Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller

by Anthony O'Brien

“It’s not the living.” Marcus smiles at Jeff’s apprehension, and Eve’s face is a picture. “It’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s just an echo of the past, a residual energy, a mere moment in time. We’ll follow the voices and locate the energy signal.”

  The darkness of the corridor closes in on them, the voices grow louder as they walk closer. Marcus whispers and points out a doorway to the rest of the party.

  “In here.”

  As soon as they enter, the voices fall silent. Four flashlight beams scan the room; there’s no one here. An old iron bed is illuminated, still standing alongside an upturned chamber pot. The ceiling looks ready to collapse. Eve catches sight of herself in a mirror so thick with dust that she doesn’t recognize the form as herself: at first glance she jumps out of her skin with a shriek. Marcus can’t help but find the situation amusing. Jeff and Sarah reassure Eve.

  “Jeff, come here and look at this.” Marcus holds the device up. “Can you see the energy signal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Watch, this is where we work our magic.”

  Marcus holds the screen over the crumbling wall. It now displays the wall as it was when the energy for whatever reason was created and stored. As plain as day French block paper is seen where only plaster remains. The flowers are monochrome but a vibrant blue pattern is clearly visible around them.

  “How the hell are you doing that?” Jeff can’t believe what he’s seeing.

  “Clever, isn’t it?”

  “But how?” He rubs his forehead. “How’s it doing that?”

  “This is a small energy signal. When we find a large one, then we’ll really have something to show you.”

  With no more activity, they trace their steps carefully back down the staircase. They hear a noise. It could be coming from an animal...or something wishing to make its presence known.

  “Did you hear that?” Marcus stops and whispers to Sarah.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s perfect.” He gestures to Jeff and Eve to listen. At that moment light from another room bends the shadows at the bottom of the staircase, then dissipates.

  “Shit.” Eve’s instinct is to run, but there’s nowhere to hide.

  “Marcus?” Jeff’s becoming increasingly uneasy.

  “It’s intelligent.” Marcus speaks more to himself than to Jeff.

  “What do you mean intelligent?”

  “It’s making itself known for a purpose, to lead us somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “We’ll know when we get there. Come on.”

  To the right of the stairs is a corridor ending with a single room. The door creaks open to reveal what was once an office. There’s an old abandoned cylinder desk, containing pigeonholes for documents and slots for ledgers, an overturned chair, and little else. Marcus walks around with the device in his hand, then stops in the center of the room.

  “Jeff, come here.”

  “What?”

  “Look, the floor has a long strip of energy, strong energy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That someone was murdered.” Marcus drops to his knees and scans the length and breadth of the timbers. “Get down here.” With everyone on their knees he continues. “I hope you’re ready for this. Whatever you witness, remember, it’s a past moment in time; you’re in no personal danger.”

  At first only a smoky flickering is seen on screen. Marcus moves the viewer and the image becomes sharper.

  “The flickering is candlelight, not the equipment. We have symbolic drawings, created with what looks like cornmeal, and pulverized herbs are scattered around.” Marcus smells the air. “Rosemary. This has all the hallmarks of Voodoo.”

  “Voodoo?” That doesn’t compute as historically accurate for Jeff. Especially as it’s an old western town. “Out here in the 1800s?”

  “Settlers came out from New Orleans. Voodoo has always been practiced round these parts.”

  Having corrected Jeff; Marcus edges forward. All eyes are fixed on the screen. A dirty brown upturned broad-brimmed hat lays on the floor. Jeff and Eve are both astounded. Sarah’s hand stretches out, pointing at the screen.

  “It’s next to a canvas sack.”

  “No, those are trousers.” Marcus moves the scanner back and forth. “Whoever it was had their hands bound.”

  “Look, the fingers are moving.” The screen displays chapped hands, red with deep cracks and scaling. The fingernails are black. Eve’s terrified. She looks over Jeff's shoulder, not wanting to get too close. She’s all too aware that with the darkness behind no one’s watching her back.

  “This has to be one of the miners, judging by the condition of his hands.”

