Whispers Out Of The Dust: A Haunted Journey Through The Lost American West (Dark Trails Saga)

by David J. West

  But eager to escape their harsh slavery we ignored their plea’s and travelled on for many miles and soon ran out of water having but the one skin between us and it did not last long in the searing heat. We were roasted alive by the sun above and the shining ground beneath. There was some shade as we came into some rocky mountains and again found water. But it was bitter and salty. It might have been poison and yet we had to drink to have any chance of survival. The waters made us sick but we endured well enough to travel on. Besides a few cactus that we chopped into and ate pulp from we also found some small cactus growing in small bunches close to the ground. We were starving so we ate the bitter fruit[6] thereof. It too made us ill but travelled on because to stay put meant certain death.

  There are no animals here, no sound, not a bird in the sky or the howl of a wolf in the night, the only other living things we saw were the flies. These were terrible giant things that buzzed at us and tried to suck our blood. I have never been afraid of any animal or insect but these were as big as hawks and I was sure that we should not survive their assault.

  I will never forget how Francisco cried out as one drained him of blood. We only survived their frenzied attack because they flew away at dusk.

  We moved on at night as swiftly as possible to get away from that evil place. Crossing a rocky ridge we found a valley with a muddy river flowing through it.

  Thanking St. Mary we rushed into the stream and began to drink our fill beneath the stars. The water was warm but not stagnant or nor bitter. Then Francisco grasped my shoulder and urged me from where we stood waist deep in the river, saying, “Espantosa!”

  Eyes like yellow moons stared back at us from the surface. Hundreds of them. I scanned across the wide slow surface and saw that the water was black with their bodies, bodies that I could not tell what they were, though demonic undead things is all that comes to mind. We ran into the surrounding hills and felt blessed that no pursuit came of whatever those things were.

  We were too weak to go any farther and one or the other of us kept a watch all night to see if the things approached but they did not.

  When dawn rose we made our way cautiously to get more water as the heat of the day was dreadful. There was no sign of those creatures and we guessed for a time on what they could be. Alligators?

  We lingered all day as the meadows nearby gave a sense of peace despite the terrifying evening. As dusk came on we kept our distance from the waters but heard strange cries thundering from upriver though we did not yet see what made the sounds. They echoed from the cliffs and we supposed that some unknown animal was calling to its mate.

  Later well after midnight we heard them, the whispers. It was soft at first but gradually we all felt the malevolent whispers calling to us, telling us to go down to the waters and drink. We knew the power of El Diablo was in that place and most of us would not heed the whispers but Juan thought that perhaps an Indian child was near the water and he should save the child. We urged him not to go investigate but he did.

  He rushed ahead of us and we lost sight of him in the dark. We heard a cry of “Por Dios!” from him, and a great splashing of water and there was no more. We never saw him again. Retreating to the hills again we did not sleep.

  In the morning we ate the last our cactus buds and drank fresh water from the edge of the river while one of us kept watch. While the sun shines there was no sign of the dark creatures not any hint of the evil whispers but our strength was ebbing and we were not sure what to do. We are aliens in this haunted land and do not belong here anymore than a fish does in the sky.

  We determined that we could not remain in this place despite the fresh water and trees. We went slowly up the muddy stream until we came upon some ruins.

  These were of very ancient make and we did determine that whomever had made them were an evil race. Skulls were scattered about the stone adobe walls like trophies and there was an altar in the central square that looked like what we had seen in Tenochtitlan for blood sacrifice. Still we did investigate for some time, hoping to find some useful items for ourselves.

  We did find a crypt and did enter into it with some trepidation. Inside were the bones of a warrior king and his slaves. There were weapons of curious make, swords and spears of an exceedingly hard bronze and we took them despite their foul creators. There was a small amount of treasure, a golden crown, a string of jewels for his necklace and girdles of silver chain about his slave’s bones, but we did not take these for we were already so weak and considered this place so cursed.

  Gathering another supply of water to last us well into the night, we ate some of the sweet grass from the meadow hoping it would fill our aching bellies but I became sick from it instead. We decided to spend the night in the ruin and go our way at daybreak.

  On this night, we saw things move along the river banks, they glided along the edge of the shore, always just out of sight beside the mesquite trees so that we could not determine their shapes. But if there was a shape, I would say it was man-like.

  These phantoms glided along the river bottom and creeped toward the ruin whenever the moons light was obscured by clouds. They gradually came closer and closer and their terrible whispers were driving us mad. We determined that they did seek our death. And if we remained this night they would surely have it.

  We prayed to the Father and the Son, the Holy Ghost and the Virgin Mary to protect us, for we were indeed so weak I could not have fought them if I tried. Francisco pulled me to my feet and had us struggle to go farther into the hills and avoid the awful dark shapes.

  Once out of the valley, the dark spirits remained behind and we were able to sleep among the tarantula, scorpion and snake.

  Travelling on the next day, we kept the river on our right and moved northward because in the distance we thought it possible for better food. We knew every well how inhospitable it was behind us. By midday we saw shapes moving along the cliffs far the east and wondered if it might be some other Indians and thusly the chance for some food and provisions.

