by Glen Krisch
"Jasper, you come along. You don't want to see this."
The boy scurried down into the darkness. Cartwright nodded to Scully, then grabbed Joss Parkins by the collar, not at all as would be expected of a hired man with his boss. Parkins tried to pry free, but was too weak in comparison. He gave up, stooped over, climbed into the opening, his disgust at crawling through a piss puddle expressed as a whiny, petulant sigh.
Cartwright entered, his hulking form blotting out the lamp light as their group advanced. The room filled with murk and shadow, the stench of piss and fear.
Blankenship closed his eyes, his lips moving through the desperate throes of a final prayer. If God ever heard him, Cooper would never know.
Scully crossed himself, then spit into his palms and rubbed them together. He took up his weapon and brought the honed edge down at the reverend's shoulder, his thrust held in check by his desire for accuracy. The axe still easily split flesh and bone.
Blankenship's eyes shot open.
Scully stomped a boot against his chest, pulled the axe free, striking again quickly, this time more assuredly, severing the man's arm. The limb thumped to the ground. Arterial blood sprayed from the reverend like a gushing garden hose.
Scully moved faster than the reverend could react. Horace Blankenship's words were done. He would never utter another prayer, wouldn't have the chance to start pleading for his life. Scully launched his weapon straightaway at the reverend's neck, full force, a wickedly wild swing more apt to clear a century's old oak. The axe cleaved cleanly; the reverend's head cartwheeled, hit a wall, came to rest near his wife's body.
Scully waited for Blankenship's body to slump to the floor--a long five seconds--before jumping into the hidden tunnel, his maniacal laughter echoing, chasing him into the chasm.
Alone with the reek of death wafting to the basement rafters, something tugged at Cooper's chest, at the root of his soul. A physical wrenching of his body from his ethereal drift. Scully's laughter simmered from the tunnel's opening. Cooper whirled toward the sound like a dropped leaf being sucked by the wind, unable to stop his descent as he flew into the pitch-black tunnel. Once therein, he learned everything.
3.
Ignorance was his first key to success as a lawman. Turning a blind eye fortified his position, allowed him to command the respect of those more ignorant than himself (which was most of the town as far as he could tell), allowed him to rise from the glum squalor of his upbringing, allowed him to have gainful employment when so many good men had no chance for the same.
Yet he couldn't go on lying. Not any more. He was done doing Thompson's bidding, and through extension, whatever dark force commanded Coal Hollow's doctor.
Sheriff Bergman was done with Coal Hollow when he spoke Thompson's words--his outright lies--to Jane Fowler. No, her son wasn't in Peoria, wasn't signed up for the army, or hadn't, for crying out loud, joined a traveling circus. Bergman wasn't even sure if Jimmy Fowler was still alive. If he was, the sheriff had a pretty good idea where he was being holed up, and if he was there, then he might as well be dead.
So, folks respected Doc Thompson, so what. So what if the doctor got Bergman elected a decade ago by his simple endorsement. So God damn what. He was no God. Coal Hollow was godless. Ignorance couldn't keep a person from that unpleasant knowledge. In a town struggling to survive, godlessness and ignorance went hand in hand. He was done with both.
He gassed his Plymouth around a bend just north of town. He was planning on heading north as fast as he could, putting as much ground as possible between himself and Coal Hollow. He had no intended destination, only a desire to get away. He humored himself by thinking he was heading to his cousin Tilley's house in Fargo. But that was just a direction to follow. He couldn't think so far ahead as to know where this would end.
How far does their influence reach?
Chicago, Milwaukee, Fargo? Could they send their shambling, rotting agents a thousand miles to slit his throat?
Dawn warmed the horizon. People were rising to milk and feed their animals. No one would know that he'd quit this town. No one would've seen his hastily written letter explaining a family emergency in St. Louis that needed his attention.
The Plymouth followed the road's bend to the long straightaway knifing northward.
Movement near the road's edge drew his bleary vision.
Deer. He slammed the brakes, the car's semi-balds sliding through loose gravel.
