A Haunting of Horrors, Volume 2: A Twenty-Book eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Brian Hodge

  "You must go to the Ree. I will follow soon. You must go to the lodge of my father and tell him who you are and what has happened. Do not return here."

  He nodded. It had been a beginning. He had never belonged with the Sioux, not truly, and now he knew that Speaks With Spirits had not, either. The old man had been of ancient stock, holder of secrets that made the eldest memory of the tribe seem the prattle of children. Now Bloody Knife was that guardian. The spirits spoke to him, Speaks With Spirits among them, and he had a destiny.

  As the line of soldiers disappeared behind him, Bloody Knife swerved his mount and headed off at a gallop along the valley, not preceding them into the battle ground, as expected. Custer had other scouts – they would assume his death, which was in any case inevitable. He had one last trial – one last part to play.

  His fingers strayed to his belt and the tiny silver horseshoe pendant he wore there. It was the only ornamentation he allowed himself. He would not dress as a Sioux – there was too much hatred, too much pain. He would never truly be Ree, despite his mother's admonitions that me must stay with her, and with that tribe. Neither was he white. Nevertheless, he knew the power of talismans, and in the work to come, he'd invested greatly in the power of this one – one truly believed in by those he would stand against.

  He was of the spirit. Symbols meant little to him, except in the power they could contain. This horseshoe was the mirror of that worn around the neck of Custer's subordinate, Major Reno. It would be his bridge. Custer would never believe in anything but himself, and in that power he believed all too much. Reno was different. He had seen defeat, had stared death in the eyes and lived with the haunting echo of that image for years. The spirits knew him by sight.

  There were no trumpets to fill the air this day, despite Custer's bravado. It was a bold plan, large and far-sighted in implication and implementation. He knew the odds, even as he disclaimed that there was any possibility of defeat. He believed that he had the answers, and that belief was a strong weapon, in and of itself.

  He believed in Bloody Knife, as well. That was the fatal flaw. Every great plan has its weakness, every leader his Achilles heel. Bloody Knife had led the golden haired general through the fabled holy black hills of the Sioux nation untouched. He had been there, breathing secrets and twisting dreams, since that day outside "The Smoking Gun."

  The Sioux hated Bloody Knife. Custer had no idea how deeply that hatred might run, but he felt it. His mind did not allow for the chance that the hatred was not reciprocated. The world was a steady procession of straight lines and set angles for the general. A man hated, a man loved, there was no middle ground, no gray area.

  It was not Custer that Bloody Knife fought. It was not the Sioux. It was what each stood for in this senseless war. Change. Desecration of the land. Ignorance of the spirit of the land that provided all they needed, and ignorance of the mutual respect that could preserve this. Custer would not stop at the Sioux. He would not be happy until he had proven himself superior in intellect and battle to every "heathen savage" in the west.

  The Sioux would not bend, but they might break. There was a pride in them that ran deeper than sanity; honor that shamed the whites they fought at every turn, but to no avail. They did not listen to the old ones any longer, though they venerated them. They did not seek to raid, or to count coup on their enemies, then to return to home and hearth for bragging rights. They sought destruction, and annihilation. They were no different in this than the whites, and that was what Bloody Knife hated.

  He slipped into a small copse of trees, and pulled his mount to a halt, sliding off and kneeling quickly. There was not much time to work. He drew a small circle in the dirt, seated himself in it and pulled free the bag he wore at his side. From this he drew several herbs, which he sprinkled onto a pile of leaves and small twigs. After lighting them with flint and stone, he took free the small silver horseshoe from his belt and held it before him, closing his eyes and waiting for the sweet smoke to waft up and about him.

  He felt them gather, the spirits of those who had gone before, the animals who had led him to an understanding of the land, wise men and warriors, mothers, daughters, and behind them all the whispered breath of the mother herself, the ultimate dream calling to his soul.

  He concentrated, breathed deeply, pulled his essence within and redirected it. His focus was the glinting silver horseshoe, the memory of golden hair and glistening steel, the whooping, rage-filled cries of the warriors as they mounted.