  “But what’s he doing tied up?” The moment is surreal and confusing; like an onion being peeled, Jeff’s being stripped of his academic defenses.

  “I don’t know.”

  Marcus moves the scanner over the miner. The foul stench of an unwashed body permeates the air. The miner has brown straw-like hair. A dark female hand appears on screen, reaching, twisting hair and wrenching the man’s head back. Her other hand holds a knife that slowly cuts his unshaven throat open. The semi-conscious miner tries to breathe via the opening of his neck, and gargles through spurts of blood that falls into the bowl below. Marcus recoils in horror, moving the screen away.

  “Fuck, I’ll never get used to this shit!” Marcus shakes the horror off.

  In the chaos no-one realizes that Jeff’s risen to his feet and is staring at the man standing in the corner of the room. He’s dressed in a black suit with white gloves; holds a cane with a skull on top, and sports a bow tie with a top hat. Yet beneath his white painted face is one identifying feature. His eyes belong to Casey Lee Jones. He points to the corner of the room. Jeff is compelled to walk over, to see what he’s being shown. As he reaches the corner, the last thing he sees before the floor gives way is Casey’s smile widen.

  With a pounding head, and through the flicker of his eyes it takes a moment of adjustment for Jeff to realize that he’s face down in the dirt. Rolling onto his back, he permits his arm to flop down by the side of his head and lets out a sigh. Three oil lamps illuminate colorful walls: red with black crosses and symbols, and blue with white. The paint has been rapidly applied, stabbed onto the walls, and appears to be alive with the dance of the surrounding light. What at first seem to be snakes hanging above clay bowls are in fact unbleached braided rope. Feathers are woven in. Bolting upright, Jeff’s memories flood back. Casey’s ever widening smile. He looks up. There’s no hole in the timbered ceiling, and no sign of his friends. An unfamiliar voice speaks out from behind.

  “Awake at last.”

  “Shit!”

  He spins round, recoiling back through fear. The Voodoo Queen of Black Top City sits facing him, with immense presence. Her colorful headwrap is pieced together from dyed red yellow and purple rags flowing with nobility from the back of her head, over one shoulder to cover her left breast. She wears a white blouse with a blue shawl. Jeff notices that the bangles around her wrists are the ones the murderer wore as she slit the man’s throat upstairs. She possesses such beauty. Her skin as dark as chocolate, lips as full as plums, eyes that melt opposition away. Jeff breaks his gaze; frightened she will not only see his fear, but his vulnerability to her charms. For a moment, silence.

  “Where am I?”

  “My home and my prison.” She studies his face. “I was told you have the heart of a lion and the soul of one worth saving.”

  “You were told?” Is this a dream or reality?

  “I know all there is to know about you, Jefferson Davies.”

  “You know my name?”

  “Yes. You may call me Belle.”

  “Belle.” He nods. “A nice name.”

  “I’m not going to harm you, if that’s your fear. You chose to be here. My kin informs me that you wish to gain forbidden knowledge.”

  “Your kin?”

  “Brother Casey came to me and begg
ed me to help you. You’ve spent your life searching for the truth.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Why do you search for what our creator would deny us?”

  “It’s the ultimate question, is it not?”

  “And if you find the truth is not to your liking, then what?”

  “Then I’ll have no one but myself to blame.”

  “I will only offer you knowledge on the understanding of freedom. My gift has always been my curse. Time and my master became my enslavement.”

  “Your master?”

  “Sonny Malloy.” Her eyebrows raise, and her eyes look to Jeff. He already knows the name. “As long as I worked the forces in his favor then no harm would befall my daughter. I worked unspeakable deeds to protect her, and then he sold her into slavery.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “As a river flows so does our fate. It was I who betrayed him. The posse that hanged him was my doing, and my downfall. When they arrived I was already bound here in this place. You will know what to do when the time comes.”

  Reaching to her side Belle lifts up the woven basket and places it on the table. She reaches for the chicken inside. Her fingers firmly grip the legs to pull it out, and then tips the bird upside down. Wings flap meaninglessly in the air.

  “Hold this.”

  Jeff takes hold of the chicken. The moment disturbs him.

