He walked up to the bar and pulled a stool out. Zeke gave the bartender a once over, taking in the man, from thinning hair carelessly combed over his shining scalp to his rumpled shirt, sleeves rolled up to show the pale arms. This man rarely saw the light of day, spending those prime hours slinging whiskey to the miners.
“Morning, barkeep,” Zeke said, a genuine smile splitting his beard in hope to calm the man’s nerves. “How’s the water here in Severen?”
The paunchy bartender scoffed at the question as the two fellows at the bar gave him a sideways glance before returning to their morning libations. “You’re in a saloon, son. Ain’t no water here, just whiskey. You don’t want the water in Severen anyway. It’s barely fit for the horses, let alone people.”
Zeke simply nodded his understanding. It was rare for these outlying towns to have drinkable water. Dysentery was the most common result of taking on the waters. Zeke always asked as a test of the mettle of the men running the saloons around the outposts. This man passed his test; he was a decent human being.
“Thanks for the warning, barkeep. I’ll have a glass of your best whiskey and whatever lunch you might have for sale,” Zeke said, tapping a coin on the bar. The bartender’s eyes focused on Zeke’s hands, his hairy knuckles obscuring the coin. He pulled a plain bottle of a brown, oily liquid from under the bar, flecks of some dark material floated in the fluid. Zeke shook his head.
“Your very best whiskey,” he said, showing the silver Liberty dollar in his palm, half carved away. The bartender’s eyes went wide as they flicked up to Zeke’s face. Zeke gave a slight nod and the pale man returned the bottle to its place under the bar. He came back up with a bottle of Old Overholt, its white label stained from less-than-careful pouring. Zeke smiled; he knew all about the rotgut most of these places served to the locals. Some were little more than turpentine colored with tobacco.
“Here you go, sir,” the bartender said, pushing the glass in front of Zeke. “I don’t have the lunch ready yet, but I do have some food. I still have some beef and beans left from dinner and some biscuits from breakfast, if that’ll do ya.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Zeke replied, tossing the half-coin on the bar. “Keep the change,” he said, with a smirk. The bartender should be happy; most saloons offered a free lunch, so he had just paid for two drinks but only intended to have one.
Zeke glanced to his right, catching the eyes of the pair at the end of the bar. “Morning, fellas,” said Zeke, slightly nodding to them. The man nearest, tall and thin like a beanpole, returned the nod.
“Morning, stranger,” he said, the words muffled by the moustache that obscured his mouth, a few droplets of the stuff that passed for whiskey still clinging to the blond hairs. “What brings you to Severen?” he asked, wiping the drops away with the back of his hand.
“Looking for a man,” Zeke replied. “A dark man.” The beanpole’s eyes went wide before quickly turning back to his glass. He picked up the tumbler and tossed it back in one gulp. He swatted his friend’s arm and gave Zeke a look that chilled him to his core.
“Trust me, Stranger,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “You are best served to forget about Mr. Eibon and steer clear of his mine. Nobody messes with the dark man and lives.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I am looking for Jacob Carcosa and not Tom Eibon,” Zeke replied, a crash turning his attention away. The bartender had dropped the tin plate to the bar top, beans slopping over the side.
“I appreciate your money, Stranger,” the barkeep said. “But if that means you are gonna piss off Mr. Eibon, you take your money and go, get on outta here. Drink’s on the house. Last thing I need is my saloon mysteriously burning down while I’m asleep in the back.”
“Like I just told my new friend over here,” Zeke replied, turning to see the scarecrow and his friend had disappeared, the café doors still swinging in their wake. Zeke turned back to the barkeep. “As I was saying, I’m looking for a fellow by the name of Jacob Carcosa, not Thomas Eibon.”
“Is your Carcosa fella about a half foot taller’n you, blacker’n night?” Zeke nodded. “Rides a horse that makes most stallions look like ponies?”
“That’s what I hear,” Zeke replied, as he pulled the wanted poster from his pocket, slapping it on the bar. The bartender glanced down, eyes widening.
“You need to get on outta here, mister,” he said, voice quavering. “I have no idea where that name came from, but that’s Mr. Eibon, and I want no further part of you. Take the meat if you want. I don’t care.” He tossed the silver coin on top of the poster. “Now clear yourself on out of my bar!”
