A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (25 page)

“Gilly,” he thought. “I hope this works.”

Les stopped behind the skeleton of the murderer and Gillian stopped in front. The eyes began to change and he turned towards Les. Les’ insides turned to jelly and he stumbled back a step. The thing stepped towards him.

Gillian took a deep breath and said to herself, “Now!”

She rushed the skeleton and used her rock to smash the leg bones. The killer stumbled and Les attacked its ribs. The thing howled in anger and tried to turn. The crushed ankle bone gave way and he fell to the ground. Gillian brought her rock down on the skull and it shattered into dozens of fragments.

Gillian and Les rained down crushing blows on the remaining bones until they were nothing more than chips. For a while the skeleton struggled to put itself back together but finally the thing gave up the fight.

Although they were exhausted by the their attack on the skeleton, they gathered up the bone splinters and piled them on the ground. Gillian borrowed Les’s pocket knife and stood on the wagon. She cut the remnants of the rope from the tree and it fell among the bones.

Finally they covered the bones with a ton of rocks and stones. They circled the pile making sure no bone chips were visible. Then they sat on the ground and held hands and asked each other if they had really done it. Gillian finally stood and looked at the grave.

“Well, this monster can’t be immortal. There’s a place for him in Hell and I think we’ve sent him there.”

Gillian said one final prayer for her mother and father. Then she and Les climbed onto the wagon. Gillian and Lester rode off towards home. The hanging tree shed it last few leaves. Herb and Lucy Welch rested quietly on the top of the hill. The man, the killer and rapist, was gone, buried under a ton of rock and stone.

The rocks settled and shifted. The large one, on the very top, rolled off onto the ground.

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

Rony Blechman

The moon was full overhead and a wolf could be heard baying in the distance. A pair of horses were tethered to a nearby tree. The Boy with No Name stared across the night fire at his Nameless Master. That’s the first thing he ever learned about fighting the Dark; Names have power and must be kept secret. When the Nameless Master took him on, he was insistent upon never knowing his name. The Master called him Boy (although, being 15, he was now a young man) and was called Master by him.

The Master was now reclining against his bedroll, loading bullets into his Colt Dragoon Revolver. The gun was thrice blessed by a priest and the bullets specially prepared beforehand (dipped in holy water and dried). The Boy knew his master also had silver bullets, but those will not do for their quarry on the morrow. The Master was a tall, lean man, who seemed ageless and grim. The Boy had been by his side ever since he rescued him from the drudgery of the orphanage three years ago, after his parents and little sister had died in the fire that burned their house down. He had seen the Master fight and destroy many creatures of the night, and even some regular people who sometimes got in the way. “Evil must not be borne”, the Master would often say. What drove him to his current vocation, the Boy did not know.

He could not say he had ever seen his Master anxious, but this night, though, he certainly seemed agitated and restless.

“Boy”, said the Master, “Tell me what you remember…of demons.”

“Well,” said the Boy, “They have no body of their own, and must possess a human host.”

“What kind of host?”

“The host must have innocent blood on their hands,” the Boy replied.

“Very true. The pure of heart have no need to fear a demon possession,” said the Master, “and how does one tell a host from a human individual?”

“Well, for one day and one night after taking charge of a human body, the host’s eyes will turn blood red”

“Anything else?” queried the Master. The Boy shrugged. He didn’t remember much else. The Master was trying to teach him about this night terror, but demons were quite rare and not nearly as enthralling as vampires or werewolves.

“Fool Boy!” thundered the Master. “Demons are the worst kind of monster. They thrive on death and carnage. They will inhabit a host that has already killed at least once, and make it kill again and again. They will heal all normal wounds to their host, and thus become invincible! They never stop unless their host is destroyed. And then, they just find another!”.

“Does killing the host kill the demon?” asked the Boy.

“Only the light of day can slay a demon and only when it is forced out of the host. Some priests can exorcise a demon from a body, but as we don’t have any around and our target is too near to miss this opportunity, killing the host is what we must do. Demons can survive for hours in the night, looking for a suitable host, so this must be done during the day. The holy bullets are anathema to the Unclean and will keep the body from regenerating. Several minutes in the sunlight and the demon will be destroyed”.

“Here,” said the Master and threw a small pistol into the boy’s hands. It was a Derringer one-shot. “This has been thrice blessed like mine, and the bullet has been treated. Keep it on you in case anything goes wrong.”

The Boy looked down on his weapon in silence. The Master rose and came to stand above him.

“This is our man,” he said, handing the Boy a Wanted poster. “Study it well.”

“By the way,” continued the Master, “you forgot two more demon-host identifiers; demon-hosts hate colorful fabrics which remind them of the light. So they will usually wear black.”

The Boy nodded. The man in the poster wore black. His mostly taciturn master was very talkative tonight.

“They can also sometimes know strange and unknowable things, just like witches and shamans.” The Master glanced at the boy; “Better get some sleep now. Tomorrow is going to be a difficult day.”

***

11:25

They had ridden into the small dusty town of Salvation in the morning, and tied the horses to a nearby drinking post. The Boy was dispatched to find their target whilst the Nameless Master stood in the town’s main street, assessing the situation and taking stock of passing time by the clock atop Town Hall. He spit some chewing tobacco to the side and some of it landed on one of his boots. His penetrating gaze took in the town people going about their daily business, little knowing what was about to unfold. Overhead, in the bright blue sky, a circling eagle cried. The sun beat down upon him, but his broad-brimmed hat sheltered his eyes.

11:40

The Boy rejoined him in the street. “Well?” he demanded.

