Intermusings

by David Niall Wilson

  "Jesus," he muttered, stumbling into the relatively fresh air at the front of the church. Then, thinking about it, he nearly laughed at his own poor taste.

  The streets were as desolate as ever. Even the owl had made himself scarce, and Jason trudged back down the road, his fatigue slipping closer to exhaustion with every step. He had to find a place to hole up and sleep for a while, then get back out to that road. He wished for the old man’s barn and about half a ton of hay.

  Justin stumbled on past the hotel without pausing. He really didn’t want to know if those words still burned on the front desk. All he wanted was something softer than the road or the sidewalk, and more secluded, that he could curl up on and pass out. Wouldn’t be the first time. He’d slept on deck, in the radio room on board the cruiser he’d last served on, and God only knew how many gutters, dives, and parks overseas. This would be one more learning experience under the belt, something to laugh about over a beer in a couple of days.

  The main square was a dismal place. There was a fountain in the center, but no water flowed. It was as stagnant and dead as the rest of the town

  There appeared to be no other hotels or motels in the town. Justin saw a low-slung brick building that looked like a library, or a post office, a saloon, what might have been a five and dime with signs filling the windows. No way to make out what they said.

  The square itself sported a wooden pavilion, canted to one side where the support had rotted. Justin moved toward this. Several smaller structures surrounded the larger pavilion, pagoda-style picnic nooks. One of the structures was squarer, and as Justin approached, he saw it was a control booth of some sort, or a concession. It looked relatively sturdy. The door hung crookedly from one hinge.

  "What the hell," he whispered. "I’ve seen worse."

  Before he could reach the door to the shed, he caught a quick movement off to his left. Something white, flashing between the buildings, then gone. He turned quickly, letting his seabag drop to the ground, but there was nothing there.

  "Who’s there?" Justin called out.

  No answer.

  He cursed softly and turned toward the shed again. Just as before, the moment he diverted his gaze from the clearing, there was a flash of white. This time Justin didn’t hesitate. He snatched his seabag up quickly and ran for the shed, not caring what it might be like inside, but only that he be inside.

  There was a sound off to his right, just as he dove through the door, a low, menacing rumble. Images of Dobermans danced in Justin’s head, but somehow didn’t ring true. He grabbed the door handle on the crooked door and slammed it after him, feeling it grind and scrape along the ground. He forced it shut and stood there, shivering, for a long moment, trying not to make a sound. Something tittered and growled beyond the walls of the shack.

  "You shouldn’t be here." The little girl’s voice echoed off the musty wooden walls of the shed.

  Justin fumbled for a match. He found the pack, but dropped it as he tried to drag his hand too from his pocket. Frustrated, he leaned down, groping on the floor. His hand closed across something—wrong. He willed his mind blank, not wanting to dwell on the things he touched. He found the matches and stood, opening the book and ripping one free.

  He dragged the match over the flint. It sparked, missed, and then caught the second pass. Yellowish light flickered to life, and Justin turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. The flames began to burn his fingers, just as the first scream erupted from his throat.

  The skeleton had no arms or legs.

  It smiled at him with a slack-jawed leer. A black spider crawled from one vacant eye socket. The bones were covered with a thick layer of dust and mold. It was dressed in the tattered remains of a child’s dress. The same dress Justin had seen the little girl in the hotel wearing.

  Behind the skeleton, a faded, rust colored symbol had been etched in blood, the same arcane symbol that adorned the blasphemous church.

  "You shouldn’t be here," the little girl repeated. Her voice was coming from the skeleton.

  Another scream erupted from Justin’s throat. The growls outside his shelter became frenzied. Something clawed violently at the walls. A tree limb snapped with the force of a shotgun blast as the thing outside the shed slowly circled toward the door.

  Terrified, Justin barely acknowledged the pain in his trembling fingers as the match burned down. The charred sliver of wood dropped from his grasp, the tiny glow flickering as it sputtered, then died.

  The thing snuffled outside the door.

  Then the growls changed into hideous laughter.

