The Best of Penny Dread Tales (17 page)

“Dad—” The word was cut off, but a decidedly male, “OW!” followed it.

The Voodoo priest stepped out from behind a pillar, shaking his hand. Trina looked scared but smiled when she saw her father. The black man took a knife and pressed it against Trina’s collarbone. The wound in his chest still seeped, but he didn’t show any signs of slowing or passing out.

“Let her go, and you get to go. Simple as that.” Matt had the borrowed gun drawn, but both he and the Voodoo man knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger. Matt changed tactics. “What do you want?”

With a decidedly Creole accent, he said, “Your head. You done left me in a hole to die. Now I’m gonna leave you in one to die. I dunna care about da girl. Kettle can have her, or da reds. I jess wanna see you jump in dat hole over dere. Den I let da girl go.”

“My life for hers? You swear?”

“I swear.”

Matt walked over the edge and peered over. It was blacker than a starless night. He kicked a rock and never heard it hit bottom. He turned to say goodbye to his daughter when a large explosion rocked the ceiling above.

The Voodoo man smirked. “I lay a curse on the whole area. Any who die around here come back as zhombie. Da reds be killin’ da living, dey come back. The zhombies be killin’ da reds,
dey
come back. Hope everyone got enough boom powder.”

Another explosion and one of the stalagmites near the black man fell to the ground, forcing him to move Trina and himself closer to the pit.

Matt seized an opportunity. He dropped his lantern, extinguishing it, then drew and fired, knocking the torch from Voodoo man’s hand and down into the abyss.

“And I hope you can see in the dark.”

The room went black. Matt fired a second shot at the spot where he visualized the black magic wizard to be. The man cried out in pain, but Matt didn’t hear a follow-up thump indicating he’d been killed.

“Trina! Crawl to me, baby!”

The former lawman fired twice more. Once to find the Voodoo man in the flash, the second to shoot that direction. He missed, but he caught Trina moving toward him. Matt crouched down and crab-walked her way. A clink of metal hitting stone reverberated through the cavern, and Matt realized his enemy stabbed the ground in hopes of piercing the girl.

Two bullets left, Matt thought.

He fired once more, finding the villain poised to bring the knife down on Trina’s back.

Matt leapt forward, covering his daughter. The weapon entered near his left shoulder blade. In agony, he twisted, pulling the Voodoo man over him. They wrestled, rolling one way and then the other. The blade tore its way out causing Matt more pain as his flesh ripped.

Matt lost track of where the pit was until his leg crossed the rim and hovered over the chasm. A moan reverberated through the cave, and it wasn’t one of theirs. The shuffle step of one of the undead told Matt the Voodoo man had called for reinforcements.

“You hea dat? Dat’s death coming for you and your little girl.”

Matt got his legs under the larger man and donkey-kicked him up and over his head. The Voodoo priest sailed into the pit and Matt said, “Not if you die first.”

Matt had no less than a breath to enjoy his victory before he heard his daughter.

“Daddy! Help!”

“Trina!”

He had no idea where they were. He scrambled around until he found the lantern and relit it. The zombie held Trina and stood poised in mid-action near the edge, like its last orders were cut off. Terrified, Matt cautiously moved closer to his daughter. The zombie was one of the guards he and Ram had bled.

“Easy now, big boy. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” Not that talking to it would help the situation. To Trina, he comforted. “It’s okay, sweetie. Just hold your hands out for daddy. I’m coming to get you.”

Bravely, she extended her arms, rag doll fisted in one.

“I need both hands, honey. Can you let Miss Molly go for a moment?”

She hesitated, unsure what to do. Slowly, she nodded and released the doll.

The zombie stepped off the edge.

Matt dove for Trina, but he wasn’t close enough. Their fingers grazed and he watched her vanish into the black, a scream taking his heart along with it.

Matthew Ragsdale wailed, his anguish magnified by the cave’s echo. He rocked back and forth, rag doll clutched tightly to his chest.

***

The zombies stopped moving upon the death of their master. The remaining Yavapai dismembered them with no problems after that. They followed it up with a purification ritual. The smell of burnt carcasses filled the air.

Matt’s original Indian scout pushed the former sheriff’s shoulder flesh together and field stitched it closed. He wrapped a bandage about Matt’s neck and torso and told him that he needed a doctor to sew it properly back together.

But Matt didn’t acknowledge him. He walked to where he’d left his horse and mounted. By the time he’d gotten to Oak Creek, rain fell in sheets. Oblivious to the cold, Matt let it numb his body as a partner to his soul.