  The shapes upon the cliffs saw us too.

  We did learn what made those horrible cries of thunder.

  Mighty winged birds cast of leather and bone did fly at us with cries that echoed across the canyon walls. They swooped down and we fought them as best we could with the swords and spears of brazen copper. But these monsters, these dragons were swift and clever, one would dive at us crying while another would silently swoop from behind and though we wounded several of them, they did take Don Hernandez away and rend him on the cliff face and allow their young to devour him utterly.

  I shall forget his screams neither here nor in the afterlife.

  We ran downriver to escape these thunderbirds of prey and took shelter in the ruins, which afforded some cover from their snapping beaks and rending claws.

  I prayed then as I have never prayed before and did wonder at what I had done with my life to be so miserable and punished by the Lord God. My companions and I were but mere playthings for the demons of this world and each day one of us was taken away to our doom.

  I did reflect upon my life and the many things I have done as recollected in the beginning of these last papers by my hand. And I can now look back at my life and admit that I have been a wicked man and am earning the torments of hell which is where I must surely be.

  This is hell and I have been dead probably since I last saw Captain Alarcon and I was captured by the red-skinned natives. For life could not be this maddening on its own.

  It is my hope that I may atone and be done with this purgatory and move to the next circle but I have no way of knowing the day nor the hour of my punishments. It is but a vicious cycle of day and night but with endless sweltering heat and cruel judgments inflicted by various skulking demons and flying devils.

  We last two remain in the ruins haunted though they may be and as night falls I know that the whisperers in the dark will again tempt us with death.

  I fell asleep.

  When I awoke my las
t countryman and companion Francisco de la Vaca had vanished. I searched the ruins over and found no trace of him. I hunted along the river and there was nothing to indicate where he could have gone, no tracks, no sign, no hint of his departure. His clothing was gone but anything he had carried remained near his bedroll. I must confess that I wonder if he did not decide to end the madness by going and accepting the death that the whisperers did offer. But surely he could have told me that he was done? I could have ended his mortal journey with my lance or saber? Why not tell me? I felt blessed at the least that the terrible thunderbirds did not return but what if they had snatched him up in the night? What if they horrible dark spirits in the river did drown him? I may never know. And that horror of not knowing may be the worst of all.

  I hunted for something to eat beyond the simple sweet grasses and sage that pollute this hell. I found grubs and they were truly a feast of hell, writhing in my mouth, I found some few hard seeds in a basket within the ruin but found that I could not chew them unless they were boiled and then there were palatable.

  I was finding in could survive in this hell. But did I really want to? I did not wish to remain here but felt trapped by the desert to the south and the thunderbirds to the north. What other way could I go?

  As I was preparing for the night and fortifying my camp in the ruins, I heard a sound of someone walking, dragging their feet in an awkward shuffle. I looked through the outcropping of stone and did see my friend Francisco! He appeared lost, confused in the darkness, I called to him in joy never had I been so happy to see another person.

  He jerked awkwardly and moved closer to me and then as the moonlight splashed across his face I saw that he was a ruin of man. Covered in worms, scabs and sores he should not have been alive and yet when I saw his eyes I saw that there was no life in them.

  Struggling over stones among the ruins his broken jaws champed for my blood and I ran him through with the saber and yet, he did not die!

  I fled through the ruins and he came after me in a slow steady manner, I hit him with a great block that I could hardly lift and his chest was broken, and yet he stood back up and again came on.

  There was nothing I could do, this was madness, this was death and I would not face it. I ran to the hills under the moon to be away. I ran until my legs gave out and I collapsed in dust and I knew no more.

  I awoke at daybreak and came to my senses just as Francisco was almost upon me. He was undead and yet moved on hungering for my blood. As I have said before this was the worst of hells I could imagine. There is no rest in hell, no relief just the unending chase and torment.

  I had lost my weapons gained from the tomb of the ancients and was again with naught but my hands to face this demon of hell. I was growing weaker from lack of food and knew that I could not continue one much farther like this. I resolved that this wretched existence had to end, but I could not allow myself to become as Francisco and damned for all time.

  He was relentless but none too fast. I decided I would trap him and let the madness end. I found that if I ran up to the ruins he would follow and I could sneak away to the far end of the valley and have enough time to sleep a couple hours and then be ready for him again. In moving like this I spent a couple of awful days and nights. At each end of the valley I made a stack of stones in preparation for tumbling over the top of him and trapping him. I suppose I could feel blessed that so long as he pursued me I did not see the thunderbirds or the dark shapes in the water that had so tormented me. Perhaps the devil was being cruel to be kind? I have no answers.

  The final time I slept, I awoke to Francisco gripping and biting my leg. I screamed and kicked but his rotten hands were strong as steel and his teeth burned as the forge.

  I managed to escape him but was weak and wounded. I am sure that I was poisoned. I dragged myself away and was able to only just keep ahead of my hungry pursuer.

