by TJ Vargo
"Read the good book boy! Read it and save your soul from the devil that brought you to me!"
Jackson dropped to the ground, sitting and clutching at the dirt, crumbling it in his hands. Sam's face and eyes joined the voice in his head. The image of those eyes made Jackson exhale loudly. They were hard black pinpoints glaring from a burning red sea. This was a memory Jackson didn't want, but he couldn't stop it. His back muscles flinched. He could feel the sting of the belt across his back, how it snapped his nerve endings to attention as he read faster and faster, his eyes blurring over the pages, hoping to somehow satisfy the drunken madman. He closed his eyes, willing the memory away, spitting a clot of dryness from his mouth. He jumped to his feet, the sound of the belt snapping on his back ringing in his head.
"Get out of my head," he whispered, throwing a cloud of dirt into the air in front of him. His voice echoed down the cliff. He put his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling quickly as he stared at nothing. Without thinking, his hand went to his pocket. The hard metal of the belt buckle was in there. He pulled it out, holding it tight. Sam was dead, the son-of-a-bitch was dead. But remember, he thought, his brow furrowed, not everyone was bad like Sam. He had to believe that there were good people. And these memories, awful as they were, they were good. They reminded him that he would never be like Sam Lewis. His fingers went white with his tight grip on the buckle. Never.
He slipped the buckle back into his pocket and looked down over the edge of the cliff. The town of Clear Creek lay quietly below. People were already in the streets, walking to and fro, going about their morning business. Small black shapes coming to life in that town from a different era. Homes and buildings all whitewashed, clean and tidy. Knee-high picket fences rimming the edges of lawns, keeping everything in order. The white steepled church that everyone undoubtedly visited on Sundays.
Jackson tightened his gaze, focusing on the church. His face went tight with concentration, his eyes narrowing against the sun topping the trees that stood as tall sentinels behind the town. Something wasn't right. All the people, all the black shapes walking in the town, they weren't moving about in random patterns. They were all streaming toward the church. He blinked, clearing his vision against a gust of dust whipping up the cliff face. Today wasn't Sunday. So why was everyone going to church?
Jackson shaded his eyes, trying to sharpen his vision against the sunlight. It helped, especially with his eyes in a gunman's squint. A strong breeze buffeted his face, singing past his ears before dying out, leaving him to hear nothing but the whispers of the spruce grove rustling behind him. He ignored the branches whispering behind him, screwing down his concentration. Why was everyone in town dressed in black? And, although he couldn't be sure from this distance, the clothes everyone wore were somehow different, like clothes from another era. The woman wore long dresses. He was less sure of what the men were wearing, the distance was too far, but he could see the hats they all wore (like the ones the Amish men wore when they rode through Bethel - like the hat Nathaniel wore in the dreams he had) and more than a handful of the men were riding horses to the church. It was a scene out of a Colonial America history book, except for the black clothes. Jackson directed his gaze at the front of the church. Out in front on the hitching rail he could see a number of horses tied up. More were being tied up by newly arriving men every minute. What was going on down there?
The street became a procession of black flowing toward the church. The distant clang of the church bell from the valley below echoed its way up to Jackson. He stepped back from the cliff's edge. Putting his hands in his pockets, he continued to step backward while keeping an eye on the distant town. A glint of sunlight hitting something metallic caught his attention down there. There, at the end of town was a black carriage pulled by two black horses. The people in the street parted as it moved slowly toward the church. It stopped as it reached the front of the church. Jackson took a step forward, straining to see a very tall man in a hat unfold himself from the interior of the carriage. The man held out a hand to help a woman step down from the carriage. Rooted to the spot, Jackson could barely breathe. That man was Nathaniel, dressed as he had been in Jackson’s dreams. And the woman was Felicia. It had to be.
