The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  * * *

  Theodore Weinberg left town with a third of a bottle of whiskey in his belly. He and his brother, Steven, spent many nights pissing and puking their way back to the Snowed-In Mine after a long night of drinking. After passing the last house, Theo remembered their laughter at each other’s expense—like the time Steven rode a mule and nearly broke his arm. Or when Theo thought he was feeding Mr. Edward’s dog and it was actually a bear cub. Momma bear came running.

  But on this night, Theo ambled alone. His brother, dead, decapitated, and buried, would never again share in their drunken antics. Theo searched for something to destroy, move, or vandalize, to honor his brother. He went back to one of the cabins he just passed and pillaged the clothes line. He picked off the damp trousers, shirts, long johns and socks. Theo held the clothing to his chest and ran as fast as his drunk legs could move. He fell over and hit his nose on the ground, but kept laughing. The apprehension and thrill weren’t worthy of the event.

  Theo sat up and held his painful nose. There was enough moonlight to see the blood dripping on his hand. He kept laughing, thinking his brother would find this extremely humorous.

  “This one’s for you, Stevie.” He held the long johns up to his face to stop the bleeding.

  “Too bad he’s not here to see it himself.”

  Theo jumped to his feet. Someone must have seen him steal the clothes. He struggled to keep his balance. “Who’s there?”

  “Don’t worry, you had plenty to drink. This won’t hurt too bad.” The voice had a thick accent.

  An oak pick handle struck Theo in the face, knocking him to the ground. His nose, already bloody, split wide open. He cried out in pain.

  “You won’t be allowed to stop us.” Sándor Varga stood over him.

  Then more blows came as four men swung their wooden sticks and broke Theo’s bones. The beating knocked him off the road into a thin creek of snow melt. He grunted and moaned until his breathing stopped.

  “Leave him,” Vargo ordered. “If we’re lucky, someone might think the owner of these clothes did it. Don’t let anyone see you until you’ve cleaned up.”

  Varga’s three helpers departed toward the mine barracks. He spit on Theo Weinberg’s body. “You can’t stop us. We must kill the vampírs.” His eyes moved up toward the sky. “We cannot let this happen again.”

  * * *

  Pastor Anthony Jones fumed at the trespassers from the back of the sanctuary of his small church. He had quietly opened the door to see who was in the building at such a late hour. His entrance surprised Blair. He didn’t even go for a pistol. By the time he realized someone was there, he knew the pastor stood behind him.

  “I doubt you’ve seen the devil.” Pastor Jones stood in the open threshold and pointed his finger at Blair. “Why should anyone believe your lies?”

  “A better question is why would you not believe him?” Worthington said.

  “I have had enough of you trying to one-up me with your questions, Professor. I want both of you to leave.” He thrust his hand toward the open door. “Now.”

  Blair ignored the command. “Have you seen God, Pastor Jones?”

  “What?”

  “Have you seen God? It’s a simple question.”

  “No.” His shoulders dropped at his confession.

  “Does He exist?”

  “That’s a stupid question. Of course He does.”

  “But you haven’t seen Him.”

  “Not directly. But I’ve seen Him in many different places, in special events, and in the faces and actions of people.”

  “Then why is it so hard to accept that I’ve seen the devil in the same manner?”

  Worthington crossed his arms against his chest. “I don’t think I need to add anything to that response.”

  Jones clenched his jaw.

  “Well?”

  “What are you trying to say? That people are evil like the Devil?” Jones asked.

  “Once again, Pastor,” Blair said with sarcasm, “we are not talking about men. Though there are enough evil men in the world, people don’t seem to believe in the other principalities. Or that their deeds bring judgment, opening the door to true evil.

  “There is evil in this world. I have seen things that would make most grown men cry for their mothers if they had the courage to make a noise.”

  Blair glanced up at the cross and remembered the polished oak one that hung in his church. No symbolic nails or crown adorned either. “Pastor, what did you feel when Stone put his arm around you back at the saloon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it acceptance or repulsion?”

