As I pulled into the driveway of my ranch house I noted that no new work had been done on the place. I was upset that Bickersham had taken my absence to mean a day of loafing but I soon found him in the garage.
He was expired. A final note of confession was crumpled in his dead left hand. I pulled it loose and read:
I, Travis Longstreet, whom you knew as Thomas Bickersham do hereby confess my crimes, done committed in my youth of forty years agone. I dids’t murder the woman I loved, a lady of ill repute name of Jessica Steinhem as she would not quit her sinning and marry me. Afterward I dids’t attempt to do the proper Christian thing of burying her in the graveyard. I did however miscalculate on account of the dark and my drunkenness and I done buried her outside of it. I knew when I saw her spectre that my past would not go away and she should come for me someday as she said she would when I kilt her.
May God have mercy on my soul.
P.S. Please bury me in a different graveyard than her.
Wrapped about Bickersham’s neck, in the fashion of a hangman’s noose, was a ragged ash grey dress, still dusted with fresh dug soil while a gold wedding ring lay refused on the ground beside him.”
“St. Thomas did not die. It was murdered. Not maliciously, but definitely with aforethought. St. Thomas was surrendered, given up, sacrificed, if you will, for the good of the many.”
— Jori Provas
Bury Me Deep
Diary of John Kane: June 11th 1938
Because I extended a kindness once to an old man, I became involved in a terrible happening shortly before the waters of Lake Mead did drown my home of St. Thomas.
I saw him broken down beside the road and I stopped like a Good Samaritan to help. Little did I know, I should have turned the other cheek and kept driving on down the road. So I became acquainted with the old man and he did call upon me from time to time and I was perhaps his only friend in the county. He did ask favors sometimes while never granting any himself.
Everyone in those parts agreed that the dying old man was an evil old scut. No one knew where he was from or who he was exactly, just another lost stranger looking to hide away from the world; and in what more out of the way place than in this forgotten shell of a town could a man try and escape his past? I never did get a straight answer from him myself.
Plenty guessed at his former professions and all seemed to agree that whatever it was must have been heinous indeed. Mary Bickford said she saw him standing naked in a ring of fire in the night, beckoning to the dark with arms outstretched and wide, calling to some unseen force on the wind. She did say she thought he had strange tattoos all over his chest. And Steven Walpole once said he saw people he described as Black Viziers holding conference with him upon the autumnal equinox and Doc Knox verified same. Even I saw him another time with what looked like a bat upon his shoulder. He appeared to be talking with it before it flew off into the twilight. The Paiutes avoided him at all costs, saying he was bad medicine.
He had to hire an outside woman[56] from Las Vegas to care for his laundry and meals. Few it were he talked with and even less that got more than two words from him. Some said his name was Samuels and still others claimed it was Rogers, either way he kept much to himself now didn’t he?
Sometime in the early winter it was, when—let’s call him Sam Rogers then—he fell deathly ill and called for Father Murphy over in Pioche for the Last Rites, but as the devils luck would have it, the Father had been called away to some argumentative commotion involving the tribe over in the Valley of Fire and in no way could the Father arrive in time for the dying man. Next, the call for some type of religious confession fell to Bishop Winters who readily complied with the strange request.
We never found out exactly what Sam Rogers confessed to the poor Bishop, but when the holy man left Rogers’s bedside he was quite shaken. Not an hour later, near the stroke of midnight Rogers died with a loud gasp crying out to the handful of witness’s, myself included, “I was wrong! They come for it yet! Bury me deep!” before keeling over with his long tongue lolling out. That was the first time I did get a look at the weird blue tattoos that were upon his chest. They were strange characters of a sort I could not designate. All arranged in a circle spiraling inward.
Relating to his final words, one knew for sure what “it” was, but there was quite a list of possibilities and nearly all involved treasure of one kind or another.
Rumors like cracks in the ice spread and soon enough there was talk that Rogers’s treasure must be somewhere on his property. While the man had lived in relative if not humble squalor this did nothing to abate the rumors. The Bishop’s soon permanent departure back to Salt Lake only increased the volatile suspicions since there was no longer anyone who could say what the dying man’s real concerns had been.
Though Rogers had made a will of his meager estate to one Kate Blanchard, his laundress, she too died within a fortnight leaving no explanation for the wild accusations of both hidden treasure and sorcerous evil. It seemed with every passing day someone added their pittance of knowledge to the legend until the fable was far larger than it ever could have been in truth.
Within a week of Kate’s passing, the grounds round Rogers’s place were littered with failed treasure digs and torn apart walls. Even his cistern was pumped dry to investigate whether he had something hidden in the well. The place caught fire one night and there was no hint of anything left within the scanty walls or crumbling foundation. Still, folk dug about the place and guessed at what might be vague hints of treasure and gold for surely it must be something of great value. With the reservoir’s swift approach, much anxious prospecting was done and still there were no answers.
