The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  “We are not the first to visit this dead man,” Worthington said.

  They flipped the lid open. A decomposing body lay in the box with its head between its knees and a hole in its chest.

  Jonathan Blair and Frederick Worthington dug up six more miners killed in the explosion. They found the same headless mutilations. The Hungarians dug a lot of dirt to get to all the bodies. Truth or not, they believed. Which made them dangerous as they proved this afternoon.

  “Supposedly the only way to kill a vampire is to drive a wooden stake through its heart,” Worthington said.

  “I know,” Blair said. “But why decapitate it?”

  “Just to be sure.” The professor smiled. “Many cultures have stories and legends of vampires, and there is always something different.”

  “Religion and philosophy professor and vampire expert,” Blair said to Jones. “Interesting package. I am sure the school dean welcomes his views on life.”

  Worthington chuckled and patted his chest. “The vampire expert is something I keep to myself.”

  “Have you ever met a vampire?” Blair asked.

  “Not exactly.” Worthington tossed dirt back into a grave.

  “What does that mean?” Pastor Jones asked. “Do you believe in such things?”

  “Such things? You’re a man of God, and you ask me about such things. Have you not read your Bible?”

  “There is no mention of vampires in the Bible, Professor.” The irritation in Jones’s voice was overshadowed by his mightier-than-thou tone.

  “What evil tales have you read about? Satan? Demons?” Worthington sat down next to one of the graves and lifted his face to the dark sky. He unfolded a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Though you may doubt it, there is absolute evil residing here in Gothic. Most of the people will not admit they put any value in the vampire rumors. But each time they find a bloodless body, the situation becomes harder for them to comprehend—for there is no other logical explanation. Can either of you conjure up any rational reason for this? In your travels, have you seen anything that could come close to these unique murders?”

  Jones remained silent. Blair stepped out of the lantern’s glow trying to hide whatever expression might be giving away his secrets. Could they see the truth in his eyes? A truth he wasn’t even sure of.

  “Well?”

  No answer.

  “Pastor Jones, those Bible verses you spent years studying and memorizing are more than dark fairy tales. Evil exists today as it did thousands of years ago. Yes or no?”

  “I… I don’t know.” Jones hesitated. “I have never seen or even heard from a credible source of demonic things. Christ’s blood redeemed us all.”

  “Pastor Jones, I am not talking about bad men like Superintendent Stone. I am speaking of the fallen angels, the one-third of them who left God’s almighty presence. They still roam this dimension.”

  “That’s a ridiculous—”

  Worthington interrupted. “Ask Mr. Blair what he knows.”

  The remark surprised Blair. He didn’t want to get involved in this discussion.

  “Mr. Blair?” the pastor asked.

  “We’re done here.” He backed away.

  “Mr. Blair.” The professor stood up and took a step toward him. “I know you have seen this evil. I can feel it. Something inside tells me you know what is happening here.”

  Blair shifted his head to the ground to hide his face. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve never seen anything like this.” What did the professor want from him? He wasn’t here to battle monsters. He ran from …

  “But you know what is causing it,” the professor said.

  “Yeah—men. It’s the story of our civilization.” Blair speared the shovel, nose first, into the dirt. “I have seen firsthand the evil deeds done to men by men. God seems to let that happen.”

  “That’s not right,” the pastor said. “We have free will. Each of us has the ability to choose right and wrong, Mr. Blair. God has given us the freedom to do so.”

  “I’m not speaking of the actions of men,” Worthington said. “Blair, what have you seen?”

  Blair regretted his years of depression and drunkenness. Dreadful and deadly were his actions. He inflicted more pain to others than his own heart suffered. Why did he quit the gang? What did he see? That question sent digging claws into his soul, revealing a hint of a memory of the mission in Mexico. He shivered.

  “We’re done.”

  * * *

  Pastor Jones picked up Blair’s shovel. “What was that all about?”

  Professor Worthington held up the lantern and shielded his eyes as Blair hurried through the cemetery’s wooden entrance. “I don’t know yet.”

  Worthington missed another opportunity to see into Blair’s soul. But he opened just enough of a layer to increase his speculation about Blair’s connection to the happenings here. There were no vampires in these mountains. Vampires you could kill. What lingered here was more sinister.

  “There is something hidden about that man I feel I must discover,” the professor said. “A secret that has significance to Gothic.”

  * * *

  I observe from above, like I’m adrift in the night breeze. Though I withstand the wind, I can’t move where I want.

  A man in black walks through Gothic. But his clothes are not black; he’s a silhouette, a lifeless form. He moves without touching the ground. Meandering back and forth across the street from boardwalk to boardwalk, he leaves expanding shadows on everything he touches. He float-walks toward a small log cabin and shields his face as he goes by the bright church. The place of worship lights up the town, but illumination does not touch the shadow man.

  The black form knocks on the door without using his hands.

  I peer through one of the cabin windows. The home is furnished nicely, yet simply.

  An older gentleman hesitantly opens the door. The light in the one-room structure dims; the old man shivers and drops his Bible. The shadow steps inside.

  I can feel the warmth of the cabin evaporate, sending a chill through my bones.