Zeke shrugged, returning the coin and poster to his pockets, tossed the whiskey back and snatched up the hunk of roast beef. “Thanks for the food and all,” he said, heading for the door. As he was pushing the doors wide, he heard the bartender’s shaky voice to his back.
“God have mercy on your soul, stranger. Eibon sure won’t.”
***
Zeke left Severen behind him, the sun peaking over his head. He followed the road out of town, toward the strange hill in the distance. Sheriff Skinner had described the landmark accurately; it appeared to be a giant, leaning back, stony arches looked to be arms hanging low to the surrounding cliffs. The top appeared to be a twisted form, not so much a hat, but more like the writhing tentacle of the octopus he had once seen at the fishmonger’s back home. In fact, the heat waves rising from the dusty ground made the figure appear to be moving in the bright sun. The sight gave him a shiver that wracked his body.
“I think somebody just walked over my grave, Mordechai,” Zeke said, realizing just how fitting his statement was; the graves were around him, grave markers knocked over by the high plains winds roaring through the plateaus. He saw many crosses, the names either facing downward, or long bleached away from the brutal New Mexican sun. “I sure hope that wasn’t a prophecy, boy.”
Zeke kept his eyes trained on the hole in the earth, positioned between the legs of the titanic form; he avoided looking at the graves, preferring to keep his mind focused on his prey and the large reward that would accompany his apprehension.
The clouds of dust Mordechai had been kicking up whirled around the pair, swirling in a vortex of winds channeled through the canyons. As the horse’s vision became obscured, he slowed, eventually stopping fifty yards from the cave. Zeke spurred his horse, but Mordechai refused to move. The horse even turned his head to look back at his owner, as if to say, ‘Not a chance in the world, Zeke.’
Zeke shrugged to himself and swung out of the saddle. He tried to pull Mordechai closer with the reins, but he still had no success. With a sigh, Zeke led his mount back a couple yards, tying off the reins to a Joshua tree, scrub brush about its base. He gave Mordechai a pat on the neck, saying, “Just wait here, boy. I’ll be back soon and then this will all be over.” He pulled the Henry rifle from its scabbard, like the swords of old and turned back to the mine, mumbling, “Please, let it be over. I’m tired.”
Zeke approached the hole in the earth, reinforced with timbers about its entrance. A rough wooden sign was nailed to the lintel, an uncharacteristically ornate gold script simply read ‘Gnarled Hat Mine’, while other glyphs surrounded it, glyphs Ezekiel Jaeger knew; glyphs he had studied before abandoning yeshiva for the bounty hunter trade.
It was Kabbalistic Hebrew, the language of Jewish mystics. It read out a name in Egyptian, the language of Mitzrayim, the language of the oppressors of the Israelites. It said Nyarlat Hotep; it sounded like the name of Pharaoh, the names of the rulers from the times before Moishe Rabbainu parted the waters and led them to freedom. Dread washed over Zeke’s body, feeling as if he were descending into the Nile river valley, rather than a mine in New Mexico.
“Shma Y'sroel, Adonai Elokainu, Adonai Echad,” Ezekiel Jaeger said aloud, repeating the prayer of those possibly facing the end of their days. The rational part of Zeke’s mind told him this was a simple task at hand; his spirit said he was f
acing down the adversary of old, spoken of throughout his life. Steeling his resolve, Zeke levered a .44 round into the rifle’s chamber and started into the mine.
“Hashem, please guide my hand and allow me to return to your light,” he said, looking to the sky receding behind him, knowing that his chances had become slimmer at the sight of the Adversary’s name.
Zeke leaned the Henry against the rough-hewn wall, as he plucked a lantern from its hook to the right of the tunnel entrance. With a practiced hand, he struck a match on the lantern’s rusting frame and ignited the oil-saturated wick, casting a sickly yellow light down the tunnel. Switching the lantern to his left hand, Zeke took up his weapon again and began his descent into the darkness.