  “Acceptance, I guess.”

  “You don’t get it, do you, Pastor?”

  “Get what?”

  The bounty hunter peered into Jones’s eyes. “That you were standing at the threshold of hell tonight, and the Devil put his arm around you and asked if he could get you some tea.”

  * * *

  The church floor creaked as the men inside stared at each other. Jonathan Blair’s memories had resurfaced causing pain, confusion, and heightened awareness of good and evil. He was pretty sure which side owned his soul. Professor Worthington must have known. Gothic was about to become a portal into the demonic realm he studied. Why else would he have kept pushing?

  “Blair, tell us what you know about the events transpiring here in Gothic,” Professor Worthington said. “Pastor Jones, do you want a lesson in reality, a lesson in the supernatural realm of our existence between Heaven and Hell?”

  Yeah, he knew.

  “I’m not sure about a lesson, but I would be interested to hear what Mr. Blair has to say. He should know quite a bit about God. Huh, Pastor Blair?”

  Blair’s lip twitched as his face tightened. He hadn’t been called that in years. Guilt, like bile, crept up his throat.

  “But not here. I don’t want the murderer in here any longer. He’s already tainted the place.”

  “Good, then let’s relocate to more comfortable surroundings. Is your cabin acceptable?”

  Jones nodded. Worthington blew out the lanterns and waited for Blair. Jones locked the doors and led them around to his log cabin.

  The one-room cabin was spacious, and the furnishings were elaborate. Blair didn’t know much about fine tables and chairs, but these weren’t built here, had to have been shipped from Denver or New Orleans. Two lanterns and a fire gave the space plenty of light.

  Blair froze after he took a couple steps inside the cabin.

  “What’s wrong?” the professor asked.

  Blair did not answer, but studied the furniture again, the walls and the floor. He pointed at Jones and directed him to take a few steps back, where the shadow man had stood.

  Blair shook his head and rubbed his hand through his hair.

  “Jonathan?” Worthington moved toward him. “What is it?”

  “My dream. I know who killed Bolton.”

  Chapter Eight

  Faith in Lead

  Blair sat with his head in his hands, thinking. Worthington had told Jones a brief version of the story of Blair’s family and the Johnson Gang.

  “Mr. Blair, are you prepared to talk?” the professor asked.

  He sighed and sat back in his chair. “Earlier today you said if someone forgot a demonic situation, like what is going on here, they might remember if they were in a similar circumstance,” Blair said. “Since I got here, I’ve had terrible nightmares and memories. The first dream I had here was about Mexico. The second was about this cabin.

  “The night we dug up the cemetery, I dreamed of a man, like a shadow. Wherever he went light faded. He came in here. I watched the whole thing through there.” Blair moved to his feet and stood next to the window. An older man held a Bible. The shadow man palmed the older man’s head, then slammed him to the ground, right here.” He toed the spot, now covered by the rug. “I’d swear Stone did it.”

  “Do you know how Thomas died?” Worthington asked.
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  Blair shook his head.

  “His skull was cracked.” Worthington fingered the back of his head. “About here. At first people believed he had an accident, had fallen. Doc Parker’s examination proved otherwise. Too much damage.”

  “I didn’t know,” Blair said.

  “Why should we trust you?” Jones asked.

  “I don’t really care if you do or not.”

  “Gentlemen, please stop.” Worthington jumped to his feet and scooted his chair back. “Help me.” He tugged on the rug. Jones moved his chair and grabbed a corner of the rug. Blair’s gut jumped into his heart as the men revealed three fresh floor planks.

  “It seems you have the right spot, Mr. Blair.” Worthington said. “And the cause of death. I am also willing to accept you have the right killer.”

  “You can’t take a man’s dream and convict or even charge someone with murder,” Jones said.

  “There are other ways to deal with such people,” Blair said.

