Redneck Eldritch

by Nathan Shumate

  “How much time we got?” Daniel asked.

  Franklin pulled out his pocket watch and examined it in the moonlight. “Half-hour or so.”

  “I don’t get it,” Henry said. “Who’d want to kill Rebecca? And why?”

  “That ain’t the question,” Jeremiah said. “Why are elderspawn involved? That’s what we should all be asking.”

  “Indeed,” Daniel agreed. “But now’s not the time to ponder on it.”

  “And I don’t intend waitin’ here for the things to converge on us,” Franklin said. “I plan a lot of death this morning.”

  “For Rebecca,” Alan said. Stephen nodded his agreement.

  “For Rebecca,” Franklin echoed, looking each brother in the eye in turn. He had their attention, just like back in the war. If they did what he said, Franklin knew everything would be all right. “Here’s what we are going to do.”

  ***

  “Should have stayed all together,” Jeremiah said. He ran a hand futilely over his hair, then check the cylinder of his revolver for the fifth time.

  “We don’t know exactly what manner of creatures are being sent,” Franklin said. “Hell, we ain’t even sure which god is sending them.”

  “Which is why we should be together.”

  “If I were a snake-handlin’ man,” Franklin said, “I’d bet that by splitting up we divide the focus of whatever god had a hand in my Rebecca’s death. Those Elder Gods don’t really understand us humans. They underestimate us. They don’t quite fathom how far we’re willing to go for our kin. Believe me, this is the way it needs to be for Rebecca.”

  Jeremiah sighed and said, “You say so…”

  “I do. Now keep your trap shut. I need to listen.”

  As they watched the woods, their breaths visible in the air, Franklin again ran his fingers over the etched runes on the barrel of his Peacemaker.

  It had been passed down, generation to generation, from his namesake, Lieutenant Franklin Mercer, who served under General Lee in the Civil War. Franklin had taken this pistol with him to ’Nam, and had made good use of it against the things no one wanted to believe—or admit—existed in those jungles. He put it away the day he got home, hoping to never use it again. But here he was. He glanced at his brother, who eyes scanned the woods for foreign movement. The irony of the moniker of the pistol, matched with what he intended on doing with it, wasn’t lost on him.

  After a time, Franklin noticed the silence that had settled heavily on the woods. Absent were the sounds of wildlife, and even the rustling of leaves and branches. It reminded Franklin of those moments when the jungles of Vietnam would go absolutely still right before some monstrosity would literally tear some of his platoon in half.

  The creature burst from the vegetation to their right. Franklin was knocked off his feet and into the air. His back slammed into a tree, the only thing that kept him from flying into the next county. When he regained his footing—thankfully his own revolver still firmly in his grip—he saw Jeremiah wrestling with the monster.

  It was dog-shaped, but with massive claws and a mouth that opened all the way from snout to chest. Where its eyes should have been were clusters of small thrashing tentacles. Four barbed tails waived about, as if they were watching the creature’s six.

  One of Hastur’s hounds. Just as Franklin had privately reckoned.

  Jeremiah tried lifting his pistol, only to have it batted away. His eyes, wide and wild like a doomed rabbit, found Franklin’s.

  Franklin lifted his pistol, but already his brother and the hound were tangled together. He didn’t have a clear shot.

  The hound sank its teeth into Jeremiah’s arm, then ripped it from its socket with a wet popping sound. Jeremiah’s scream shattered what was left of the silence in the forest.

  Franklin knew he only had a few more moments before the hound killed his brother. Then, in the briefest of moments, he saw an open shot. Franklin aimed and fired without thinking. The bullet from the enchanted Peacemaker punched through the leg of the hound, and then took Jeremiah in the chest.

  The hound loosed an ear-shattering wail, then bounded away, leaving Franklin with the still form of his brother. Franklin stumbled to Jeremiah’s side and fell to his knees. He pulled his brother’s head into his lap and ran a hand over the unruly hair.