***
After a few turns two very important things happened that made Zeke pause: he had reached the point where there was no longer an easy sprint to the surface, and the mine tunnels split. He kneeled down and looked at the patterns in the rock dust covering the floor. The right path appeared undisturbed; years of the reddish dust covered the entire path, whereas the left fork was mostly clear; a few boot prints showed in the spots where the dust hadn’t been removed completely, almost as if something had been dragged down into the earth.
The dust made the decision for Zeke. He walked forward, the sounds of his footsteps didn’t concern him; he knew that Carcosa, or Eibon or whatever he was calling himself, would see the lantern light long before he arrived. Zeke steeled himself for the eventual confrontation as his worn boot heels made new prints in the dust as he descended down the left hand path.
Two more turns and a hollow howl pierced the darkness, almost a physical presence, chilling Zeke to the bone. Zeke froze in place as the sound passed by, caressing his skin, turning his finger to ice. The rifle and lantern fell to the earth, the glass windows shattered as the tin frame warped, spilling the oil in the dirt. The precious fluid ignited, bathing the tunnel with flickering flames; shadows danced on the walls ahead, shadows that appeared alive.
The sound tapered off as Zeke fumbled to retrieve his rifle from the tunnel floor, making a decided effort to maintain his grip on the chestnut stock. He desperately wished he had purchased the leather sling, rather than the saddle scabbard, as he clutched the weapon with numb fingers.
He hopped over the low fire, straining to see what lied just outside the guttering flames. As he put the broken lantern behind, Zeke’s eyes began adjusting to the dimming light. He had the sudden realization that the darkness ahead was unlike the darkness on the prairies; those nights, even during the dark of the moon, the skies were still bathed in the star’s twinkling light. Ahead was a black so absolute, it felt as if it were a physical manifestation of his fears.
“Just a little farther,” he muttered to himself. “Just a little farther and I will go back for another lantern.” He fumbled a matchstick from the box in his pocket, striking it on the cave wall.
The match didn’t light. He had expected the brilliant flare of its head erupting to life. Zeke slid his fingers along the length, making certain he struck the proper end. Zeke found the sulfur tip exactly where it should be, but it was coated in slime akin to that which a slug leaves behind. It was slippery and tacky at the same time; obviously, this is what kept the match from igniting.
Wiping the tip off on his trousers, Zeke struck it once again, on the checkered stock of the rifle this time. The burst of light sprung forth, dazzling Zeke’s eyes, causing him to yelp in pain. His cry of pain was echoed from down the tunnel, although this one was deeper and sinister.
Following the sound was a gust of wind, blowing the match out, much to Zeke’s dismay. “I can’t do this,” he whispered, barely audible over the sounds of his boots scuffling backward.
The unexpected happened. His hushed statement was answered, freezing Zeke in place.
“You are correct, Israelite,” the sinister voice croaked from the thickening darkness ahead. “You should flee, just as your kind did all those millennia ago. Flee from the justice that awaits you and your false god Yahweh! While my slaves escaped the Land of Set, I will follow you for the rest of your days, and when you are finally ready to return to your Yahweh, I will be there waiting instead.”
“Shma Y'sroel, Adonai Elokainu, Adonai Echad,” Zeke whispered, knowing doom lay before him. The prayers the rabbis had taught him through his youth gushed forth.
“Your Adonai cannot save you here,” the chilling voice hissed. “You are in the lair of the Crawling Chaos, the Howler in the Dark, the God of a Thousand Forms. Your people knew me as Samael, the Angel of Death, but angel I am not. I am the Dark Man, the Black Pharaoh, Nyarlathotep!”
Zeke’s guts turned to ice water as he turned and ran back up the tunnel, the few remaining flames from the broken lantern barely guiding his way, allowing him to see the first turn. Once he rounded the corner, Zeke flung his arms ahead, desperately trying to remember which way the next turn was. The voice slithered up the back of his neck, tickling his mind.
“That’s right, Israelite. Run back to your god. Just know that for the rest of your days, I will be there, whispering in your dreams, and in your last moments, you will see me by your side.”
The shriek escaped Zeke’s lips, “Nooooooooo!!!” as he ran headlong into the tunnel wall ahead. He fell backward, the rifle spinning away. Scuttling to his feet, he felt about for the proper turn, and hurried onward. The tunnel ahead began gaining a faint glow, guiding the bounty hunter forward. The prayer poured out, like a damn broken, calling to the God of Israel for protection from the eldritch abomination he could hear slithering up from the stygian depths of the earth.