  Jones pointed his finger at the bounty hunter. “If you’re talking about killing him because you had a dream, I’ll be the first to tell the sheriff. Besides, Daniel Stone has no motive. He didn’t need the money stolen from the offering box.”

  “The crime wasn’t about the money,” Worthington said. “Thomas knew something was wrong in town. That’s why he sent me the letters.”

  “Did he mention Stone?” Blair asked.

  “Not by name. But he could feel the demonic presence. That’s why I came.”

  Jones tossed his hands in the air. “You two are like children scared of the dark. Any noise is a hidden monster.”

  “These monsters aren’t hiding,” Blair said. “And Stone is behind this.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Before you two end the evening, we have more to discuss. Now sit down.” Worthington stared at them until they obliged his command. Jones repositioned the rug and his chair. “Now, Mr. Blair, let’s hear more of your story. Tell us about Mexico.”

  Blair took a moment to begin. He adjusted and readjusted in the chair though the furniture didn’t lack the comfort he sought. “We fled to Mexico to hide. But we did as much damage there as on this side of the border. The small villages were defenseless. I was still drinking. Usually bingeing when I had the chance.

  “We were in Urique, an old mining town in Chihuahua. Must have been late May. The area was a hard place to find, at the bottom of a canyon, which meant it was safe. Maybe three-hundred miles south of El Paso. There were birds like I had never seen before.” Blair smiled at the memory of all the birds—colors, sizes, and songs.

  “After a week or so, we got settled in. Thought we might stay a while. There was a Catholic mission with a small orphanage.”

  Blair choked up at those words. The pain hung on his heart like tree sap. He took a moment to regain his composure.

  “The kids kept bugging me to let them ride my horse. The horse liked the little ones. My horse doesn’t like many people. It has a gift, a natural sense. But it seems to like children.

  “There was another American in town. I never talked to him, but he hung out in the same cantina—probably because the owner spoke some English. My horse didn’t like the man, always grunted and stomped its hooves when he came close. I knew to stay away. Cliff and Will Johnson spent some time with him, but they didn’t say much.

  “I had already figured out they had killed my family by this time. I was drinking my way to an answer on how to kill them all. Or maybe drinking until I said something so they would kill me.”

  Blair was so numb at the time he didn’t care which happened. He needed that feeling now to finish the story.

  “Anyway, the American started hanging out at the mission, messing with the kids. A couple days later, I could sense a change in the kids, but I didn’t know why. Maybe if I would have been sober…

  “On one of the hottest days down there, I spent most of it drinking in the shade. I hadn’t seen the kids at all. I walked through the village, and they weren’t anywhere. I thought about going to the mission, but I wasn’t going inside any place built for a God I gave up believing in. I waited outside for a bit, but no one came out. I guessed they were out working late in one of the fields—hired themselves out as day laborers. They did that a lot. Only real way for them to make money.

  “The next day started like the rest, with a bottle of booze. Dinner came and went, and I still hadn’t seen the kids. I wouldn’t admit it at the time, but I’d really started to grow fond of them. Their innocence. Their purity. There is no guile or hate inside children. Unless we put it there. But they are willing to forgive. Not like grown men who are willing to die or kill because someone crossed their pride.

  “I needed a dose of their affection, their love.” Blair chuckled at his own yearning for human connection. “I was undone.” His soul was still undone.

  “It was worth going inside the mission to get it. I stumbled through the gate and headed toward the back door, where I could go inside without going into the sanctuary. No one was there, but I could see the light from burning candles. I didn’t want to, but I had to see if the kids were in the sanctuary. I should have run out like my mind was telling me. But I needed those kids to help me make it through another day.

  “I was sure I would have never forgotten what I experienced in there, but a month later I had.” Tears rolled down Blair’s cheeks. He did not wipe them away; he bit on his lower lip. “Then the first night here I had the dream.”

  “What was in the sanctuary?” Pastor Jones asked.