“I found him in the Saloon,” the Boy indicated a nearby building “at a poker table. When I left, he had just won with two pairs of black aces and eights, which for some reason seemed to amuse him greatly. He laughed like it was his own private joke. I came immediately to tell you.” The Boy shuddered. “He gives me a bad feeling.”

“Very well,” said the Master, “hang back now, but stay nearby. You might have to finish this, as we discussed this morning.” The Boy nodded and ducked behind a nearby building. The Master moved and aligned himself so he was in the middle of the main street, facing the Town Hall with the Saloon’s entrance to his right, some 250 feet ahead of him.

11:52

He drew his gun from the holster, and fired a single shot into the air above his head. He then re-holstered the gun. “Bill `Bloody` Buckley,” he shouted. “Gunslinger, card shark, outlaw and killer of twelve men and five women, I’m calling you out. Come and face your justice.” The street quickly emptied of all occupants, as they were well practiced in this routine. Excellent, thought the Master. No possibility of a new host for the demon.

11:55

The Saloon double doors swung open to reveal a young man dressed all in black. His boots were black leather, his pants and shirt were black and his hat was black, as well. The handle of the gun, strapped to his left hip, was also black. He glanced at the Master and flashed an insolent smile. He practically leapt from the wooden walkway onto the street. He faced off the Master. “Are you sure you want to do this thing today? You are steeped in mortal sin. Upon your death, Hell will welcome you with open arms. You can go away and forestall your fate.” In reply, the Nameless Master just spit out the rest of the tobacco out of his mouth onto the street, in Bill’s direction. The flesh covered demon’s smile turned feral and then he made an intimate gesture with his hand, the meaning of which was known only to the Master. The blood started pounding in his skull. It’s trying to goad you into a mistake! Stay calm. “Justice comes to us all,” said the Nameless Master.

11:58

Their repartee concluded, the two opponents stared each other down. The demon-host’s eyes were brown, as was his hair. The Master’s eyes were a blue colder than ice. Bill’s left hand fingers twitched and swayed over his gun, the Master’s right hand hovered steadily over his. Blown by the wind, a tumbleweed passed between them.

12:00

Two deafening shots rang out. The Nameless Master dropped to his knees. In his opponent’s left hand was clutched a smoking gun, which matched the smoking gun held loosely in The Nameless Master’s right hand, which matched the smoking hole in Bill’s chest, right where the heart is. “Oh,” said Bloody Buckley, before falling over facedown into the dirt.

12:01

The Master called out to his Boy, bleeding from a gut wound, enfeebled. Good thing having a demon possessor doesn’t improve one’s gun slinging abilities, he thought idly. And there was the Boy beside him. “Quickly, Boy, take out the gun. If my wound starts healing, or my eyes turn, shoot me dead.” The boy took out the Derringer and waited, eyes downcast. The Nameless Master also waited, with trepidation. Is he starting to heal? Does he feel the menacing effecting of possession? But no. Other than growing weaker and feeling the process of dying, there was no change. A feeling of relief washed over the Nameless Master. The demon was destroyed by God’s blessed sun and he could die in peace. Suddenly a burning smell reached his nostrils. Looking aside he could see the Boy’s hand, holding the gun, beginning to smoke. With a yelp of pain, the Boy dropped the Derringer.

Horrified, the Master’s last words came pouring out. “Boy…what have you done?!” As the Boy turned to face the Nameless Master, it became quite apparent, that the colour of his eyes was very visibly and clearly red.

A TOWN CALLED HANGSHAW

Jody Neil Ruth

Hangshaw was just another dusty patch of Texan dirt when Francois Burgevin happened across it in the summer of 1857. By the time of his death almost five years later, it was home to almost two thousand people – all of them dead. Burgevin never even got to name his own town.

This is the story of how Hangshaw earned its name.

Burgevin was a travelling salesman, scratching a living as he stopped at every outpost and settlement as he wandered across the territories. He rode upon a short and dumpy ass that was as short and dumpy as the ass that rode it.

He was a good salesman, tenacious and persisting; let down only by the goods that he sold.

His miracle cures caused illness; his magical eyeglasses inflicted short-sightedness and nausea; his ‘genu-ine’ panda-skin ponchos turned out to be several skunks stitched together, and with the smell still intact.

As such, Francois Burgevin tended not to stay in any place for too long, and often he was chased from towns amid a hail of curses and gunshots.

So, what was it that made him stay at that desolate spot and build a town from scratch?

The answer was a cactus.

It was small and rotten; withered and bending toward the ground, surrounded by large rocks and dead fauna that blocked the sun’s rays. The once-fine green skin of the Texan Cactus was now a dead greying colour and the luminous yellow threads of its stem were now black.

Burgevin would not even have noticed the dying fauna had it not been for the collection of black vultures that surrounded it, pecking ferociously at the plant and at each other. A vivid bright green liquid poured from the holes the birds made in the cactus. The animals squawked and fought each other to reach the sap; dying cacti needles poked from the skulls of the vultures, and feathers and various bird parts littered the floor around them.

But, despite the carnage, Burgevin could see no dead birds.

The desperation of the creatures to continue feeding from the cactus piqued the salesman’s interest; him being a man born of opportunity. At least if he allowed the birds to destroy each other he would be able to collect the feathers to craft some faux Indian headbands and vulture-claw necklaces.

And so he waited and watched.

For a very long time.

The birds fought relentlessly, pecking and clawing at each other. When one bird fell, Burgevin prepared to collect its carcass, but each time it would shudder, twitch, and then rise up again to rejoin the chaotic battle.