I have been remiss in explaining the very first place that the treasure seekers did look—Rogers’s grave itself. He did after all ask to be buried deep and sure enough, though the county mortician prepared his corpse with a fine black suit, there was no other article on his person when his pine box was lowered into the ground. There was no treasure with him. Certainly no bible verses or priestly element spoke at Samuel Rogers’s funeral. Kate recited a poem written by the mad poet Justin Geoffrey. It seemed fitting enough, rather than a Christian sentiment that we all knew Rogers would have mocked.
I was surprised at the simple Latin stanza that Rogers himself had left for his marker stone however.
Vermis Sum Portarium
Of those present there was not a one of us who could not understand it, save Kate, and she did not answer for it after looking upon the stone. She was weeping and I never had the heart to ask her what it meant before she too had passed away so soon thereafter.
Despite his grim directions upon his deathbed, Rogers was only buried the standard six feet deep, the same as any other saint or sinner.
Grave robbers did roughly exhume his casket less than a week after his internment but if they found anything, no one heard more about it. I myself went and reburied what the robbers had left. Soil had been cast about rather haphazardly. Shovels full were sprayed out in every direction as if the grave robbers had been in a terrible hurry to examine the casket.
I spoke with Bill Johnson who said he found Rogers grave interrupted as such nearly a week after I did. He too did rebury the casket post-haste for he did have an awful feeling while there and did not want the body exposed to the night sky. The moon makes men strangers, he said, and who knows what it might do to a corpse as wicked as old man Rogers? He was taking no chances at letting Rogers possibly walk amongst us again. In spite of my modern outlook, I worried that Johnson had a very strong point indeed.
Not a week later from that episode, just before sunset I was driving down the county road past the cemetery and noticed the coffin sitting propped upright in the grave upon a dirt mound facing the setting sun. I knew for certain whose grave it was. I walked up casually and saw that grave robbers had tampered with Rogers’s resting place and this time in what seemed broad daylight. Fresh dirt was showered outward in every direction and I wondere
d a moment if his coffin hadn’t been rejected by the earth itself.
This was pure foolishness, he was but a man and I should not take to flights of fancy on such things. But why would treasure hunters dig him up again, surely everyone in the county had heard that he had been dug up already by now and whatever he could have possibly had relating to the treasure was surely gone.
But as I leaned down to replace the lid and do the proper thing, I was taken aback that there beside his desiccated body was something added to his coffin.
A small black notebook lay upon Rogers’s chest. It was open and the wind was sifting through the pages like a ghostly hand reading excitedly.
I thought to close the lid and rebury Rogers and leave the dark notebook where it lay, but my own curiosity got the better of me and I picked it up to see what was written inside.
It was in code with letters, symbols, planets and numbers I recognized but none of it making any sense to my eyes. It was indeed similar to some of the tattoo that was still visible near his collar bone. This was surely the workings of a mad man. The only word I saw in the entire volume that I knew was the single scrawled name of Marian on the inside flap.
Who was she? Could she have left this memento for the wicked old sorcerer? There was no one by that name that I knew of anywhere nearby. And if it was a gift for the departed why not close the lid and keep him from the gathering ravens and flies? It was getting dark and I had no further patience or knowledge for such eerie happenings. I reburied his casket but I kept the notebook.
I looked the thing over again by lamplight as shadows danced across the walls. Some message ached to escape from the prison of these pages but I had no way of unlocking that door. I thought on numbered sequences and exchanging the letters but none had an effect that I could perceive. Exasperated at the long night of fruitless wonderings I went to sleep and had fitful dreams.
Somewhere on the edge of the sleep not far from nightmare I caught sight of a dark rider coming over the red splashed desert, what he brought with him I could not tell but it brought shivers to my spine. It seemed like he was blind, as if he could not see me but was indeed hunting. I was somewhere beside the river and bound to stay on one side. I tried to move silently away from this grim figure but as the rider neared me, a black sticky substance like tar flowed out from the feet of his horse’s hooves like a stretching shadow. This darkness creeped and rose up sweeping like a dark wall looming over me, ready to crash and bury me beneath its cyclopean weight. I ran but could not move fast enough to evade its crashing crescendo, and then all went dark just as daylight pierced my eyelids.
After three nights of that dream I fully intended the throw the notebook away and be done with the whole of the awful mystery but something stayed my hand and the black book remained upon my table. I cannot say why for its very presence so unnerved me, but I could not bring myself to burn it.
I worked again until sundown and drove back to my place with a sad song upon my lips that I could not name. The name Marian repeated itself to me and I wondered again at who she might be to have any involvement with Roger’s.
The whole of St. Thomas was now nearly deserted and few enough there were left for me to confide my sleepless questions. I drove past the burnt remains of Rogers’s place and then found myself passing Kate Blanchard’s place. A car was out front and a young woman was packing. She was a pretty brunette and had a lantern out as she worked. I stopped and asked if she needed any assistance.
“No, I’m fine. I’m Marian Blanchard. I’m just here to get some things that my mother may have left. I understand that what’s left of the town will be under water soon.”
