by catt dahman
"Well," Paris tried to make light of the mood, "if you let this affect your card playing, I'll take your money tonight."
"Don't count on that," Doc was confident. "I think I'm ready to go win big."
"Doc...." Paris followed him from the room.
"Hope, my friend, hope."
Chapter 5
The Dead
“It does smell revolting,” Paris admitted, “several days, you say?”
“They haven't been seen for at least two days, and neighbors always saw the children out playing and the Missus tending the gardens. Man, woman, and three girls. When the neighbor lady went over to knock, she recognized the stink and sent her husband to get me.”
“What if we hadn't been there, Tell? Why didn't you ask a deputy along? You're acting a little strange,” Paris noted as he watched Tell. Their horses had been nickering since they rode into the yard, stopped, and tied them, and they still rolled their eyes and pawed.
Paris could smell the scent of rot, just as the horses could, and he saw the yard was being picked clean by chickens that had not been put into their coop, but left to eat the vegetables and gardens alike. A cow bellowed to be milked, her bags swollen and painful.
That was all he could see, and it did speak volumes about the little farm. It wasn't being tended, but there was far more than eyes and ears could sense. There was a chill in the air and a strong feel of wrongness. Shadows seemed foreboding, the wind whispered secrets, and the little house no longer looked like a friendly place to live; it looked oily and shimmery in a way it shouldn't have.
It was a bad place in a bad time.
“Hell, why you asking me? You feel it, same as me. I had a feeling as soon as I heard. As for what would I have done? Maybe resigned and high-tailed it. My mama used to always tell stories about haints.”
“Ghosts?” Kit asked.
“Yes. Not like dead people, just bad places and bad things. Places to avoid,” Tell said. He wasn't afraid. He just didn't like this place. He knocked again and called out to the family. There wasn't a sound from the house except a faint buzzing, a droning.
“Bottle flies,” Kit said. That meant dead bodies.
The door was locked, but Tell kicked it in. He, Kit, and Paris raised bandanas over their faces to avoid the stench that wafted from the little farmhouse.
In the cooking area, a woman lay face up; her eyes were peeled back in horror. She was beside the table where the family had eaten dinner, the top of the table smoothed by wear. All four chairs were pushed to the side, away from the woman and the table.
Her throat was slashed from side to side; the wound gaped obscenely.
She was in her nightdress, a pretty white shift with lace and little violet ribbons. Her dark brown hair was down and loose; she had been sleeping or was about to retire when something terrible occurred.
Paris knelt beside the woman and looked over her body carefully. He examined the floor and then pointed at a thick-bladed knife that was centered in her heart. “That there killed her if the throat cut didn't. But tell me this: where's all the blood?”
Tell and Kit locked eyes and looked around again, but other than a few brushes of blood, there was nothing to be seen. Three tiny drops were on the collar of the nightgown, but no blood drops were around the wound over her heart. Except for smears, the floor was clean.
“I can't be sure, but I'd guess she's been drained of every drop of blood.”
Tell kicked at a big knife close to the woman's hands. “I think she ran in here to get that knife and someone attacked and killed her.”
“And drained her?” Kit asked. He pulled back the thin curtains to admit more light, barely opened the window, and shooed some of the flies away. They were big green bottle flies, lazy and busy. Their noise was irritating and set Kit's nerves on edge.
The flies covered the wounds and crawled in and out the woman's nose and mouth. Flies gave no respect.
Tell led the way to the porch, just off the cooking room. Pallets of sheets and blankets were among cornhusk mattresses that would crinkle but would be cool for a night's rest and fun for the little girls to sleep on. They were thick and lovingly covered. A wiry screen encircled the roomy porch so that a person could sleep out there and be protected from the weather and night critters.
The mattresses and fine porch showed that the owners of this house had spent money to make it a nice house and paid attention to details. Houses might be bigger and fancier, but this was a real home.
It was also ruined.