He rounded another corner, the amber light of the afternoon sun shone in to a timbered opening to the upper world. Zeke ran onward, hurtling for the light. As he neared the opening, Zeke stumbled on the broken stone, his body flailing forward into the dusty light.
He scrambled about, casting one lasting gaze into the accursed hole. He met the gaze of his tormentor, all fifty pair of glowing yellowish-green eyes. Snapping his holster strap free, Ezekiel Jaeger aimed at the spots, wavering like fireflies in the night, and unloaded his revolver as he backed away. When the hammer struck on an empty cylinder, he turned and ran for Mordechai, still tied to the Joshua tree.
Zeke swung himself into the saddle and spurred the horse into action, galloping as hard as he could. He tried to put as much distance between himself and the thing in the mine, the thing that had promised to haunt him for the rest of his days.
Even if he never heard from the Dark Man again, he knew he would take that horrid sight to his grave.
***
The tall man answered the knock at the heavy wooden door. Touching the mezuzah on the doorframe, he opened it wide to see a teen in livery, his cap emblazoned with ‘Western Union.’
“Rabbi Friedman?” the youth asked. The man stroked his beard, nodding, his entire body waving forward and back, in fact. The tassels at his waist swung with his movements.
“Yes, my young man. I am Rabbi Friedman. What can I help you with?” the rabbi asked, his voice thick with age and possessing an accent the boy had never heard.
“Telegram, sir,” the lad said, holding out the envelope, its yellow paper stark against the youth’s pale hand. Rabbi Friedman accepted the envelope graciously, turning to return to his study to read this important message.
“Ahem,” the boy coughed, holding out his hand, expecting a tip. The rabbi looked at the proffered hand, back at the boy’s face, and shook the hand in his bony grip. He gave the shocked lad a wan smile and closed the door. The boy walked off, muttering about ‘cheap Jews’.”
Rabbi Friedman sat at his desk and slit the seal with a paper knife, pulling the matching paper forth, taking in its contents
THE WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY
Received: Western Union, Brooklyn, New York, NY
Dated: TUESDAY APRIL TWENTY FIFTH EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SEVENTY ONE
To: RABBI MENACHEM FRIEDMAN TEMPLE BEN I
SRAEL BROOKLYN
From: EZEKIEL JAEGER KINGSTON NEW MEXICO TERRITORY
MAY HASHEM FIND YOU WELL STOP
I AM RETURNING TO NEW YORK TO RESUME MY STUDIES STOP
I WAS WRONG STOP
THE WEST IS NOT FOR ME STOP
I HAVE SEEN PHARAOH AND HE IS WORSE THAN SHEMOT DESCRIBED STOP
THOUGH I HAVE WANDERED IN THE WINDERNESS, I HAVE YET TO FIND YISROEL STOP
I HOPE YOU CAN HELP IN MY QUEST STOP
IN G-D
EZEKIEL
The thin man folded the paper in half and touched it to the flame of the candle on the corner of the desk. Once the paper was engulfed in flame, he dropped it in a large ornate ashtray on the opposite corner. The setting sun flashed through the greenish leaded glass, casting his face into deep shadow, his skin appearing black, eyes sparkling in the green light.
“Of course, I will help you find your Y’sroel, young Ezekiel. I will whisper the way in your dreams, just as I told you,” the voice creaked from inside the thick beard. “I will show you the way to my eternal glory.”
Ghostly Tale of the Old West
R.E. Lyons
“What in tarnation you doin there, Jake? Are you fixin’ to be up all night then? Boy, I don’t know ‘bout you no more. The way you go on doin’ crazy things. What in Heaven’s name are you a staring at that wall fer? Ya goin’ stir crazy or somethin’?”
The old miner watched his young friend, staring at the wall with a silly grin on his face, looking like a simpleton. Just what the young 20 year old Jake Logons expected was beyond him. He never acted that way when he first met him. Matter of fact, he acted well-educated, like he had lots of book learnin’. What got into him lately was a real head scratcher. Yes, sir! A real mind twistin mystery. That’s what it was for a fact!
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