To say I was flabbergasted was putting it mildly. I explained my interest and the curious occasion of our meeting. She was dubious and I can’t say that I didn’t blame her had I not been living the mystery myself.
I helped her finish gathering the few meager belongings and we shared a pot of coffee. I soon found out that she had not spoken with her mother in quite some time.
“I suppose she had been so absent in my life that I never really felt her loss. I do hope you understand I’m not trying to be callous. I do love my mother but it’s almost like I never knew her. She never had time for me, always chasing the latest dream and wondering about the stars and such. I don’t think I mattered to her since she never really got over my father.”
“Your father?”
“I never knew him. Compared to him, Mother was the ideal parent. I understand he was quite a world traveler and something of a mystic or even a magician.”
“That can be a lot to live up to,” I said. Smiling so as not to offend.
“Mother wrote me a letter a couple months ago saying she thought she had found him and that was the last time I heard from her until Mrs. Mayweather informed me that Mother had passed away last week. I had the devil of the time getting here. I was almost afraid the town would be under water before I could arrive.”
It took me a few moments to let things fully sink in and then I realized that she had a much prettier face but was incredibly similar in nose and cheek structure to Rogers.
“You never knew your father at all? What he looked like or anything?”
“I never met him but I saw a picture once of him from twenty years ago. Mother must have it here somewhere. She was obsessed with him and I think that’s why she lived such a gypsy like life, trying to keep up with him and perhaps catch him again someday.”
She rifled through a few dressers and produced a picture, bent, faded and cracked with age but it was Rogers nonetheless.
“That’s him all right. We knew him as Samuel Rogers. He was living here,” I said. “But he died shortly before your mother under strange circumstances.”
“You knew him? He is dead? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Hey, I only just pieced it together. You didn’t say you were Sam Rogers’s daughter.”
“I’m sorry, it’s not something I’m proud of. You were present at his death?”
“I was. I knew him, though not well. He did request my presence at his death for whatever reason, Lord only knows. He said some strange things right before his passing. If I told you, do you think you might know what he meant?”
She shook her head. “I can’t say I would. You can try.”
I liked the way she said that, maybe too much. “He said, that he was wrong, someone was coming for it? And to bury him deep. But no one knew what he was wrong about, who that someone might be or what it was. Most of the town assumed it was treasure and his place has been looted and dug up several times over. Even his grave has been dug up and robbed three times over though I was there when he was buried and he had nothing on his person.”
She took a moment to ponder all I had said, I wondered for a moment if she did know something and was guessing what she could trust me with.
“You say his coffin was dug up three times? Are you sure nothing was taken? How can you be sure?”
“Well I was there when we buried him, he had nothing on him but a cheap suit, no offense. Then someone dug him up again to have a look. I buried him a second time and then a friend did a third time and I did again only three nights ago. His coffin had been fully exhumed.”
She looked at me scornful like and I suddenly felt bad, I was after all talking about this young woman’s father, I had meant no disrespect.
“You really never found anything? Are you sure no one took anything?”
“Well, now that you mention it,” I said, scratching my chin, “I did find something odd that someone left there.”
“Left there? Where? What was it?” She was urgent now and I was taken aback at her complete change of character.
“It was a small black notebook, it had writing in it but it’s all in code, a curious gobbledygook that I couldn’t make heads or tails of. Only one word in it could I understand.”
She looked at me sharply like a cat about to eat a rat. “Well? What did it say?”
“Marian, it
just had your name. Marian.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“I didn’t know you yet, I didn’t want to offend you or anything and I only just figured out that Sam Rogers was your old man anyway.”
“Old man,” she laughed. “Yes, I suppose he was.”
Her laugh did not sound like a healthy jest and I was now the uncomfortable one, but again I had no idea of all the things she and her mother had been put through by the crusty old wizard so who was I to judge?
“I need to see the notebook right away, and I want to look at my old man’s property, there very well could be some things the rest of you may have missed.”
“I never dug around his place, it wasn’t my way to pry after such things. It burned down, I don’t know that there is much left.”
“Some things lost on the borders of dusk were never meant to be found,” she said. “But I mean to find and shine them to the light before shutting the door.”
I nodded though I didn’t get her meaning. She got in my truck. We left her car behind and the lamp burning because I thought we would soon be back I was very wrong.
“I want to see his grave too. You understand don’t you?” she asked, in a sweet yet sad way.
“Of course.” It couldn’t hurt anything to let her have her goodbyes, could it?
We drove to my place to get the notebook as it was the closest of all our destinations and upon stopping there I ran inside and got it. She eagerly perused the thing as if she could readily understand the madness. “You know what it says? I asked.
“A little. It is based on a code my mother and I used when I was very young.”
“So why did I find it laying on his chest in the graveyard? No offense,” I added, as we bumped along the back country dirt roads on our way to the cemetery.
Whispers Out Of The Dust: A Haunted Journey Through The Lost American West (Dark Trails Saga) Page 14