Kit opened the porch door and vomited onto a chaste bush that was heavy with purple flowers. He heaved several times and wiped his mouth, wishing for whiskey.
Because there was no other way inside except that door, a person could only see out from the wire mesh that no animals had been on the porch. Yet, it looked as if an animal had been there, a wolf or a bear, maybe. Maybe a big cat. No, even one of them could account for the carnage that was on the porch.
Three small heads, each with curly brown locks, were positioned - by a human - along the edge of a window so they faced looking outwards, and none of the men could bear to touch those heads. Kit hardly glanced at them when he came back onto the porch, walking up the steps like they were those before a gallows. Flies crawled all over the heads.
The sheets and white washed plank floor were covered in torn, discarded body parts: a thigh, a hand, a rope of intestines, or a finger. The girls had been torn to shreds and tossed about the porch like trash. For all the feces, rotting flesh, and globs of fat, there was little blood to be seen.
“What in the hell happened here, Tell?”
Tell looked at Kit, his eyes every bit as large as his friend's eyes were. He had no words or ideas for one of the first times in his life of verbosity. “Why, I don't know.”
“It wasn't animals that lined them heads up, and there's a lack of blood. That tells me it was a human that did this, but what kind of human, I can't say. Even the most vile killers don't often do this to children, and they sure don't take the blood,” Paris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand through the kerchief.
“Where would they take it? How would they? Why would someone remove blood?” Kit asked, not expecting an answer. “Three little girls...someone sure is a sick son of a bitch to do this.”
“Nothing better I'd like than to find him and make him pay,” Paris said.
The other two men agreed. If they caught the culprit, there wouldn't be any trial or taking the man in to be questioned; they would kill him outright for this.
“I guess maybe the father did this? That makes me sick,” Kit said.
“It may be. It may be he's here dead, as well. We ain't checked the two little rooms.” Tell led the way back into the house.
The first room was where the parents slept on a comfortable looking feather mattress. There was a little table, a shelf for their clothing, and a chair that was fancy and looked as if it came from the East, where finery was more prevalent. A hand- braided rug added color to the room. Someone had made beautiful quilts. One side of the bed was neatly turned back where someone had arisen and left the bed, but the other side was messy, the sheets wrinkled and tossed back. Other than that, the room was tidy and clean.
Tell closed the door again.
The second room was filled with a bed where the girls had slept on a feather mattress. Dolls sat on a shelf. Across the bed lay the father, his heart punctured with a shard from the broken chimney glass of the lantern. He looked chewed and mauled, as if by an animal, and was also bloodless.
Tell pointed out some curious items. On the table by the bed was a cup that smelled of some herbal remedy. A faded blue ribbon was beside the cup and a lace handkerchief. On the pillow were strands of long, golden hair; the mother did not have hair like that. Also, there was an extra quilt on the bed.
“A stranger came and was ill. They took her in because the person was a female, and the mother gave her some tea and put her to bed here. For some reason, but we can guess why, I t
hink the father came a'calling in the night. He was killed first, I guess.”
“His wife heard the sound of breaking glass and came to find this. She must have tried to run away to get a weapon but was killed in the other room,” said Paris as he nodded. “Our killer then had time to attack the girls and do all that damage...for whatever reason. A woman...a woman did this?”
Kit gulped and asked, “What kind of woman does this shit?”
“A witch.”
Paris frowned at Tell.
“I don't mean it like that, but damned if I know what exactly I do mean. A woman who comes and slaughters a family like this and takes the blood? There are legends about that: women who don't take the blood; they drink it.”
"I guess Tell thinks we have a loner or a clan of the blood suckers in town. I have to admit that it sure looks like that's what did this."”
“Lord, but I hate those thing, thinking they are above men when all they are is a bunch of disease-ridden bastards who drink blood. Nasty sons of bitches gall me,” Tell said.
“We’ll clean ’em out,” Kit promised.