  He had come to Sitting Bull in his dreams. While wrapped in the warm embrace of his three current wives, Bloody Knife had shown the Chief victory. Sitting Bull rode as a demon through the lines of his enemy, counting their dead like the flies on a buffalo carcass and screaming his name to the skies. Victory and battle were the only visions the Sioux would respect in those days of horror and hatred, and Bloody Knife had provided them. The Sioux would ride.

  Custer had been different. Bloody Knife had never feigned good will toward his employer, often being openly disrespectful. It was a ploy to gain respect, one that had worked. His prophecies had helped Custer on innumerable occasions, but never had they been offered directly. Always, he had made comments from the side, suggestions to the wind that were overheard and implemented. The battle to come was based on such comments.

  "I had a dream," he'd told another scout, aware that Custer listened nearby. "In my dream, there was a hill I know. It was the Little Bighorn, you know this place?" The guide had nodded solemnly. "I saw that hill run red, and from it, many spirits rose. They wore the colors and paint of the Sioux, and above them, burning bright, was a star – the star of the Morning..."

  There had been more, and he had seen the effect of his words in the other's eyes. Custer never said a word, but it was that very evening he gathered his subordinates and planned to take off, with his own regiment, to the hill of the Little Bighorn. He outlined his plan carefully, and his eyes were nearly fevered with thoughts of victory and glory.

  Scented smoke carried Bloody Knife up through the trees to where the fields beyond were visible, up to where the touch of the sun was a caress on his soul. He saw the hill in the distance, and he heard the sounds from where the main force of the troops, led by Major Reno, were engaged, held in position, by huge numbers of the Sioux.

  He sensed those forces pulling back, and he knew it was about to come, the battle was on. Custer would soon mount the hill, and Reno would close in from the flank with his cavalry. It might be enough to turn the tide. It might change the vision. Bloody Knife knew that it must not happen that way.

  The image of the horseshoe grew until it was a giant, panoramic image super-imposed on the sky. He looked within the silver, looked beyond it and saw Reno give the order to move. He saw the lines begin to form behind him.

  The spirits answered Bloody Knife's call. They slid from tree to tree around the Major and his forces, rising from the earth, dropping from the trees. Always just out of sight, they caught at the peripheral of each soldier's vision, snatched at the sensitive ears and eyes of their mounts, grabbed at the strings that bound their hearts to their courage and plucked, bringing a trembling to the very air itself. Danger. Death.

  Reno's eyes took on a far-away, empty glaze. He saw the land before him, and yet he saw a different place. He saw his men, but they were not the men of that moment, but the men of another place, another time. Ahead his men saw the Unkpapa village and the line of Sioux warriors descending on them. Reno saw a road. Ahead was the fleeing form of a single man, "The Grey Ghost," John Singleton Mosby, and he felt himself drawn into the vortex of that moment, reliving the madness.

  He'd confronted the fugitive in a small town, chased him out onto the road, and victory was at hand. Then the bullets had begun to fly, from the trees, the bushes, raining down upon the road like hail. All around him his men were dropping, dying, screaming, and ahead the "Grey Ghost" laughed, flying into the face of time, dragging him through the blood and bodies of the falle
n.

  This wavered in and out of his vision along with the village, the advancing braves, and his men. There were other Indians there as well, rising from the ground to stare at him in hatred, to stare through him, then to disappear. He raised his hand, screamed for a halt, for a dismount. He felt the charge of the enemy as they approached, and yet he halted.

  Skirmish lines were quickly formed as his men, staring stupidly at him. They obviously thought he’d gone made, but they did as he ordered. They set themselves in a defensive posture, and they waited, leaving the plan, the General, and history to sort it out.

  Reno leaped from his own horse and ran madly about the lines, giving orders, some that made sense, others that were gibberish. He lost his helmet at some point and picked up a stray straw hat, wrapping a cloth about his head as though to emulate the very savages they fought. Foam flew from his lips, and still he stumbled about. They could not die. He would not let them. His men would not die at his hand again.