No. Not a deer, he realized, losing control of the car. "No!"
The old man stood stark still in the middle of the road. The last thing Bergman noticed before the impact was the wide grin on Jasper Cartwright's face.
The car crushed into his hip. The impact sent him airborne, flying backward away from the road, limbs trailing his torso as if he were being yanked by a rope tied about his waistline. He landed in a wall of thorny bushes, snapping branches, rattling leaves free to blanket the ground.
"Shit." Bergman punched the steering wheel hard enough that a bone broke near his wrist. The car's engine died, flooded. Pain grated the nerves in his broken hand like a coarse file working a suppurating wound.
"Shit-shit-SHIT!"
The sheriff shifted the dead car into park, opened the door and made his way to the wall of bushes, cradling his hand against his chest.
Jasper was hidden fairly well. It was only his liquid-wheezing breath that revealed his position.
He was in obvious pain, but as Bergman stooped to his side, the old man began to laugh. The jerking movement must have thrown his body through an incredible agony, but he couldn't help himself.
The poor man must be in shock.
He lifted Jasper's head after he started gagging on his own spit. "Jasper, what were you doing? Wait, don't move. We gotta get you help. What were you doing in the middle of the road so damn early in the morning?" Bergman rattled on, afraid to acknowledge to himself that his opportunity for escaping Coal Hollow had just come and gone.
Jasper blinked rapidly. Gathering his strength, he said, "They were coming for me. I heard 'em."
"Who? Who was coming for you, Jasper?" He didn't know if he should trust the old man's words. He could be delusional, raving as his mind tried to flee the painful ruins of his body.
"Collec-collectors. I heard them. From my room at the Calder place."
Bergman knew about the Collectors. They were some kind of miners' mythology that would've faded away but for the perpetuation of Greta Hildaberg's stories.
"It's okay, Jasper. No one's coming for you. No one but Dr. Thompson, that is."
Jasper's breath came in fitful spasms, a panting that punctured his words. "I'm… I'm dying. It's my… m-my time."
Bergman said the softest words to come to mind, "I'm sorry I didn't see you." What he wanted to say was a lot harsher. Words that would, in the end, forcibly reveal the real reason the old man had been in the road. He held back out of respect for the old man.
"No. Understand me." Jasper reached out and grasped Bergman's arm near his broken wrist. The sheriff gasped at the pain, wanted to strike out at him, but instead, he unhinged Jasper's fingers, placing them on his other wrist, then patted his hand. "It's my time, but the Collectors wouldn't let it be. They were coming. I-I-I heard them."
"No one's coming for you," Bergman repeated.
"I wouldn't let them take me."
"What are you talking about?" He wondered if he was just wasting time, questioning a raving man on the verge of death. Because that's what he was, right? A dying man? A man he will have killed, inadvertently, sure, but killed just the same. A thick white bone protruded through the fabric near Jasper's belt buckle. The cradle of his hip or upper thigh bone--the wound was too mangled to distinguish. Blood sopped his pants and was creeping up his cotton shirt. But the flow was slowing. His face was paling. There would be no time to reach Dr. Thompson. Even if he placed Jasper in the back seat of his Plymouth, Jasper was a dead man breathing.
Jasper's breath came as shallow
pants punctuated by pain that even shock couldn't dull.
"I worked there three summers."
Bergman decided he would make Jasper as comfortable as possible in his final moments. He tried to pry some of the wiry thorns from his skin, but they were dug in, not ready to let go. He lifted Jasper's head and placed it at the crook of his elbow, trying to ease the old man's pain, knowing it was an impossibility.
"Three summers toiling gets you eternal damnation. I was just a kid. So long ago."
Bergman nodded, not understanding his words, but willing to listen to his final testament.
"I wanted him to come to me when I was down there in the mines, but he never did. He… he would never leave that place, his people. And I could never return. Not after what I saw down there when I was a boy. But I'd worked three summers in the mines and the Collectors were coming to take me to that place. I-I-I never could bring myself to go to the Underground. Not even with my family there."