“As we always do,” Paris said.
“They drink it?” Kit asked, “and why do they do that?”
Tell shrugged. “Witches. Demon women. Haints.”
“I don't believe in that, but I do think there's some evil woman running around. Maybe she's demented? Maybe it isn't the bloodsuckers even if it looks exactly like that. Or maybe an Injun came up and did this. That makes sense, don't it? Injuns?”
“You ever known an Injun to do this?” Kit asked Paris.
“Naw, I guess not. I said I don't believe in haints, but I do believe in things being wrong and evil. This house feels about as evil and wrong as a place could be. Hair on the back of my neck has been standing up solid since we got here,” Paris said.
“Same here,” Tell said, "it's them."
“What are we gonna do now?” Kit asked. It was a good question since they didn't know what to do exactly. It was gruesome, and there was nothing to indicate who had done this or where they had gone.
All three men walked around and around the outside of the house, looking for traces of footprints or signs they could track; they were all excellent trackers, but there was nothing at all. There were no prints, no leaves moved about, or no broken twigs, but it did seem an unearthly being had killed the family and vanished. Even Indians, as slippery and clever as they were, didn't vanish without a trace.
A deeper unease settled into their stomachs.
"I ain't never seen a place where someone was killed and then the killer left but left no prints or markings. The killer had to walk away, but damned if I can say which way they went," Tell said.
"What's the plan, Tell?" Paris asked.
“I say we burn it to the ground and then have the Reverend Stevens come out and bless the place. I think I'll buy a sack of salt and cover the ashes with it, too.”
Kit and Paris didn't tease Tell or argue. That plan made as much sense as anything they had heard that day. There was no way to explain the chills and revulsion that the farmhouse caused when they looked at it. It seemed defiled.
Tell set the house ablaze, and the three men, sitting away from the house under some trees with their horses, watched it burn. They didn't say it, but none of them wanted the smoke from the terrible house and from the bodies inside to touch their skin, and they sure didn't want to inhale it.
There was nothing extraordinary about the burning, but all three felt relieved when that part was done. It wasn't fear they felt but a dreadful unease.
“I bet I have nightmares,” was all Kit said as he watched the fire and smoke for some truth to be shown to him. He wanted the chills to leave his body, but it was several nights before they did, and then, only because he, like Tell and Paris, drank enough to chase the bad dreams away.
It was worth noting that Reverend Stevens brought out a second sack of salt and salted the ashes himself, never saying a word about it.
Chapter 6
Evil
The woman watched people passing by the alley: two loud cowboys, half drunk and mostly dirty, then a pretty blonde lady who was without an escort, but finely dressed, so she was either a whore from out of town or a lady; then, there were more cowboys, a gentleman who looked as if he were handsome, and last more loud men.
She watched them all going about their lives happily as the man who held her against the wall finished his business with a groan and twitch. He was the third one so far, and she didn’t have to share her money if she did it in the alley that smelled of piss and vomit.
Kate used a scrap of paper to clean herself and adjusted her dress so she could find another throw that would pay her fifty cents for a quick fix as the man left the alley. Smiling with her crooked, rotting teeth and offering a little wiggle to her hips, she tossed her hair over her shoulder, wishing it were as shiny and pretty as some had, but hers was thin and frizzy. At least, she had picked out most of the lice earlier, so her scalp itched less.
“Hi, there,” she said, seeing the man appear in the alleyway.
He wore nice, creased pants, finely tooled boots, and a jacket that was elegantly brushed and cut in a fashionable manner. No cowboy hat, no spurs, and no cow shit on his boots were other good signs. He muffled a slight cough, standing still so the rising moon shown down on him to his advantage, making his skin glow pale, bluish white and his nice smile gleam. He tipped his small hat her way.
“Looking for some company? Only a dollar.” She thought he could afford that much since his clothing was so obviously expensive. She tried to sound flirtatious.