He took a step forward to get a better look, then stopped. The driver of the carriage swiveled his head, looking up in Jackson's direction. Even though he couldn't see the man's face, Jackson knew. That was Dr. Kirtland down there. Why the hell would he be looking up here? There was no way that old man could see this far. The hair pricked on the back of Jackson's neck in a warning. His skin crawled, bringing the hair on his forearms to attention. Somehow, he had the feeling that Kirtland knew he was up here. Worse than that, Jackson felt that Kirtland was smiling his long-toothed yellow grin, goading Jackson to come down and join them. Daring him, if he had the balls, to come down. Backing away from the cliff, Jackson exhaled shakily.
Turning on his bootheels, he walked back through the branches of the spruce trees. The scent of evergreen and the damp, spongy smell of earth filled his head. Reaching his horse, he untied its lead from the tree branch and leaped onto its back, spurring it toward the castle. Digging his heels into the horse's flanks, Jackson's nostrils flared at the absolute certainty that Kirtland knew he was watching. Worse was the feeling that Kirtland was daring him to come down and see what they were up to. He yanked the bridle, turning the horse's head toward the road that went down the mountain. Felicia was down there and with the way warning bells were going off in his head, he didn't want her to be alone.
He flew down the mountain road recklessly. Spurred his horse faster as they rounded a steep turn. By sheer momentum alone he and the horse should have plunged over the edge of the road into a ravine. For the barest of moments the horses hooves beat the edge of the road. Jackson glanced over his right shoulder. Piles of jagged rocks at the bottom of the ravine seemed to be right beneath him, as if the horse and he were riding on air. Then they were back on solid ground. Jackson was sure to keep to the center of the road the rest of the way to the bottom.
At the bottom of the mountain road the horse slowed to a slow walk. Froth was in the corners of its mouth and its coat was sweat-soaked. Jackson was no better. His hair was a tangled fury of black with sweat coursing down the sides of his face.
Coaxing the horse into an easy walk he traveled down the old road that led to the village of Clear Creek - the one he had driven Frida Commons home on last night. A plain, red, dirt road that fell away on both sides into ditches that held stagnant water.
A splash of something jumping into one of the ditches on the side of the road made his heart jump. He shook his head, seeing a frog, and then another jump into the ditch, splashing noisily. The canopy of the forest stretched over the road, blocking out all sunlight. The plunking of frogs stopped. Although he listened, there was no sound in the forest that bordered the road. It was like being in a tunnel. An unreal shaft that led to a God-forsaken place. Sunlight could not break through the tree canopy covering this part of the road, making it gloomy as nightfall. He prodded his horse on by patting its shoulder and whispering encouragement. Jackson was proud of this horse. For all its quivers and snorts, it never balked.
The road finally breached the entrance to the town. Swaying on his horse, Jackson passed into the bright sunshine that fell on the town, the sky painted an endless swath of blue over the tops of the two-story whitewashed buildings. He tipped his head up to let the sunshine cover his face. It warmed him, even dried the sweat from his cheeks. But with each step into the town, an icy grip clutched deeper into his chest. With every step forward his grip tightened on the reins. Nothing moved here. Storefronts, the savings and loan, a corner store; he prodded his horse forward past all these deserted and motionless structures. Looking up, he could've sworn that the sky itself was frozen. There were no clouds, just the sun hanging in a slate of blue, shining brightly over this picture perfect town. Exhaling loudly, Jackson prodded his horse further into the b
elly of this place.
As he neared the church the air thickened around him. It had a smell to it, one he remembered. His nostrils flared, taking in the familiar heavy scent that had sprung up around him. It was a smell from when he was a little boy, when lightning had struck the old screechy weather vane that graced the top of the courthouse in Bethel. He'd been ten years old and two blocks away when that happened, the lightning flicking down out of the sky like a finger while he watched awestruck, and he hadn't remembered it since, but it came back to him clear as a bell now. This air had that same feeling to it. An alive feeling, thick with something swimming in it. He felt it all around him and his horse. Whatever was in the air, it danced with excitement, entering him and tingling its way down through his head and into his shoes until his whole body crackled with energy. The horse whinnied and he had to calm it, reaching up to pat its forehead as it stomped its feet and rolled its eyes.