  “There’s no distinction between the physical and spiritual realms. Voodoo spirits have guided you thus far, and will continue to do so.” Jeff watches as the blade in her hand severs the chicken’s throat, and the aftermath of blood as it falls into the bowl below.

  “The blood is used to appease the Gods.” She looks to the bird in Jeff’s hand. “Throw that away.” Jeff swings the bird still bleeding, twitching and flapping to the floor. Belle offers the bowl up for him to drink.

  “Now drink.”

  “Drink?” Jeff’s horrified!

  “It’s your only way out of here.”

  He’s no option. There’s no chicken and no Belle; this is all an illusion, isn’t it? The blood’s warm as it touches his lips and Belle aids him by tipping the bowl up with her hand.

  “Good. Now lie down.”

  “Lie down?” Jeff fears her hand and blade.

  “Trust.”

  Jeff lies down but wants to sit straight back up. Belle places her hand firmly on his chest.

  “Relax.” She strokes his cheek. “This is your only way out of here.”

  She sits by his side rhythmically chanting. He feels himself drifting and hears Belle’s last words.

  “I can only show you a piece of the jigsaw, you have to put the puzzle together for yourself. It’s time to sleep, to forget who you are. Remember, when you awake from your dream, your promise is to set me free, Jefferson Davies.”

  ***

  The ear splitting crack of the solid door, like a bullwhip, gives Sonny Malloy an unexpected jolt as he lies alongside the women in his bed. His gun is just out of arms reach. Up until this moment Sonny regarded this day as triumphant, having already embalmed, using an arsenic preparation, the notorious outlaw and his sworn enemy. Johnny Texas, his corpse sold as a sideshow curiosity for a traveling carnival. However as three men have now forcibly entered the room, neither Texas nor the girls in his bed occupy his mind anymore.

  “Sonny Malloy?” The hefty man growls through his extensive beard. His shotgun points towards the bed.

  “No.” Malloy knows; he can’t make a move for his gun, nor can he run.

  “That’s him alright.” The dirty blonde haired man walks towards Malloy; his rotten teeth are shown with a grin.

  Sonny smiles and stands with his hands held out in a passive gesture. In return for his efforts he receives a rifle butt to the temple and goes down with the screams of prostitutes ringing beside his ear. He’s out cold for the rest of the evening.

  Through blurry eyes Sonny realizes that he’s gagged and bound to a chair. His head hurts, he’s alone and for once afraid. Is this retribution for his slaying of Texas? Or for one of the many men he’s had to retire to maintain his own position? He’s unsure, but either way he’s left in the dark with only the calculations of his own schizophrenic mind. He betrayed the one person who could foresee this. She would have warned him, but he sold her twelve year old daughter to her new and eagerly awaiting master, and left Belle bound and gagged in the cellar. Her hauntingly beautiful eyes pleaded to him as he personally placed the last brick, entombing her forever. Sonny reconciles himself: he did what he had to do; she would have summoned up the forces of darkness against him. Under the circumstances he did the right thing.

  A sentry stands outside the door. The boots shuffle, creating a pacing vibration that shimmers through the timbers of the floor. A tap from a rifle butt and the occasional cough. The whiff of a cheroot drifts by; what he would do for freedom, a cigar and a whiskey at the saloon right now. Where are his men? The darkness brings past deeds to the forefront of his mind. He waits for the comfort of daylight to creep from under the door. He hears footsteps, then muffled words. The rattle of keys and the turning of the handle; his captors walk in. Sonny tries to read their faces and their intent as they surround him. Indistinguishable from the many, they don’t speak a word as they blindfold him. The release of the rope as it uncoils permits his body to relax and sag. Then he’s hoisted onto his feet.

  “Walk slowly and as directed. Give us any trouble or try to run and we’ll shoot the legs from under you. Do you understand?”

  Sonny nods in compliance. He feels lightheaded and weak from restraint. The gift of sight is withheld; he walks steered by men. Stepping out of the building he stumbles on the steps: supported, he does not fall. He senses the long walk. The town’s as silent as his captors; where is everyone? Then a faint murmuring from the crowd is distantly heard, yet as he approaches so too does a hushed silence. He feels many eyes upon him, hears a cough, a shuffle, smells the stench of horse manure and that of the crowd, but hauntingly there’s still silence.