“That much?” he asked softly, “and you promise I will get my money’s worth?”
“I promise you.” She was closer to him now and noted that he smelled far better than her usual customers, like spice and liquor. She was kind of interested in him, the first time she had felt desire in many years. “You want it here or….”
“Let’s stroll down to the water where it’s cooler and less malodorous.”
She didn’t know what the last word meant, but she did think somewhere less stinky would be nice. “That’s not too far….” She hesitated, for she might miss several chances at earning money if she went so far.
“Two dollars will make it seem less far.” He said as he smiled again.
Two whole dollars? She liked the sound of that. Kate took his arm and left the alley. She tried to pretend she was out for a moonlit walk and was being courted by this gentleman, imagining her worn dress was made of silk and of a late style, made just for her so it fit like a glove. Her undergarment, soft and snowy white, would be from some fancy place, and her feet were i kid-leather as soft as butter. Her hair would be glittering in the light, brushed out and styled with real tortoise shell combs holding it back.
In her dream, this man looked just as he did now, handsome with white skin and an educated voice that let everyone know he was a book-learned gentleman from a fine family. He would be madly in love with her, buying her trinkets with jewels and not paste fakes and good food, and he would show her off in the daytime with a pretty carriage and horse.
She helped him take her clothing off, both of them ignoring the fish and body odor scent that wafted from the folds of her unwashed garments. She knew she didn’t smell very clean, but he didn’t seem to mind, and she was feeling lustful for the man now. Nude, she was not that bad looking, except for her thinness and a few old scars from knives and the pox. Her bottom was nice, fat, and high set, and her breasts may have been smallish, but they didn’t sag over her small waist.
“Lovely.” He reached out to stroke her throat, a long white neck that was swan-like and elegant. The moon’s light showed her best feature to perfection. He pulled her close, nuzzling her throat.
He called her lovely; she swooned with pleasure. For a second, she lost herself in the romantic fantasy again as he licked at her skin. Had she not giggled, flinching a tiny bit under his moustache, she might have been lo
st right then, but instead, she felt a cold streak along her neck and a slight sting. Had an insect stung her? She felt her throat, and in the moonlight, she saw her hand awash with dark smears. The light glistened on the small sharp blade he held.
Breath whooshed out of her as the man slammed a knee into her belly, making her roll to the ground where she struggled to get her breath back. Tears sprang from her eyes. She had known many men to like it rough, but this one was way too rough, and she might get hurt badly. She felt so cheated with her fantasy cruelly destroyed.
“Come here, Honey,” he cooed at her.
Kate caught some air and breathed in heavily. “I don’t like being beaten up. Not for two dollars.”
He bent down, grabbed her foot, and began to slice open her Achilles tendon, but she saw the blade and rolled again, feeling the blade whisk down her shin and across her foot. Kate was on her feet, trying to run, but lost her bearings because she saw the water just in front of her and knew she couldn’t swim. Grabbing a fallen limb, she tossed it as hard as she could behind herself as she ran; it glanced off his coat and fell without hurting him at all. She was in pain.
They both went rolling on the ground as he lunged for her; her well intended kick between his legs was deflected. His hand snapped down against her mouth, cutting off a cry for help as he ran the blade across her belly. “Don’t make this so painful, Love,” he told her.
Fire from her wound engulfed her.
When Kate raised her hand to scratch his face, he smacked her in the face, pulling both of her wrists above her hand. Faintly, she hoped this was when he would take sex from her and go away; maybe she had suffered enough to excite him. But he didn’t rape her. He nicked her throat again and lowered his head to slurp and lap at the stream of blood that poured out.
“Lovely,” he whispered.
Kate thought he meant her. He was courting her and was telling her how lovely he thought she was. She stopped fighting him, letting the cold and hot areas of her body escape her mind as she enjoyed her fantasy. His kisses burned her throat, so hot was his passion. Her body was aflame. “I love you,” she whispered. Lust filled her again.