  I have set myself against the towering pile of stone that I meant to knock down upon him and I write these last few lines. My leg wound burns and is turning black and it has only been I think a few hours. This is indeed the end of this hell and soon I will drop this cairn down upon us both. Perhaps I can atone for my life here in the next one.

  Vaya con Dios for I cannot:

  Sincerely Diego de la Vega Matamoros.

  Final statement on the matter by Elias McGinnies

  I shared this record I have found with the others here and we did all marvel and wonder at the horror of it.

  We did go and examine the ruins of which Matamoros spoke but we could find no tomb or crypt. There was a wide assortment of pottery and the like some rotten skins and bones equaling habitation but not since ancient times I suppose. Where these people went I do not care to know for the whole of the ruins did have an air of evil and foreboding about it and I care not one whit to return to it.

  We did also cautiously approach the cliffs he mentioned housing thunderbirds but found nothing there either save for a wide protuberance of bones equaling as if there had been quite a slew of predators in the area at one time but thankfully no longer.

  I am certainly not saying Matamoros was a liar as his bones are a true and final testament to his tale but perhaps some things were not as he supposed and the deseret can drive men to madness. Still I did do some things just in case.

  We put the cursed bones I collected from the cairn, presumably both Matamoros and Francisco, and rather than worry any more about what might come of them, I did put them all on a raft that I had the Bishop bless and we did send them down the Virgin River which soon feeds the Colorado and from then on to the sea. May that far place bring them peace and have their ghosts leave my fields alone.

  “It always is Christmas Eve, in a ghost story.”

  — Jerome K. Jerome

  Stranger Come Knocking

  Anonymous[7], December 25th, 1865

  “It was the coldest of remembered evenings and we were gathered about the fire, singing carols of pleasantries, Christmas and such when a stranger come knocking upon our door but said he nothing more.

  I went and answered, saying ‘I trust you have need of something friend, enter eat, drink and be of good cheer’.

  But of a man or woman or child there was none near.

  Shutting the door, I was given pause and more, on who could have been knocking there at our door. The children were hushed and all drew near as yet another knock came and this time to the rear.

  Thinking they had passed by too quickly from the front to the back, I called out, ‘You’re welcome here Jack come and join us and celebrate the New Year and Christmas time snack’.

  But when I rose to the door, there again was no one more. Alone was the threshold and cold still moon waiting for someone to show their face soon.

  Back to our song and verse and feast, when all of a sudden the knocking increased.

  The call at first to join was unheeded, but the curiosity was yet unneeded for we felt a chill and a crawling as boot steps walked cross the floor, though no one was seen entering our rear door.

  The tramp was weighty and the presence felt, by all in the home who therein truly dwelt.

  T’was asked, who goes there, here in my house, your steps do frighten my children and spouse.

  Silence met us, for none answered my speech and then when we smelt his brimstone odor, then did we screech as it as it spoke meeting our ear, saying and I quoth, “I am here.”

  Under the tree and through the cupboards did the children run and hide, with this now unwelcome guest I did in vain attempt to collide.

  But of his material there was none, I crashed through him and t’was no fun, to be cast off like a shoe and have the dinner table given me stars for a view.

  The plates were smashed and Christmas hopes dashed as the dogs did bark and the flames went out—all to the last spark. We were trapped in the gloom and crushing dark while he laughed at us as if on a lark.

  The lights of Christmas were dimmed and gone as our hopes too were smashed and sud
denly withdrawn. And I never thought that I was a coward until that hour when I was trapped there within the Devils power.

  And then as all faith was lost and to the point of exhaust, did my little baby girl open her mouth and let loose all we had taught her in a whirl.

  She said her prayer loud and true that we might come safely through, and to the devil she said to leave and go, that we might never have to know him again, as above and so below.

  The Devil did heed the spawn of my seed, as she called on the angels of Heaven and Jesus to save us from he who had so cruelly seized us.

  Like a hurricane he did depart, and never did it swell so strong my heart, for that brave little girl with her gospel art. She showed us the way, brave and true and to utterly convey just what to do.

  So if a stranger come knocking (and he will) careful who you invite without first talking, know their light, or you could be in for quite a terrible late Christmas fright.”

  “Was this Hades, Sheole, or the place for the condign punishment of the wicked, or was it the grand sewer for the waste and filth of vast animation?”

  — Illegible name 1865

  Curse of the Lost City

  Asa Christiansen’s Journal

  — May 3rd 1866

  We have arrived at the place of our calling within the Muddy Mission[8]. St. Thomas; a grand home of opportunity, a veritable land for newcomers as the prophet so eloquently spoke, what seems only a fortnight ago.

  Mary Ann thinks it a queer name for a settlement of Saints[9]. Brother Brizby said it was named for Brother Thomas S. Smith who managed to save the necks of the initial lucky thirteen pioneers on more than one occasion and more than earned being called Saint Thomas and having the town named for him. He is now also the Bishop.

  I reminded Mary Ann of St. George, named for Apostle George A. Smith, yet she still thinks it a queer name.