  Bloody Knife called to him, then, seeing that they would not advance, and Reno stopped still, listening to the air. With a swift nod to a voice none but he could hear, he spun and ran to his horse, leaping back to the saddle.

  "If you would save yourselves," he cried, raising his arms high above his head as his horse pranced nervously, "follow me."

  The major turned and fled, and his men, one after another, slowly at first, then in force, followed. They were in confusion, and the Sioux warriors fell on them like an avenging tide. They dragged the soldiers from their mounts, impaled them one after another in a constant barrage of arrows that blurred the air with shafts and feathers, death and screaming pain.

  There was no chance. There was no hope, and with that black tide at his heels, the major fled to the trees, where Bloody Knife awaited him. The scout had risen. About his neck, he'd tied a starred bandanna that Custer himself had given him. He'd donned the bear-claw and clam-shell necklace of the Sioux shaman, carried at his side all these years, carried with secret pride and open pain. He stood alone in a clearing, sending his mind out to Reno and calling him forth.

  The spirits whispered of the blood. The Little Bighorn ran red, and the blood was not of the Sioux. Men died, screaming and tortured, Indian children played with the wounded, stabbing and cutting, cat-calling and hounding. To a man the whites would die, their blood returning to replenish the land. The battle would make no difference in the end, but for that moment, that glorious moment, the last that Bloody Knife would know on earth, there would be a cleansing. There would be a return to what was animal in man, what was natural in nature.

  As he stood, Reno roared into the clearing, eyes crazed and spittle flying from his lips. Seeing Bloody Knife and recognizing him, somehow, he leaped from his saddle and ran forward, dropping the reins of his mount and nearly stumbling to his knees.

  "What has happened?" he cried. "Why are you not with the General? The attack, it is over – lost. We cannot break through. Why …"

  There were a million questions swirling in the madness of the man's eyes. Bloody Knife would have liked the time to explain, to teach what he had been taught, to pass on this legacy of responsibility, but it was not possible. It was time.

  Even as the echo of the gunshot rang through the forest, he felt the hand of the mother's spirit reaching out to draw him home. He saw the earth swirling away beneath him, felt the release as he broke free – broke into the realm of those he'd shared with so often, felt their embrace as they accepted him into the one whole, the spirit of the earth mother, Gaia, the purity of essence without form.

  Major Reno staggered into the trees and somehow found his mount. He'd seen the eyes behind that gun – Sioux. They had followed him, even here, and they had shot Bloody Knife before he could answer. The major reached up slowly, running a gloved hand across his face. The Indian guide's blood had spattered his features, his uniform, imbedded itself in his hair.

  One moment the man had stood before him, the next the guide’s head had just exploded. Nothing. Where there had been eyes awash in wisdom and answers, there was a mist of red and pain. No screams. No staggering, bloody corpse. The body had dropped, headless, and Reno had run. Again.

  In the distance he still heard guns and terrified screams. A momentary vision blotted the sight of the forest and he saw a hill, running deepest red, overrun with feathered hair and screaming, savage faces. There were no blue-shirted warriors on that hill, no cries of victory or glory. Only the red.

  Mounting up, he headed back out of the trees and back toward safety at a full gallop, already planning his explanations. There would be no mention of ghosts; there would be no mention of Bloody Knife or visions of blood-soaked hills. There would be no glory. He had made history – history and glory are not synonymous. His head hung low, he rode to destiny.

  DELIGHTFUL AGONY

  By David Whitman

  CONTENTS

  A Better World

  A Momentary Thing

  Except for Ophelia

  Family Plotting

  Undenied

  Feeling Alive

  They All Dream About Them Here

  Rosahella’s Footprints

  Some of Us Are Looking At the Stars

  The Dark Reality of Bannen Wilde

  Standing Betwixt Worlds in Delightful Agony

  With Quiet Violence

  Feeling Katherine

  A Better World

  The city of Carverton — Victorian Era

  She was just a street whore, Simon thought, watching the rain strike his window. Lightning flashed brilliantly outside, illuminating his cluttered room in a short burst of effulgent light. He watched the shadows flicker and dance across the wall and let his gaze return to the howling storm.