  Justin shrank against the far wall, fumbling for another match. The one he had dropped was now a red pinprick in the darkness.

  "Be still," said a man’s voice from behind him. "Be still and listen if you want to live."

  "Hail Mary, full of grace—" Justin began in a hoarse whisper. At the sound of his prayer, the creature grew enraged, the booming laughter turning into a blood-curdling roar that shook the shack’s foundations.

  "My daughter tried to warn you," the voice said.

  Justin turned. A second skeleton, this one an adult, lay in the corner. He realized it was coming from the corner where the skeleton lay.

  "Oh God…" Justin closed his eyes.

  A hulking fist slammed into the door.

  "God is not here," the man’s voice whispered. "He hasn’t been for a long time. The town was dying. God would not help us. So we sought aid from another source."

  The door groaned on its lone hinge, buckling as another blow was delivered.

  "You should not be here. This is not the place for living things."

  The dying ember of the match suddenly grew brighter. A red, teardrop-shaped flame hovered off the floor and floated towards Justin. It landed against the wall, growing larger as the voice spoke from its center.

  "Meeble not only killed us, it killed the entire town. We are damned now for all eternity. There is no solace for our murder in Heaven."

  The flame formed a blazing doorway. He could see through the cement blocks, as if they were made of glass. The square awaited him, and beyond it the forest.

  The shed door burst open.

  Meeble roared in triumph and there were many voices within the terrible cry. Justin screamed as an enormous hand, covered in white fur, grasped for him. He jumped out of the way. Curved talons clawed at him before the hand was withdrawn again.

  The creature bent down, placing its hideous, gorilla-like snout to the open doorway. Its foul breath swamped the tight space like a fog.

  "Go," the ghostly voice cried. "Take the shortcut and reach the daylight. We are called below!"

  Justin leapt through the flames as the walls of the shed collapsed around him. He sprawled face first as he collapsed, the gravel digging trenches in his bare palms. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled to his feet and dashed for the tree line.

  "Go," the disembodied voice urged. It said more, but the words were swallowed by the creature’s bellowing rage.

  Meeble gave chase.

  Beyond the forest, the horizon glowed with a pale orange light. Justin fled, sprinting across the street and into the grass. Around him, the buildings began to shimmer and bend—

  Meeble laughed as it bridged the gap between them. Its stink assaulted Justin’s senses as he sprinted for the trees. The ground trembled with each loping stride the creature took. Then, the ground, too, began to fade.

  Justin burst into the thick foliage, wincing as the branches whipped and clawed at his flesh. Behind him, he heard the terrible sound of pursuit, as trees crashed to the forest floor in the monsters furious wake.

  Suddenly, the undergrowth cleared and Justin was sent sprawling a second time. He tumbled down the slope and onto the familiar dirt road from the night before. His ankle twisted and he clenched his teeth as pain jolted him.

  Another tree crashed to the ground. Justin screamed. The thing emerged from view, towering over him. Its dark form filled his view, monstrous and reek
ing.

  Meeble bounded into the air, claws outstretched as it leapt for him. For one brief second it hung suspended in the air, then the sun burst over the horizon. As the first light of the dawn touched the creature’s snowy fur, it rippled, and then vanished, just like the town had.

  Justin had no idea how long he lay there, fingers clawing the dirt, tears of pain and horror and relief staining the ground beneath him. His entire body shook.

  In the distance, he heard a familiar coughing motor. The old man’s pickup truck crested the hill, still belching gray smoke from its tailpipe.

  Justin wavered in and out of consciousness as the old man helped him into the cab. His rescuer’s words hovered in the air like drunken flies as Justin struggled to speak. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the old man, chattering at him gravely.

  "Towns are living things, boy. And sometimes, when they die, they become ghosts."