The trail rose steeply the farther up the trail he rode, becoming increasingly treacherous. Much to many a traveler’s surprise Arizona wasn’t all dessert, and the path Kettle took had killed many who were unprepared. Matt found spots where Kettle’s mount slid in the mud. Within a half hour, two sets of tracks, man and horse, were barely visible.

Not much else was in the torrential downpour. Matt dismounted and grabbed his rifle and two pistols. He wacked the horse’s butt, and it went back down the way they came. It wasn’t five minutes later the former lawman moved out of the way to let a second horse come down the trail.

Kettle was close. Even through the rain, the increasing dark, Matt had a sense of him, as if their fates were tied.

A shape moved ahead. Too small for Kettle. A river otter heading down to the swelling creek below.

A blow sent Matt to his knees. It’d come from the rocks above. Two fisted. Hard. It landed on the lawman’s shoulder—his bad one, and Matt roared. The next strike came from a boot to his back, and Matt went all the way to the ground. He felt the stitches in his back pop free. Blood would flow. Matt didn’t have a lot of time.

He rolled to his right in time to miss being shot. Matt kicked upwards and knocked the wet gun from the outlaw’s hand. He kicked again, boots landing on Kettle’s gut and forcing him back a couple feet, just enough for Matt to get up.

Kettle drew the long Apache blade and squared off with Matt. Sarah’s wound to his face no longer bled, but it burned red across a wet, angry face.

“Don’t ’spose there’s much to say at this point, is there?” Kettle asked.

Matt drew his Bowie, much shorter than the one the outlaw wielded.

“No. I reckon there ain’t.”

They circled each other, gauging their mettle, neither at their best.

Matt went low, hoping to gut the larger man. Kettle tucked in, barely avoiding the knife, his own swing taking off Matt’s hat. Matt jumped back as Kettle kicked forward, but took the boot to his shin. It stung, but not bad.

Kettle bull-rushed Matt, slamming into him before the former sheriff could get his knife positioned. They hit the side wall together and air escaped Matt’s lungs. In retaliation, Matt brought up his knee as hard as he could, hitting close enough to a sensitive spot that Kettle rolled away. The larger man swung the blade around and Matt ducked in the nick of time. Matt’s blade connected with Kettle’s leg, sticking in and coming out bloody. The outlaw grunted, but managed to slice across Matt’s right arm.

They stepped back from each other. Bleeding and woozy, they staggered, trying to stay upright.

Lighting struck a tree a ways from them. Matt, facing that direction, was momentarily blinded by the flash. A dark shape moved towards him. Matt dropped his knife, using both hands to grab at Kettle’s blade arm. The force was too much and he could feel Kettle’s blade pierce his left side down to the bone. The sharp pain brought inhuman strength. Matt rammed his good shoulder into Kettle, forcing them both to the ground.

The weight of their drop caused a chunk of the trail to drop off into the ravine below. Matt had Kettle’s arm pinned to the ground, but the other was free to land punches to Matt’s kidney.

The gorge hung next to them, and Matthew Ragsdale had a momentary flash of Trina as she fell into the darkness. Rage strengthened him as he twisted the outlaw’s arm, forcing him to drop the knife. Matt rained blows on Kettle’s face, one after another, after another. Kettle’s nose and jaw broke. His teeth cut Ragsdale’s hand as he pummeled the defeated man’s mouth. Kettle held up his hands to defend himself, but nothing stopped the onslaught.

Ragsdale pictured his wife’s eyes the moment before her death. He recalled the way his heart sank when he found his best friend laying in the street. The fear in Trina’s eyes. His own failure to save all of them.

He didn’t notice as his and Kettle’s bodies slipped closer to the muddy edge.

Kettle got out a garbled, “Stop!” just before they both went over.

They landed on a lower level of the winding trail. The former sheriff propped himself up along the wall, forcing himself to his feet. Kettle clawed his way to standing.

Jimmy Kettle, drawing from reserves no man should have had, spun with a hold-out gun in his hand.

Ragsdale, gun still on his hip, drew at the same moment.

Thunder muffled the gunshot, but the blossoming bullet wound in Kettle’s chest proved Ragsdale the quicker draw. Kettle wobbled for the moment, and then toppled over the edge. The former sheriff watched him plummet three hundred feet into the raging waters of Oak Creek, swallowed whole and gone.

Ragsdale sat, the deluge doing nothing to fill the well inside him. Nor did Kettle’s death seal the hole that was as big as a locomotive and as dark as a demon’s soul.