  “Stop.”

  His blindfold is taken off, and the daylight instantly blinds him. As the pain subsides, he can see that before him stands the town. No one can look him in the eye.

  “Sonny Malloy, you stand here guilty of crimes against the state. Murder, corruption, and the production, transportation and sale of alcohol. You are sentenced to hang.” He feels two men support him either side, insurance against his legs giving way. They turn him round so he can see the tree, a makeshift gallows, and his loyal men, now sitting astride horses with a noose around each of their necks. They’ve been gagged; their eyes hold such torment and rage. A spectacle for Sonny and the townsfolk as the whip cracks and instantly the horses bolt. The ones without a clean break choke as the noose tightens and their legs kick out, looking for a foothold that isn’t there. Sonny is walked up the creaking gallows, hastily and poorly prepared earlier that morning. It serves only one purpose. Positioned over the trapdoor, the noose around his neck, only then is the gag removed and he’s permitted to speak.

  “Do you have any last words?”

  It’s too late to plead, to beg for his life, after all a man has his pride in these situations. Yet the townsfolk? He made the town, and supported them; not one has lifted a finger or a gun in his cause.

  “I curse this town, I curse this land, and I curse you all. Your heads, face, mouth, nose, tongue, hair, brain, hearts and wombs. I curse your kin, I curse you standing, sitting, riding, drinking, eating and sleeping. I curse every part of your body, both inside and out. I curse your cattle, horses and food. May all the curses from the beginning of time to this hour, and all the plagues and pestilence known to man fall upon you the very moment I drop.”

  There’s only silence before someone shouts out.

  “Hang him.”

  In defiance the trap door opens and Sonny falls. The snap of the rope, too thin, has the crowd gasping. He feels only a breath-taking thud. He's unsure of where he is, face down in th
e darkness, and then to his absolute horror all comes flooding back. In tears Jeff scrambles to his feet below the foot of the tree. He was Sonny Malloy. How could he experience his life and last moments? He looks towards the town, the blackness of the buildings silhouetted against the night sky. Eve frantically shouts his name, alongside Marcus and Sarah. Jeff runs towards their voices and straight into the arms of his beloved.

  Jeff spent the remainder of the night, to the delight of Marcus and Sarah and to the horror of Eve, reliving his nightmarish trip from beyond the grave. They wait until sunrise before, and with conviction in his heart, Jeff leads them down to the cellar.

  “That’s where Malloy sealed it, look at the brickwork.” His finger traces an outline. “That’s where the original door was.”

  “I’m not sure we should be knocking through walls, Jeff.” Marcus is concerned about safety. However, he concedes, it does look like it’s been bricked up.

  “Marcus, it’s not just verification that what happened really happened. I made a promise.”

  “Okay.” Marcus holds his hands up, he can see Jeff’s determined. “I’m not going to stand in your way.”

  With an old prospector pick Jeff starts to hammer, tear and claw his way through the brick until he makes a hole in the wall. This permits a beam of light to cut through the dust and into the room. Jeff pauses and peers through the opening, straight to where he knew she would be. Belle is tied and bound where Malloy left her all those years ago. The wall Malloy built comes down easily. It’s difficult to breathe with the dust, but Jeff has no qualms as he walks in, picks up and carries the skeleton of Belle out in his arms. Away from her prison and torment. He would have buried her under the tree yet for its connection to Malloy. The most beautiful spot is by the river, and she’s laid to rest. Marking her grave with two small pieces of timber bound together, he fulfills his promise, then reluctantly turns and walks away.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jeff’s exhausted, drifting in and out of sleep during the return journey, resting his head against the comforting vibration of the car window. The blurring grasslands pass by. Eve’s tired, unable to think clearly. Marcus has the sense to drop a few caffeine tablets; Sarah rests her feet on the dashboard. Upon their return all agree the rest of the day is best spent in bed, and arrange to meet downstairs at seven.