  SNEAK PREVIEW OF THE COLLABORATIVE NOVEL

  HALLOWED GROUND

  By Steven Savile & David Niall Wilson

  Available now for KINDLE

  Available in Trade Paperback from Amazon.Com

  Available in Unabridged Audio from Audible.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  They came in the night with their creak-wheeled wagons and patchwork tents, rolling down through the gulch and up the other side to pitch camp. In Rookwood, they called it '"Dead 'Man's Gulch,"' and in Rookwood, names were important. If you walked too far through that God-forsaken, dust-drowned ditch, you were bound to drag your boots through bones. If you felt something sharp dig into your heel, it could be a tooth taking a last bite of something hot and living. The Deacon stood in silent shadows watching their progress, occasionally glancing up into the pale, inadequate light of the waning moon.

  He was a tall man, gaunt and pale. His suit was dark, and despite the fact they traveled through the desert, he wore a long, sweeping coat even darker than the suit. His hair was long, trailing down his back, dancing when the wind caressed it and dangling over the collar of his coat like thick moss. His eyes were chips of gray ice, emotionless and cold.

  The scouts had come to him two days back. They'd found a location that suited his needs, not too close to the town, sheltered, with water nearby. It was surrounded on two sides by rocky crags and bordered at its back by the gulch. The Deacon timed their arrival to occur at night. He preferred the moonlight. Those with cause to ride out of town far enough – hunters and trappers – could watch the sunset over barren, forgotten ground. When it rose again, curious eyes would see tents glistening in the sun. There was no breeze, had been no breeze for days, so the canvas wouldn't flap in the wind. It would look like a mirage to any who drew near enough to see it, and that suited The Deacon just fine.

  His wagon was the first to cross the gulch, and as the horses dragged it up the long, dusty incline he fell into step with the front wheels and swung up beside the driver. Sanchez held the reigns lightly, but his knuckles went suddenly tight with tension as The Deacon settled into the seat. Sanchez was an older man. He'd come up as a boy from Mexico, and had traveled many long roads.

  "Not much farther," he said. His gaze remained locked on the road ahead, and the tone of his voice was carefully neutral.

  The Deacon was silent. Behind them, the other wagons struggled to follow. Some were pulled by horses, others by mules, and still others couldn't manage the crossing without their passengers crawling out like rats from sinking ships to push and pull. They might as well not have existed, for all the attention The Deacon spared them.

  They entered the camp area and circled once. Sanchez made no move to stop; he waited. Eventually, on the second circuit of that open space, The Deacon grunted, and they rolled to a halt. From where they sat the moon was just visible between two rocky crags. It cast a beam of silver light that fell across the wagon, slicing it in half.

  "Here," The Deacon said.

  Sanchez hopped down and disappeared toward the rear of the wagon. The Deacon sat still as a wooden Indian and watched the first of the following wagons enter the clearing. They crawled in like vermin. They squabbled briefly over location. Two big, burly roustabouts swaggered into the center – a large, vacant expanse – and began barking orders.

  The main tent would hide them from one another. The wagons and tents would provide alleys to hide in and shadows for his flock to call their own. The main tent gave the camp it's heart.

  The Deacon slid down from the wagon's seat and strode to the middle of the clearing. Among the wagons and tents, conversation stilled. Motion ceased. They watched as he stopped dead center and turned slowly. He missed nothing. He placed each one of them, etched their locations into his mind. Then he closed his eyes, rolled his head back so his face was to the sky, and glanced up into the pale face of the moon.

  He raised his arms.

  Maybe it was the sudden motion. Maybe it was one of those coincidental moments in time where two concurrent events blend to a single image. The Deacon's long, dark cloak flapped around him like a shroud, or full, dark wings.

  From the trees lining the gulch, the crooked, drooping shrubs and the craggy outcroppings of rock, a black cloud rose. They screamed to the night, spilling into the sky like a dark tide. At first they resembled a vast flock of bats – or something worse. Only after they spread and draped the sky was their true nature revealed.

  "Rooks," a man breathed.

  The Deacon opened his eyes and watched as the birds dispersed and dove, winding out of the sky like small tornadoes of shadow and returning to their roosts – or to different ones. Further away from the camp. Further from the center.