Bergman understood. Even his ignorance couldn't prevent his understanding. After all, he did grow up in Coal Hollow.
Waves of pain choked off Jasper's words. His panting breath became dry heaves. "Th-tha-thank you."
Jasper Cartwright breathed his last breath, smiled, then was dead. The old man felt weightier in his arms than he should. Bergman saw the gore on his own clothes and felt sick to his stomach. Could he drive Jasper's body to town? Could he explain his roaming north of Coal Hollow, riding the quitters' road out of this place?
The truth was, he couldn't. They would know, even if they had to prize the information from him, they would know.
Sheriff Bergman took some of the broken branches, placed them over Jasper's body.
Such a nice man. He deserves better.
He covered Jasper's unseeing eyes. He considered fetching the shovel he kept in the car's trunk for snowy days. At least bury him.
No. He did this to himself. He wanted to end his life before the Collectors could take him. Let him rot in the open air. Not down below.
His decisiveness wavered, but if Jasper Cartwright could make such a grim final decision, so could he. He stepped back to check his handiwork, inspecting the bush from different angles. He saw no trace of a body. That should last a full day, long enough for him to get beyond their reach.
Keeping an eye on Jasper's resting place, Bergman backed all the way to his car. He couldn't be happier when the Plymouth grumbled to life on the first try.
Are they real? His wrist throbbed as he pulled the car straight, once again heading north. Do they really take dying miners moments before death?
At first cautious, he put steady miles behind him. With untold stretches waiting, he accelerated. Road dust plumed from the tires, obscuring what remained behind. Speed blurred the vibrant green leaves skirting the road into a living wall, intermittent tree trunks and pockets of earthen farm fields the only indication he actually moved.
4.
At dawn, Jacob's mom roused him from a deep sleep, her smile too wide, too forced.
"Rise and shine, Jacob! Come get something to eat."
The morning air was damp and cool as he took his seat at the breakfast table. His mom brought out glasses and a milk pitcher, then placed a rasher of sizzling bacon on each plate already loaded with biscuits and scrambled eggs. She practically danced as she moved.
She was acting as if nothing happened yesterday. She hadn't slapped him in anger for leaving the house without permission. They hadn't buried Ellie's brother. Greta hadn't told them that Jimmy was alive and held against his will. None of this could have occurred by judging her chipper mood. It was as if she wanted today to be like any other day. But it wasn't. After yesterday, their lives would never be the same.
The addition of the confounding news passed on by Sheriff Bergman only complicated matters. It had to be a lie. Either Bergman had lied, or Greta didn't know what she was talking about. Jacob had put too much faith into Greta's words over the years to doubt her. So the onus was all on Bergman. Most times Bergman was lucky to show up in town with his shirt pressed and his face clean of crumbs, but you could always count on him to tell you the truth. Not anymore. Any stock the sheriff once had, Jacob now deemed worthless. Jimmy wasn't off in Peoria, preparing for wherever new soldiers went. Greta's words had only confirmed their conclusions.
Ellie sat across the table from him. They exchanged a questioning look before her eyes moved to a fourth place setting Jacob had yet to notice. About to ask who would be joining them for breakfast, Louise Bradshaw came out from his mom's bedroom.
"With Louise getting far enough along, her parent's were finally getting suspicious. When she admitted it, let's just say they weren't as accepting as the Fowlers. She'll be staying with us for now on. It'll be a tight fit, and it'll be a snug winter with the baby arriving sometime around the first snow, but we always have room for family."
Louise walked from the bedroom to the table. She wore a long nightgown, and her hair was sleep-mussed. Holding a hand to her stomach, her face looked as white as bleached linen.
His mom placed a hand on her shoulder. "Feeling any better now?"
"Not at all. Thanks for the chamber pot, though. I'll clean it up later."
"What's wrong?" Ellie asked.
"Some women get sick when they're going to have a baby. It's natural. Almost everyone gets it."
Louise took her seat at the table. Her eyes widened at the sight of food. Bringing a hand to her mouth, she hurried away from the table and back to his mother's bedroom. A moment after she slammed the door, she heaved up whatever was in her stomach.