  “I’m so sorry, Jeremiah,” Franklin said to the body. “I never wanted it to be this way. I wanted us all to live. I wanted…”

  In the distance, from the direction of Alan’s home, came that soul-tearing howl. The hound was letting Franklin know where it was going next.

  “Rest easy, brother.” Franklin gently let his brother’s head fall to the forest ground. “This ain’t over yet.”

  ***

  Franklin could still remember the first time he’d laid eyes on Rebecca—then still wearing the last name Young. It was the second day of September, 1973, and the U.S. was officially done with Vietnam.

  He’d been on his way home, still in uniform, with his five brothers—they’d managed to stick together and survive the war—when they’d passed her on a street in Atlanta, burdened with enough groceries to feed a platoon.

  No hesitation. Franklin crossed the street to her side and offered to help her on her way home. Seemed like only yesterday that she had flashed that beauty of a smile his way and had gladly handed over a single, light bag. She had a reputation to maintain, she said.

  He remembered Alan being the first of his brothers to really welcome her. He and Rebecca had stayed close, like a natural brother and sister.

  Rebecca would have hated seeing Alan the way Franklin now did. He’d been late getting to Alan’s side, and the hound was already about its business.

  Franklin ran as fast as he could, covering the distance to the house he’d helped the twin build. All his brothers’ homes were the same distance from each other, but running the direct route at night through the woods held its own dangers. Alan was the younger of the twins by three minutes. When Franklin arrived, most of his brother’s body—and the elderspawn feeding on him—was obscured by trees. The hound was tearing into Alan’s stomach with wet crunching and chewing sounds.

  His brother’s mouth moved in silent screams, eyes staring wide up at the forest canopy. Alan’s body jerked as the hound ripped entrails from his middle. He’d be dead soon, and the hound would devour him. Franklin’s chest felt hollow. He raised his gun again, and aimed at the only clear shot he had.

  Alan’s head.

  He would not let his brother suffer needlessly.

  Franklin squeezed the trigger and felt the revolver buck in his grip. The round caught his brother in the right temple, killing him instantly and ending his pain.

  The hound bayed again and fled, its direction easy enough to guess. Franklin knew the other twin, Stephen, stood no better chance against Hastur’s spawn.

  “I’ll come back and give you a proper rest,” he said to Alan’s still form. Yes, Rebecca would have hated this sight. “You haven’t died for nothin’, I swear on my Rebecca’s soul.”

  ***

  He actually arrived at Stephen’s home before the hound. Stephen wasn’t the smartest of the brothers, and he’d left his lights on. Franklin knew it was because the brother likely thought he could see better this way. The fool had been dipping into his own shine too often. Now anyone could see him with far more clarity than Stephen himself could see out with.

  How many times had Rebecca chided Stephen, telling him to be more responsible? Telling him to give up those habits and find himself a woman? To educate himself? Stephen hadn’t said but a couple of words to her, but those couple of words were more than he spoke to anyone else. He could tell Rebecca’s advice came from a place of love.

  Now she was gone, and Stephen didn’t have much time left of his own.

  He was still alive, though, and that was a small blessing. The hound couldn’t be far off. Hastur’s minion was following a pattern, taking each of the brothers in turn with a method. It was a met
hod Franklin understood, and likewise understood his role in.

  Franklin heard a huffing sound to his right.

  There stood the hound, yellow ichor draining from the hole Franklin had put in its leg. Where it dripped to the ground, steam rose and the fallen foliage wilted and crumbled to dust.

  It looked from Franklin to the illuminated windows, then back again. The hound lifted is head and howled into the night. The sound scraped across Franklin’s nerves, and almost immediately he saw his brother’s silhouette as he came to the window to look outside for the source of the noise.

  The hound again looked at Franklin, huffing again with impatience.

  Franklin sighed. This was the only way he could bring Rebecca back.

  He raised his rune-etched Peacemaker, aimed for Stephen’s head, then fired.