  He knew they were not rooks. They were crows. The old country had been alive with rooks, but this land…the carrion feeders here were larger, and darker. Still, the significance was not lost on him.

  "And the rooks shall rise," The Deacon intoned, his voice carrying across the clearing and into the night. "They shall rise and announce the coming of death. They shall carry the souls of the faithful home."

  He knelt in the dust and pressed the tip of his finger into the dirt. He circled that finger slowly, drawing a pattern. The clearing might as well have been empty. There was no sound. The wind whirled around him and lifted the collar of his long coat to ripple across the brim of his hat.

  As he worked, he spoke in very low tones, words too soft to be understood. Though the earth was hard and dry, his finger dug through the parched soil. As it passed, it left a series of symbols in an odd, symmetrical sequence. No one breathed; as if afraid the sound would reach the rooks and bid them to return. None was ready at that moment to be called to glory.

  The Deacon rose. He turned once more, and as he spun he whispered to the wind in each quarter in its turn. He stepped away from the center, and when he'd reached the corner of his wagon, the two roustabouts returned to the clearing and took his place. They stepped up to the point where The Deacon had drawn in the dirt, and their four strong arms drove a sharp, rounded stake into the ground. It was as big around as the base of a small tree, and even their combined strength could only barely embed it in the earth. A third man stepped forward with a large wooden mallet. The two big men knelt, and the third man drove the stake home. He swung the mallet between the two without regard to the proximity of their heads or hands. His aim was perfect. Four hard shots and the base stabilized. It would hold the center post of the main tent.

  Sanchez knelt in the shadows beside the wagon and watched as The Deacon passed and began to climb the side of the ridge, winding up and away from the encampment without a backward glance. When the tall man was out of sight, Sanchez rose. His own belongings were heaped beneath a small tree a few yards away. There wasn't much, a canvas bag and a bundled lean-to he could erect in a few moments, or take down just as quickly.

  He moved to the back of The Deacon's wagon and screwed two tall metal supports down until they rested on the ground and held the rear upright. He did the same at the front. He placed a mason ja
r half full of whiskey on the wagon rail and watched as the liquid straightened into as flat a line as he could get it. He locked the supports in place and unhitched the horses. He knew he'd have to groom them and feed them, but it had to wait. When The Deacon came back off that cliff, he'd expect his quarters to be ready, and Sanchez had no intention of disappointing his master.

  He whistled once sharply, and a slender, dirty boy materialized out of the milling workers erecting the big tent and finalizing the rest of the camp. Without speaking, the two of them hurried to the back end of the wagon. When the tarps that covered the bed were unbound, they grabbed handles at the rear and slid wooden slats out until they locked. At the end of this, they dropped a set of folding stairs to the ground, then unscrewed and locked the rear supports, effectively doubling the wagon's length. A series of pulleys and ropes allowed them to quickly pull the tarps up and over the top – not patchy or rotted canvas, like so many of the other tents, but white and thick, catching the moonlight and reflecting it back at the sky.

  Once the tarps were in place, the boy disappeared back into the shadows, and Sanchez mounted the stairs. He hated these moments more than any others. The space within the tent had taken on the aspect of The Deacon himself. He flipped the cot down from the side of the wagon, and the heavy wooden desk on the opposite side. There was a small fold out table at the very front, right up against the wagon's bed. Sanchez lowered it into place, and glanced around. Everything had remained in place during the trip. He was particularly happy to see that the books had not tipped from their shelves. On several occasions he'd had to straighten them and return them to their places, and he'd found the touch of the leather repulsive. He studiously avoided reading the titles burned into their spines.

  He unrolled The Deacon's bedroll onto the cot and took a final glance around to be certain he'd forgotten nothing, and then stepped back down to the dusty earth. He let the flap of the tent fall into place behind him, and moved to the shadows, seating himself cross-legged beside his bags. He would find a place to erect his own camp only after The Deacon had returned and settled in. He risked a glance up at the cliff, but saw only shadows. He settled against the gnarled base of a tree and closed his eyes – but he did not sleep.