The horse shook its head, then held still. Its nostrils opened wide and shuddered as it turned its head, refusing to point toward the church. Jackson leaned back in the saddle. He stroked the horse's mane, staring down the street. The church was two streets away, sitting in bright sunlight that shined on its new white paint and black slate roof and steeple. A small garden of grass and flowers shimmered with dew at the church entrance.
"C'mon baby, just a little farther," he said, tapping his heels into the horse's flanks.
The horse did a little dance under him, backing up, stomping its feet. Holding the reins tight, Jackson was barely able to keep the horse from bolting.
"Alright then, it's okay," he said, pulling the horse's head around and walking it into an alley running along the side of the "Clear Creek Guaranty Bank".
The horse was spooked. Quivering and snorting even as Jackson walked it toward the alley. He tried rubbing his hand over its neck, talking softly to it, but its agitation increased to the point where Jackson knew he'd be thrown or run into a tree if he didn't dismount. He jumped off the horse and grabbed the reins, leading it through the alley to the back side of the bank. The alley ended in a wall of forest laying black shadows onto the white brick of the building. Pushing through the dense tangle of small trees and vines, he led the horse into the forest just enough to hide it from sight and tied it to a tree.
Skirting the edge of the forest, passing quickly by the backs of buildings, Jackson stole silently in the direction of the church until he reached the alley behind the last building on the main street. He stopped there, wiped the sweat from his eyes and thought over his choices.
A decision had to be made. Either he was going to have to cross a wide open field to get to the front of the church, and risk being seen, or slip through the forest to the back of the church. A cluster of flies buzzed around his face and he reached over to push down the lid of a trash can behind this building, waved the flies away and stared at the church, searching for movement within. He could see nothing through the stained glass windows.
"So what you gonna do? Walk straight in, or sneak around?" he asked himself, waving the insistent buzz of a fly away from his face.
He followed his intuition. The cold hand that gripped his chest tightened as he slipped into the forest to make his way around the back side of the church.
It wasn't easy going. Although the forest was old further in, with large trunks and open spaces between them, here at the edge it was all tangly and dense. Jackson slowly picked his way through bushes, plants and trees crowded into an impenetrable mass. Sweat poured over his face, stinging his eyes. It wasn't easy work. But he pushed on, keeping just inside the edge of the forest, hidden in its gloom and the thickness of its foliage.
Stopping, dropping to a knee, Jackson wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He took a deep breath and ducked his head, burrowing through a stand of blackberry bushes. The thorns tore small cuts on his hands and face, stinging with the slick of sweat that covered him. He stopped after he broke through, squatting on his haunches. The outline of the back of the church was visible through the thick leaves, just past a graveyard. Old grey and dirty white tombstones poked out of the ground, leaning every which way. They would provide cover once he cleared the edge of the forest.
Taking a deep breath, using his shirt to wipe his eyes, he moved forward in a half crouch. His foot struck something hard and he tried to step over the obstacle. Whatever it was, it was high enough off the ground that his foot caught the edge of it. Falling forward, he put his hands out to catch himself. Thorns jabbed and hooked into his hands as he fell onto something large and wooden hidden beneath the blackberry branches.
Cursing, Jackson pushed himself up. He pulled out the few thorns that had torn loose into his palms, contemplating the object he'd fallen on. It was completely hidden from view under the thick stand of blackberry bushes. Carefully, Jackson pulled the branches from the object, grabbing the leaves to avoid another handful of thorns. His heart jumped when he saw what it was. Son of a bitch. He strangled off the curse that rushed to his lips and swallowed it down, breathing through his nose to keep quiet.
A coffin.
Pulling back more of the branches, he uncovered the rest of it and discovered that there were two more, one at the foot of the coffin, and one butted against the head of it.
He was close enough to the edge of the forest that someone could see him if they chanced to look this way from inside the church. Jackson debated what to do. He kept himself in a crouch as he swept his hand over the water stains that marked the plain pine lid of the coffin. Coming on near a half hour since everyone entered the church. Probably not much time before whatever was happening in there would be finished. He eyed the church. The immaculate white and peaceful looking backwoods church. The best thing to do would be to just get moving. Get over there and find out what Nathaniel was up to. Maybe there would be time afterwards to come back and see who or what was in these coffins. Yeah, he thought, flicking a beetle off the coffin lid, there would be time later.