"If that's the way it is, then I'm never gonna have a baby." Ellie seemed appalled that women went through such travails.
Jacob's mom chuckled. "I was lucky. With you," she said looking at Jacob, "I never had a problem." He didn't want to hear any of this. Either about Louise and her sickness, or about when his own mom was expecting. It just wasn't natural. "Now, Jimmy, he was a whole other story. I was sick every morning for four months. Thinking back on it, it doesn't seem like much of a sacrifice, not for all the happiness he's brought me. At the time, it felt like an eternity."
"Mom, I'm trying to eat my breakfast."
"You are such a fussbucket. Fine, I'll reminisce later. When you two finish up, I want you to take a couple baskets down to the creek. Those peaches should be ripe about now. Make sure you check the ground, too. If any of them fell in the last day, they still might be good. There should be enough for some cobblers and jam."
"Sounds good," Ellie said.
"I remember, with Jimmy, I craved peach cobbler day and night. I'll make a batch with a crumb crust. I hope it settles things down a bit for poor Louise."
"Mom, speaking of Jimmy--"
"Oh, that boy… Reminds me, I'm going down to the post office today to see if he's sent us a letter yet." She sipped from her coffee mug, her eyes softening with whimsy. Jacob had been on the verge of bringing up Greta again but couldn't bear to. He didn't think he could convince her anyway.
"When you go out to the creek…" She paused until they both looked up from their plates. "Don't go venturing off where you shouldn't. We need to come together as a family. It's important now like never before. A baby's on the way. We need to mind the work around the farm and the household chores. Louise might not be much help with all that, but her job is to help that baby grow. Ellie, I want you to feel like you're a Fowler. You can stay as long as you want, and we'll treat you like family. But we also need you to work as hard as a Fowler, too.
"Jacob, you need to be the man of the family as long as Jimmy's away. We all need to work to keep this farm in order for when he comes home."
"Sure, Mom. We'll do what we can."
Ellie nodded agreement.
"Oh, and another thing, thanks for the flowers you picked. That was awful thoughtful of you two."
5.
Hours after his tumultuous nightmares began, a gentle breeze blew against Cooper's sweat-drenched skin, chilling
him awake. He reluctantly opened his eyes, still tired from a short night's sleep and its accompanying onslaught of revelations.
His new house was the scene of a massacre.
The sun warmed the horizon as dawn lit the grimed front room windows. Sitting up, he stumbled to standing, shaking free from his tangle of blankets. He shook his head hard enough to loosen any cobwebs lurking as carryover from sleep. His cheeks flopped like those of a bloodhound. He then slapped himself hard across each cheek.
He felt finger welts rising in his beard stubble.
His mind reverted to the fact that a breeze had woken him.
A breeze.
Inside his home.
He walked along the long tongue-like carpet to the front door and jiggled the knob.
Nope. All locked here.
He did the same with the front windows, finding the same result.
All locked. All secure. No drafts strong enough to wake him could seep through the front of the house. Yet, cold still traced the skin of his neck. Like the memory of a touch. Pressure, cold and bracing.
He felt an inexplicable fear tugging at his nerves.
He listened to the house and heard nothing but the wind (from outside, where it belongs) slapping the side of the house. He felt no attenuating breeze (pressure, cold and bracing) against his skin. It had to have been the flightiness during his transition to waking. He could have carried something over from his dream.
Images hit him unprovoked and with frightening force.
Slaughter.
Rape.
Forced servitude.
He closed his eyes against their vileness, their suddenness, but the images lingered, flashes from his dreams.
Shrieks of agony.
The pleadings of a little boy.
The laughter of madmen.
He staggered to the back of the house, feeling faint, nauseated, torn between two realities. The psychic charge of the house assaulted him. The quiet solitude of his reality fought to stand next to the solid reality of the past. He reached for a wall to regain his balance. His hand landed against the framed daguerreotype of the Blankenships--young, devote, decades away from their senseless murders.