  He had been obsessing about Mina O’Connor for the last few weeks to the point of madness. It was not hard to imagine her angelic eyes—hypnotic and penetrating, the sort of eyes one could quite easily get lost inside for days. Mina would always gaze up at Simon when she was pleasuring him, never letting their stare unlock. Her black hair was cut shorter than was the style and the curls tickled just around her doll-like face like the petals of an ebony rose. She would watch him as he exploded into orgasm, her piercing eyes never leaving his face. Normally, he would feel uncomfortable at such intimacy—but he would always stare right back as he came, falling into her green eyes like they were blistering tunnels into her soul.

  A few times Simon had even taken her to his home and made tea, enjoying the conversation much more than he was willing to admit. Though she was only twenty years old, she was very well read in most everything, an attribute that he found charming. Mina, a street whore, had more education than most of his pseudo-intellectual friends. She had left her unloving parents only two years ago hoping to find some work in the big city as an actress. Her dreams soon crushed by the harsh realities of the city, she found herself selling her body in order to survive.

  “I just want things to be better,” Mina had whispered, sipping her tea methodically by the fireplace, her moist eyes lost within her own dreams. “There must be a better world.”

  “There is, Mina,” Simon had said, genuinely meaning his words. “And someday you will be there.”

  The night Simon saw her corpse still played in his mind daily. Mina did not show up at their appointed meeting place—a trash scattered alley near the end of town. After about thirty minutes of waiting in the shadows, he decided to walk home, his head low under his hat so that he would not be recognized frequenting such a seedy section of town. When he noticed the night watchmen gathering just down the street, he attempted to cross to the other side.

  “You there!” an officer had shouted. “Come here!”

  Reluctantly, Simon approached the suspicious group.

  Mina lay on the ground before the street lamp—throat cut in a jagged gash, congealed blood surrounding her waif-like body in a thick, crimson puddle. She stared upwards to the night sky, skin glistening around the eyes where her final tears ha
d fallen. Her mouth was open slightly, frozen in a final sigh. White teeth, speckled with blood, could be seen peeking out underneath her full lips.

  Simon did not even know that he was crying until a teardrop fell from the bottom of his chin. A sob escaped from his lips and he barely managed to contain it.

  At that moment, he knew that he had loved Mina O’Connor, despite everything that she was.

  “You, sir,” The night watchman said, his furry eyebrows arching inquisitively. “Do you know this woman? Do you know her name?”

  Simon stared at the man, momentarily too stunned to speak. He wiped the tears away and said, “No, I do not. I’ve never seen her in my life.”

  “Why are you crying, then?” the man asked suspiciously. “We care not if you frequent the prostitutes around here, my good man. We merely want to identify this poor woman.”

  “I do not know her. I was weeping because she is so young. No one deserves such a death.”After a few other questions, Simon excused himself. It was not until he got back to his flat that he realized what he had done. In order to protect his limited standing in society, he had not identified the name of one of the most important people he had ever met.

  Simon learned from the newspaper that the local church had buried Mina in Dark Hollow Cemetery with an unmarked tombstone. It was not often that the church did such a thing, but the fact that she was but a young girl, and that she was murdered so violently, must have touched something in the parishioners.

  “I should have told them her name,” Simon said, staring into the glowing flames of the fireplace as he sipped his tea. His best friend, Oscar Riley, was sitting just across from him, lighting up his pipe as he nodded.

  “Yes,” Oscar said, inhaling deeply of the smoke. “You should have.”

  “I’m evil.”

  “Yes, you are,” Oscar shot back, grinning wickedly. Pipe smoke trailed from his long nose, giving him the appearance of a demon possessed in the shadowy sparkle of the fireplace.