He carefully lifted one leg over the coffin, trying his best to keep his head and body low. Clearing the coffin with one leg, he straddled it and lifted his other leg over. A thorn branch popped up, hooking him in the cheek. He turned his head instinctively. Suddenly he was off balance, his leg dragging over the coffin lid and pulling it with him as he fell.
Sitting in a tangle of thorns, the coffin lid laying half on top of him, Jackson listened. The clatter of the lid being pulled off had been loud. Too loud. He sat there ignoring the hum of mosquitoes he'd disturbed from the bushes and the small thorns greedily pinching the back of his neck. He waited, his pulse pounding, listening for the sound of alarm to be raised from the church. Someone shouting, "Whoever you are, come out of there!" But the shout didn't come. Slowly, biting his lip as he lifted a thorn branch off the back of his neck, Jackson slid the coffin lid off him and got back into a crouch.
He grabbed the sides of the lid and closed his eyes. Alright. Just put it back on and get out of here. Raising up, holding the coffin lid, Jackson carefully lowered it to cover the coffin. He couldn't help himself, that part of himself that every person had, the part that had to look forced his eyes down, his mind whispering, "What's a dead person look like? Hmm, let's see..."
His mouth hung open in mid-breath. This was not cool, not cool at all. The lid slipped out of his hands and rattled down, half-on and half-off. He backed up, mouth still hanging open, then reached out, pushing the lid into place with the tip of his forefinger. It made a wooden 'thunk' as it fell into place and he took a step back, wiping his hands on his pants.
For a moment, he could only stare at the coffin. A rush of blood roared in his ears. The first thought to run washed away. He had to know if the other coffins held the same thing. Not caring if someone saw him anymore, he bulled through the bushes to the coffin laying at the head of this one and lifted its lid. Then back to the coffin at the foot, disregarding the thorns that tore the skin around his fingers and knuckles, lifting its lid. He dropped the last lid back into place,
turned to stare at the church, then turned to peer farther down into the bushes running along the graveyard. There were more coffins, he could see them all laid end to end. Barely visible, but there if you looked without looking. Hidden beneath the thick green branches of the thorny blackberry bushes, showing themselves in the perfect line of humps that circled the grave yard. He knew what was in each one. Hands curled in the pugilistic position of a body in rigor mortis. Some withered, some with maggots eating their way through the soft tissue, like the first one he'd seen whose lips lumped and bumped with crawly things. And their eyes, not real looking at all. Wide open and staring, that's how they looked. And black. A hard shiny black like marbles. All these coffins held the same body - or at least bodies that looked amazingly similar. He knew that had to be true. Every one of the three he'd looked at were the same. Dark haired young woman. Probably all beautiful when they'd been alive. All as beautiful as Felicia was right now. Shit, all of them were Felicia. The church caught his attention. He had to see what was going on in there. He had to see if there was a danger to Felicia - if something was happening right now that would put her in the next coffin to be hidden beneath the blackberry bushes.
Quickly, he pulled the sleeves of his shirt over his hands to protect them while he arranged the bushes back over the coffins. Even with the sleeves on his hands, thorns found their way through to his hands. Little red dots of blood speckled the cuff of his shirt after he was done. He rolled the cuffs up on his forearms and slipped through the remaining bushes, scurrying on all fours into the graveyard.
Using the headstones as cover, Jackson made his way toward the back of the church. The grass felt cool on his hands, making him forget about the itching from the thorn scratches. He crawled behind a large obelisk - the last grave marker set a good twenty feet from the church. Voices murmured in a blend of rising and falling sound that leaked through a stained glass window barely cracked open. Laying down in the grass behind the obelisk, he lowered his gaze to the speckles of dirt covering the bottom of the obelisk where rain had splashed mud onto the white marble. Grabbing the edges of the base, he pulled his face close to it, then peered around the edge. This was the last point of cover. He tried to make out intelligible words in the hum of voices that floated out of the church, but he was too far away. The voices were nothing but murmurs.