  The shadow man makes his way around the room as unnatural shadows follow him and flow over the contours of the log structure. The old Bible man shakes with horror as the shifting darkness covers them.

  The shadow man slams his right hand against the Bible man’s forehead and drives him to the wood flooring. The breaking of the pine planks and the cracking of his skull sound identical to me.

  The shadow man flings his arms open, releasing a legion of silhouettes. The formless vapors knock over furniture. A snap of his fingers ignites the contents of an offering box.

  The light from the church fades as the shadow and silhouettes engulf the town.

  “They cannot know the truth. He knows the truth.”

  * * *

  Blair, wrapped in a striped-wool blanket, waited on the coming of dawn from an uncomfortable wood chair in the hotel room. The chill from the open window kept him awake. Though he could not see the sunrise over the mountains to the east, the beams of light slid down the face of Gothic Mountain to the west, awakening the unbearable pain he hid in the depths of his mind.

  What little sleep Blair embraced in Gothic came with nightmares. Distorted memories haunted his thoughts when he awoke. Longing for comfort he gripped his gun like a baby blanket. But the cold metal was rendered useless against his mind. Suicide was an option once. He had wished for death several times, but he wasn’t ready to spend eternity in hell. Now hell seemed to be calling for him.

  Chapter Five

  Black Eyes

  Blair headed out for breakfast a bit earlier than he would have liked. He was up and needed coffee. He’d had enough of staring out the window, letting his mind take him places he didn’t want to visit, even in the daylight. On the main street someone called his name. His right hand reached for the Remington. He didn’t pull the pistol. The voice wasn’t that of a man.

  Duane called
again. “Mr. Blair.”

  “Hey there.” Unexpectedly meeting Duane took Blair’s mind off the previous night. He liked the boy. Duane had an inner sadness, obviously from the death of his father. But the boy still had a spark that let people know he was going to be all right. That spark triggered Blair’s envy.

  “I was down at the stables yesterday.” Duane walked along with him. “Your horse is causing trouble.”

  “He usually does.”

  “He calmed down when he smelled me. So they let me feed and run him in the ring.”

  Blair smiled. “That is pretty good. He must like you.”

  “Yeah, I think he does,” Duane said. “But I think he needs a name. ‘Horse’ just doesn’t sound right.”

  “If you come up with any good ideas, let the horse know. If he agrees, I’ll go with it.” The stallion wasn’t Blair’s first choice for a mount. He’d stolen the horse in order to get away from an ambush after the Johnson Gang was set up on a bank robbery. Blair’s mare was shot out from underneath him. The cash went flying. He scrambled to his feet and ran through a side street to a stable. The only horse within reach was the stallion. He never thought to name it because he didn’t think he was going to keep it. Then it showed him a unique gift. Like many animals, the horse’s senses were undeniably strong.

  “That would be great if I could name him,” Duane said. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Mom said not to tell anyone, but I think I can trust you. We found some money stuck in our front door again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, someone has been leaving us money since… since my dad died.”

  The boy’s smile dropped into a frown. Blair didn’t like seeing that expression. “When did they leave the money?”

  “Yesterday morning. We found it after they brought Mr. Weinberg’s body into town.”

  Susanne. She was sneaking around Duane’s house. Why does a hard-working prostitute give away her limited income? The goodwill prostitute. I don’t buy that.

  “I guess there is a person out there who is trying to help.”

  “That’s what my mom said. There are a lot of good people out there in the world, huh, Mr. Blair?”

  “If you say so, Duane.”

  They continued walking down the dirt street together.

  “Duane, what does your mom do for money?”

  “She works a couple different jobs, but mostly hotel cleaning and laundry for some of the rich mine folk. She’s trying to save up money so we can go to California to live with my uncle.”

  “You okay with that?”

  “I only met him once, but I like him. He has two girls. I don’t know if I want to live with two girls though. But any place has to be better than this. A lot of people get sick here. It’s cold in the winter. And…”

  Duane paused and tilted his head down.

  “You can tell me,” Blair said.

  “Have you ever been scared, Mr. Blair?” His expression wasn’t that of an eleven-year-old boy, but that of a man concerned for his family.

  The bounty hunter glanced up as if someone would be standing next to him. “I can honestly tell you that I have, even as an adult.”

  “Really?”

  Blair nodded.

  “I’m scared for my mom. She works late sometimes and has to walk home in the dark. I don’t know what’s killing all those men, but I don’t want my mom to get hurt.”

  “I think it is a bad man trying to do that, scare people. We can protect her from them.” It hit Blair that he didn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth. He studied the town, looking up and down the street, at all the buildings and windows. He searched the roof lines, then the shadows. What do you expect to see?

  “Duane, I got to go.” He handed the boy a coin. “I’ll tell the stable man that I gave you permission to keep an eye on the horse and help out, even ride it, if it lets you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The horse likes you. If he ever acts weird, scared, or just plain ornery to other people, keep clear of those folks. The horse is a good judge of character.” For the most part.

  “I will.”

  Staring into every shadow, Blair went to the hotel to find the professor. Worthington wasn’t there.

