sir," he said.
Perry was speechless. The reverend's face was bruised and swollen.
"What happened to you, man?" he demanded.
"Baptismal under fire," the reverend laughed.
Perry went to him, but the reverend pulled away. "I don't need your help, sir."
"Tell me who did this."
Claussen grinned. "Oh, I think you know."
Perry sat down on the first step of the altar. Claussen was right, of course: Perry did know. Lauters. The sheriff hadn't been lying to Perry the night before when he'd said he hadn't killed the reverend. He hadn't committed murder, he'd merely assaulted the man. Perry had always known Lauters to be a bit heavy-handed and particularly in the past few years-there'd been more than one feisty prisoner he'd had to stitch up and set-but never nothing to this degree. A beating of such magnitude could never be blamed on mere self-defense except in a lunatic's brain-this was a crime and the man who had committed it, a criminal.
"When did this happen?" the doctor inquired. "Did he do this, too?" He indicated the altar, the jackstraw tumble of pews, the shredded tapestries, the ravaged statues.
"Hardly."
"When?"
"In the dim past."
The doctor took a deep, pained breath. "You'll have to press charges, of course."
"Nonsense."
Perry just stared at him. He wanted nothing more than an injection right now; nothing else could hope to sort this mess out.
"Lauters will face punishment, yes, but not by the law," Claussen said with abnormal calm, "but by His hand."
"God?" Perry said without knowing he had.
Claussen smiled again: It was awful, like a cadaver's grin. "God? Yes, perhaps, but not the one you mean, not the one I've thrown my life away on."
Perry stroked his mustache. "Easy, Reverend." He had a nasty feeling Claussen had lost his mind. "I'd like you to come back to my home with me," he said, picking his words carefully. "You've been through a shock, you need rest. I can see that you get it. I'll have Deputy Bowes and Marshal Longtree come by."
"For what possible purpose?"
"To arrest the man who did this."
Claussen laughed softly. "I don't need them, Doctor. None of us do. You see, there's only one law now- his law."
"Who are you speaking of?"
"You know, you know very well. You borrowed my books-"
"I didn't read them," Perry lied. "There hasn't been time."
"Much to your disadvantage, then, I would think." Claussen went back to the wreckage of the altar. "When he takes command, when he assumes his throne, he'll need educated men like you and I to help him sort out affairs. But you must read the books, you must know of his past…"
Perry just looked at him.
Claussen grinned. "You see, Doctor, he is a king. He ruled this land once. When our relations came from Europe, they brought European gods with them. This was a mistake. They know nothing of this land, its history, its needs, its course."
"Yes, well-"
"The Indians know they weren't the first race here, that there were older races." Claussen smiled at the idea. "So wise, those people…and we call them savages." He shook is head. "No matter. The old race were called the Lords of the High Wood. When the Indians first migrated into this land countless thousands of years ago, the Lords were still here. Not many still survived, but some. Enough, I would say."
"What does this have to do with anything?" Perry wanted to know.
"I'm instructing you, Doctor, on the new religion which is actually quite old. These are things you'd do well to remember." Claussen touched a finger to his chin. "Now, at present, our lawmen are hunting a beast, a creature that is slaughtering people. But this creature is not new, in fact it is very old. It is a direct descendent of these Lords, the Kings of the Hunt. You see, in ancient times, the Indians worshipped these creatures. They were gods. They made sacrifice to them, offered them virgins to breed with. Eventually the Lords died out-oh, due perhaps to changes in climate, destruction of their habitats-but a few survived."
"You're insane," Perry told him.
"On the contrary, I'm probably the only sane person left," Claussen said, stabbing a finger at the doctor. "I told you once of the Skull Society. Do you remember? Well, this Skull Society is an ancient cult. At one time they were priests of the order that selected sacrifice to the Lords. They were the law-makers, holy men of a cult of barbarity."
Perry sighed. "Are you trying to tell me one of these… things still exists?"
&nbs
p; Claussen massaged his temples wearily. "Yes, exactly. Most of these Lords, these gods of old died out long ago, but a few survived into modern times. Certain tribes believe until quite recently."
"Stop it, Reverend. You-"
Claussen silenced him with a look, lost in his new religion. "Do you know what are meant by the 'dog days,' Doctor?"
Perry nodded. The dog days referred to the pre-horse period of the tribes when all activities were accomplished with canine assistance: camp moving, hunting, etc.
"Many of the tribes, our own Blackfeet included, believe a few of these Lords survived into the dog days-which, would mean within the last four or five-hundred years or so."
Perry's back was aching fiercely now. Claussen explained all this with such cold, compelling logic, it was hard not to believe him. But it was fantasy. Had to be. Perry was something of a naturalist himself and he didn't doubt for a moment that the earth had been populated at various times by bizarre animalistic peoples and nameless beasts. But they were all extinct now. To accept, even for a moment, that some primordial horror had survived…
"Nonsense," Perry maintained.
"Is it?"
"Of course. Even if there were such creatures, they are long gone."
"Not at all, Doctor," Claussen said as if he were addressing a child. "One has survived."
Perry just stared at him. It was insanity; there could be no shred of underlying truth in this.
"Read the books, Doctor. It's all there. What we know comes from legend, tribal memory, but legend is the only glimpse we have of those ancient times and ways."
"You need rest," Perry said weakly.
"The Blackfeet call him Skullhead."
"Why?"
"Because his head is like a huge skull. The Skullheads, you see, wear their skeletons on the outsides of their bodies like insects. Throwbacks to prehistory, Doctor. Lords of the High Wood. Beings whose savage appetites can never be satisfied." Claussen grinned ghoulishly.
It was all madness; Perry did not want to hear it. Claussen had kept his left hand stuffed inside his coat the entire time. Perry had not wanted to ask why. But now he did.