  ***

  Rebecca had had long, thick, red hair and the greenest eyes. It was love at first sight. They’d married as soon as they’d been able, and moved outside of Atlanta where they could get away from everyone but family and like-minded individuals. Where they could hunt or grow their own food. Make their own liquor. Stay away from the attentions of a government none of them cared for.

  Franklin’s mind kept coming back to his wife. He tried focusing on the more immediate concern: his brother, Henry. The problem was that each of his brothers reminded him of his Rebecca in a different way. She’d brought out the best in all of them.

  “Franklin? Hey, you listenin’?”

  He blinked hard, forcing himself to see the present rather than the past…or the future, depending.

  “Sorry, Henry. It’s been a dark night for our family.

  “Heard shots. What happened?”

  Franklin shook his head, his Peacemaker help loosely in his right hand. “One of Hastur’s hounds got ’em.”

  “All of ’em?”

  “Jeremiah and the twins.”

  “So it’s just you, me, and Daniel left?”

  “’Fraid not.” Franklin lifted his pistol. This wasn’t the path he had wanted to take, but for his Rebecca, this was the only choice.

  Henry’s eyes widened for a brief instant before the first round hit him in the chest. The next went through his left eye and erupted out the back of his head in a geyser of brain, blood and bone. Like a puppet with its strings cut, Franklin’s brother collapsed to the floor, his blood spreading out in in a small lake around him on the generic linoleum of the kitchen floor.

  Franklin walked to the front door of Henry’s home and pulled it open, then went back to the kitchen to sit down. Within a few minutes the hound entered the house. It walked straight to his brother’s corpse and began lapping at the pooling blood.

  This was all part of the ceremony, Franklin knew, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. He averted his gaze, though the sounds of the elderspawn drinking couldn’t be as easily avoided.

  Henry’s table was nice. People thought him unintelligent because of the Confederate flag tattoo on his left shoulder, or because he spoke poorly when he managed to put together more than a few words. It was true, to an extent. Henry wasn’t the best at expressing himself with his limited vocabulary. But he had no peer when expressing himself through carpentry. Franklin ran a hand over the smooth surface of the kitchen table. Henry had made it himself, and had made one for Rebecca as a wedding present. It was one of her favorite possessions in this world. Now all that talent was gone.

  But for a reason, Franklin told himself. For the best of reasons.

  The hound finished its drinking and left the house.

  Only one more left.

  ***

  Franklin knocked on Daniel’s door.

  “It’s open,” came the words from inside.

  Franklin pulled the handle down and went inside. The home was dark, and it held an air of resignation. Of bitter acceptance.

  “It was you.”

  Not a question, but a statement filled with sadness.

  “How’d you reason it out, Daniel?”

  “I hadn’t totally reasoned it all out ’til you just now confirmed it. Still don’t get why.”

  Ah, Daniel, so damned clever. The thought actually brought a fleeting smile to Franklin’s lips.

  “You was always the smartest of us,” Franklin said. “Rebecca always said so. Warned me so.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not the one who fooled his brothers into thinking someone else had killed your Rebecca. I assume the few shots I heard weren’t directed at whatever was summoned, but at our brothers?”

  Throughout the exchange, Franklin hadn’t been able to pinpoint his last, living brother’s location. His eyes still hadn’t fully adjusted to the utter darkness in the home, so rather than walk around like a blind fool, he decided to hold firm in the middle of the entry room.

  “They are all gone,” Franklin said.

  Behind him, the hound entered the house through the open door. It paused in the small square of moonlight that shined in through the doorway, sniffing the air. Its horrid visage turned to the left and stared there.

  “Ah. One of Hastur’s,” Daniel said. “So you made a deal of some sort. What was it you asked for? What was it you killed your wife for, then all your brothers? What did the Unspeakable One promise you in return for your deeds?”

  “Daniel, for all your intelligence, sometimes you just don’t see what’s actually happenin’ in front of you.” The hound growled, deep and feral. Franklin stepped in front of it, between it and the sound of his brother’s voice.