  “The smell. I should have recognized the smell. All the pews were scattered about near the front doors of the church. The candles were giving a strange glow to the walls, because they were an unusual color. The American was naked and had a mop and bucket. He was washing the walls. But the water was dark, so I wondered why someone would paint the inside of the church that color, almost black.

  “Blood, it was full of blood. He painted the church walls with it. I threw up. He started cackling when he heard me. He said, ‘You’re too late. I had them all.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but his voice—I wanted to crawl out of my skin. He slopped the walls.

  “After that the rest of it played like a dream, like I wasn’t really there. I don’t know if it was the tequila or him. I’m not sure what made me go over to the pews instead of leaving, but I had to see. They were all lying naked on the pews, the nuns and the children. I fell over and threw up again. I tried to stand, but I couldn’t, like a something was holding me down.

  “I heard a noise from the priest lying under one of the pews. He had taken a beating. ‘Ayudame. Ayudame.’ Help, he kept saying. I cut the bindings from his hands. Then one of the nuns moved, she was alive.

  “I pulled my pistols and started shooting. I hit the American in the legs and back. He fell over and I kept firing. I missed more than I hit.

  “The man sat against the bloody wall and smiled. Freaking smiled at me, and kept laughing. But it wasn’t his laugh. I had heard him laugh at the cantina. This was deeper, evil. That’s when I noticed his eyes—black as night, lifeless. His laughed faded into a cough. And his eyes returned to normal. He started crying. I held my gun tight and put a bullet in his forehead.

  “Before I could move, the nun sat up. He had carved her up pretty bad. ‘You missed,’ she said then started laughing in that same deep voice. Her eyes were black. I shot her. I just shot her, without even thinking about her being a nun or even a person. She was him. It.

  “One of the little girls crawled over the pew.” Blair was sobbing. “She had been one of my favorites. He had violated that child. She bled from her face to her knees. She spoke in that voice, that evil voice. ‘Missed again.’ I squeezed the trigger. But I was empty. She…it laughed. I struck her… with my gun. I didn’t want to, but it was in her. The hit sent her tiny body tumbling over a pew.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I started toward the back door on my hands and knees. The blood
on the floor was sticky. I wiped it on my pants, but it wouldn’t come off.” Blair rubbed his hands together as if they needed to be cleaned.

  “The priest followed me. He kicked me in the ribs, sending me across the room, breaking a few bones. He knelt down, out of my reach. Before I could ask why—his black eyes, I could see me, not my reflection, but me. I cried. He whispered to me. ‘Preacher man lost his way. Now he has to pay. Preacher man likes to kill. Now he has his fill.’

  “He walked outside and fell over. Whatever was in him, in the others, escaped. The priest died within minutes. But not before he was able to tell someone I tried to help him. But it didn’t matter. I was ruined.

  “I got on my horse and rode toward the edge of town. I could barely sit in the saddle. That is when Pruitt walked up with a knife and was going for my heart. But that mean old horse of mine, it’s amazing. It spun around and bit at him and missed, but it broke Pruitt’s left foot instead. I hear he’s missing a few toes now.

  “I rode straight to Denver and turned myself in. Something inside me changed, my spirit maybe. I knew if there was something so evil, there had to be something against it, something good to stop it. It was demonic. Not that I wanted to admit it, but there had to be a God. The God I once believed in. The God I hate.

  “By the time I was chained to a prison wall, I had forgotten the details about the mission. Until this week. The night Stone walked into the saloon, I sensed that evil presence from Mexico. It reached out from the depths of hell and shook my soul. Whatever has control over him was in that church with me.”

  “And this time, it is not alone,” Worthington said.

  * * *

  Frederick Worthington asked Jonathan Blair several questions to fill in the blanks of his story, but there was little else to tell.

  “Sorry, I can’t believe this,” Pastor Anthony Jones said. “You yourself said you were drunk most of the time. Maybe this was some bad liquor, or maybe you smoked something to cause hallucinations.”

  “I don’t smoke.” Blair sat calmly, tired from the emotional release of his account. The guilt no longer weighed him down.