  * * *

  Blair rode toward the Jollytime Mine. He passed a line of one hundred coal ovens burning hot. The coal was cooked to remove the impurities and create coke, valuable to iron manufacturers. Men covered in coal dust and sweat tended the doors. If someone hadn’t told Blair there was only one black man in town, the barber, he would have thought those workers were black. The soot-covered European immigrants worked the beehive-shaped units.

  Blair stayed clear of the high temperature that radiated from the super-heated ovens. Tracks led to the different mines where burros hauled ore carts to the furnaces. The stallion took little notice of the other beasts at work. They rode next to the tracks until they reached the spur to the Jollytime. Blair directed the horse to a grove of aspens where he could watch the checkweighman. He unpacked a monocular from a saddlebag and peered through the glass.

  Hello, JP.

  Jeremiah Pruitt’s mannerisms were the same—the way he glided when he walked and moved. He always smoothed his eyebrows with those curly thumbs of his. He was strong, thin, and agile. His mind, though morally and mentally questionable, had always been sharp. Blair had to assume it still was.

  From the few people that would talk to Blair, he discovered the usual. Pruitt took the day shift, leaving his evenings free to drink and play with the prostitutes. His scales were off, enough to put extra cash in his pocket and keep most of the miners from asking questions.

  * * *

  Will Johnson had told Pruitt’s story to Blair during a long night in a wet cave as they waited out a posse after a train robbery. Supposedly, Pruitt’s folks placed him in a New York City mental hospital at the age of twelve after he killed one of his friends at a lumber mill. The police said it was an accident because they couldn’t fathom a boy slaughtering another child.

  Pruitt escaped the hospital after several years. He worked odds jobs until the war where he was a true killer. His deeds were never written about or awarded medals, as such deeds weren’t civil. Afterward, he hired himself out as a gunman until Johnson persuaded him there was more money in being a thief.

  Blair stayed in the shade of the aspens until Pruitt finished his shift and left the area. Two of his gunmen were with him. Could he take three of them? He didn’t know for sure because he hadn’t seen the others in action. He doubted they could be much good as Pruitt wasn’t much of a leader. But he wasn’t willing to take that chance yet. Blair’s time was running out. Maybe the sheriff or his deputies could help or at least to prevent the others from stepping into the fight. Wanted dead or alive. Alive brought more money. But dead would bring more satisfaction. He could wait until after the trial. Then kill him.

  * * *

  A steam whistle blew, signaling a shift change at the Jollytime Mine. Blocking the sun with their hands, men covered in coal dust exited the main entrance into the light. Clean men waited their turn in the darkness.

  A group of Pennsylvanian miners worked their way to the end of Shaft Thirty-Five. The men—Curt Brody, Tommy Watson, Mike James and Tim Travis—had worked together in the Alleghany mines for many years. Hoping for a big payday they loaded up and moved to the mountains. At night they dug deep in the earth for coal. During their off days, the men picked at hard-rock mining claims for gold and silver.

  In the coal mine, they worked as a team sharing the payouts. Two men working together could pull nine tons a day from the earth. Four men could more than double that. It also created safety. The men would spend valuable time building timber supports in the shafts. This allowed wider tunnels without fear of a cave-in. The larger shafts enabled them to remove more ore from veins for coal. Single workers or pairs rarely built safety structures. The mining company didn’t pay them to do so.<
br />
  The mine boss let the Pennsylvania crew pick and choose which areas they wanted to work. The more ore they dug, the more money he made. The mine boss knew to keep Jeremiah Pruitt in check to some extent at the weigh station with these men. They were experienced miners and knew how much coal they were digging. If they caught him cheating, they would find another coal mine. Their skills would be welcomed elsewhere.

  The crack of hardwood sent the echo of curses up and down the tunnel.

  “What happened?” The beam from Curt’s helmet lantern did not reach the source of the sound. Another light pointed back at him.

  “I broke another pick handle,” Mike said.

  “That’s two today,” Tommy said. “I don’t think we brought another spare.”

  “I’ll go see if I can fetch one from somebody.” Mike’s light shined on rubble, rock walls and timbers as he traveled the shaft.

  “Be careful, and don’t take too long,” Curt said. “I want to go another five feet before we quit.” The equipment breaking would put them further behind his goals for the day. But they could catch up if they hit a solid vein of coal instead of rock.

  * * *

  Curt held his pocket watch up to his helmet lamp. It had been forty minutes since Mike took off. “What’s taking him so long?”

  “He probably went to take a dump,” Tommy said. “He’s had the runs lately. Been eating too many beans.”

  “Since you’re the funny guy, why don’t you go find him?” Curt pointed up the tunnel. He had no time for games tonight.

  “By myself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But what about…?”

  “What?” Curt knew, but didn’t want to feed the fear. The guys were already on edge. They’d tough it out, or he’d find men that would.

  “Never mind.” Tommy traded his shovel for a pick and started up the shaft.

  “Send Tim back here to help fill the cart. And be quick about it. We’ve already lost good time tonight,” Curt said. “And running around down here alone isn’t safe.”