  “What you mean?” Daniel’s voice was unsure, and Franklin knew how much it had to gall his brother not to know everything.

  “You have it all sideways. I’m doing this for Rebecca. As much as I love you, and the others… I can’t bear to be without her.”

  “Then why’d you cut her throat?”

  “Daniel, she was already dying. She was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago. Right before I built all your homes. Terminal. Five years, tops. It’s a miracle she lived long as she did.”

  “But… but she never…”

  “What?” Franklin asked, angry now. “Never stopped and whined about it to yerself? Rebecca wasn’t a whiner. She didn’t want none of that chemo garbage, neither. If she was gonna go, she wanted to go without the supposed ‘cure’ makin’ her feel worse that the thing killin’ her. Her choice. That’s why I built your houses for you. Picked perfect land for them.”

  “Our… homes?”

  “You never noted they was sittin’ in the shape of a pentagram? Thought you would have. Was worried about it, although with the trees in between it’s hard to see right-off. I found a rite, Daniel. An old one. To bring her back. To bring her back forever. Wish I would have known about it when our kids passed.”

  “You needed our blood.”

  “I do, brother. I’m sorry, I truly am. But I need Rebecca back. I ain’t nothing without her. With her help, I prepared the rite to bargain with Hastur. Then I cut her throat with my own hand. I laid her down on that floor, then I went out and cut a bouquet of her favorite wildflowers for her.”

  “Then you killed us all. I’m the last.”

  “You’re the last.”

  “I could fight you, you know.”

  Franklin looked down at the hound that was now impatiently pawing at the floor. The time to finish the rite was slipping away.

  “Yeah,” Franklin said. “You could.”

  There was a long sigh, then the sound of a match being struck, followed by the blooming light of an oil lamp. “Does the blood need to be split unwillingly?”

  “I… don’t think it matters, brother.”

  “All right.” Daniel set the lamp down, then dropped his own revolver to the floor. “Believe it or not, Franklin, I understand. I really do. So get it done with.”

  Daniel closed his eyes.

  Tears streamed down Franklin’s cheeks. Not of sadness, but of happiness.

  “Thank you, Daniel. She’ll live forever because of your blood. Yours a
nd theirs.”

  Franklin, for the last time, lifted his gun and fired.

  ***

  Franklin followed the hound back to his wife’s dead form. The sacrifice required to bring her back was steep, and he knew he’d miss his brother’s terrible-like, just like he missed his children. But seeing Rebecca alive would prove that his brothers weren’t gone for nothing.

  The hound padded into his home, then looked alternately between the bloodstained sheet covering his wife’s body, and Franklin himself.

  He bent down and pulled the sheet away.

  Rebecca was so pale, and her skin looked like wax. With so much of her blood gone, he could see more of the yellow, diseased tint to her skin than before.

  The hound moved forward and began licking Rebecca’s face. It paused to make a hacking sound, then ran its tongue over the ragged wound on her throat. Wherever it licked, it coated the skin in blood.

  The blood of my brothers, Franklin realized.

  The hound licked every inch of exposed skin, then went over all the areas again, completely coating his dead wife in the blood of the sacrifices.

  Suddenly the beast shuddered, then collapsed on top of Rebecca’s corpse. It lay there, unmoving, for several minutes. When Franklin had finally worked up the courage to get closer to see, Hastur’s minion had begun to melt. The process was slow at first, then quickened with each of Franklin’s hammering heartbeats.

  Within a minute, the beast was gone, leaving behind a yellow mess that covered his wife.

  That was when he noticed that the wound on his wife’s neck was gone.

  Then her chest moved. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Rebecca sat up with a gasp.

  Franklin leapt to her side, and pulled her to his chest, weeping.

  “You brought me back,” she said. Her voice was dry and soft. It was the most beautiful sound Franklin had ever heard. “It worked.”

  “It worked,” he said, kissing the top of her head, heedless of the filth covering her from the hound’s tongue and from itself. “I had to kill them all, Rebecca. I had to kill them all for you. And I’d do it again.”