***

Frank Chalker pounded the glowing-red horseshoe three more times before dropping it into the water to cool. It’d been three months since the end of Jimmy Kettle and the Claw Rock Gang, and business had finally picked up.

Oh, sure, there were still rumors about Drowned Horse being the place where the dead roamed free, but the town had always been the stuff of scuttlebutt and gossip. A new sheriff had been expected for days, but that was bureaucracy for you.

It was fine, though. Peace reigned over the town—a pleasant change.

“Pa? Mom wants you in for dinner.”

“Be right in, Nate,” Frank called to his son.

Chalker thought about his boy. The kid hadn’t taken to smithing, yet, but he had one hell of a dead-eye when it came to hunting. Maybe he could get the boy interested in making rifles instead of railroad spikes and they could expand the business.

Chalker and Son Weaponry. It had a nice ring to it.

The sound of a boot scuffing the dirt came from the entrance to the workshop.

“Almost done—”

When Frank turned, his blood ran cold. He dropped the towel he had been cleaning his hands off with.

“Sheriff Ragsdale.”

No expression showed on the man’s face.

“Not Sheriff anymore. Y’all seen to that.”

Frank held up his hands. “Matt, listen …”

But the man didn’t seem to be in a listening mood. He drew a pistol and aimed it at the blacksmith’s chest. Frank caught a glimpse of something tied to the belt opposite the holster.

A rag doll.

“It wasn’t my fault. T’was none of our faults, what happened to your family. Kettle, he had monsters. How do you expect …”

The man cocked the gun.

“Be reasonable, Matt. This isn’t what your family would have wanted.”

“They’re dead. So is Matthew Ragsdale. So are you and every man who stood by and let Kettle leave this town alive.”

The gunshot drew Nate from the house in a sprint. The man, gun still drawn, reflexively brought it around until he saw it was Chalker’s kid.

Nate spotted his father’s body and ran to it yelling, “Pa! Pa! Pa!”

The man tracked the boy, deciding whether to cover his tracks. He’d hoped not to be seen so quickly. He chose to holster the gun and walk away. Nate called after him, tears in his voice.

“Why? Why?”

The man stopped. “Revenge. Isn’t it always?”

The boy cradled his father’s head and between sobs asked, “Who are you?”

The man tilted his head so he could peer back over his shoulder.

“Tell everyone a vengeful spirit has returned from his grave. Tell them …

“The Rag Doll Kid is coming.”

***

Vengeance

J.R. Boyett & Peter J. Wacks

As I write these words, I ask you, dear reader, to suspend all judgment. Suspend your judgment not just of me, but of those whom I have hunted. The story that I have to tell is one for which I am not proud, nor do I find pleasure in its telling. You may consider me a hero or a villain, but I tell you now that I am neither. It is a story of my rise to prominence in death, and of my fall into obscurity in life.

***

I can recall approaching the Airship, with its ribbed lift bladder and brass woven canvas bulging to contain the pressure of its contents, glowing with a ghostly reflection of gas lights from the city below. A soft breeze caught the edges of my cape as I crossed the gangway, and a wave of melancholy touched me. I remembered … many things. Such things as would haunt most men. Those distant lights, yellow and blue, flickered and danced, thousands upon thousands of lives stretching out below, reaching out to the river several miles distant. I could almost imagine the lights to be manifestations of spirits, the anima of those whom I have known, both living—and dead.

In the blink of an eye it passed. All the troubled thoughts of a troubled man had come and gone like the force of galvanism. Turning from the midnight vista, I took comfort in the solid weight of my cane’s handle. The ease with which my satin gloves glided across the surface of that silver reminded me that those days were gone. No longer did I wear the wool of a traveler; no longer need I concern myself with the vagaries of weather. No, I had left the wilderness behind me and with it the sources of those memories. I considered myself retired, accomplished—a man of dignity—learned and traveled. I was, after all, the preeminent scholar in my field and Professor of Supernatural Mythos at the Queens College in Yorkshire. I know now that I was a fool. One does not retire. The Hunt never ends.

Here, over one hundred feet above the surface of the streets, I could hear a firm echo with each step taken. The air itself held the chill of an autumn night, but I would be loath to see a man of my station exhibit weakness to such things, and so my cloak fluttered behind me as we walked. I walked that gangway with a steady pace. Upon reaching the crest, I paused. Tucking my cane beneath my arm, I unfastened my cloak, handing both it and my hat to the attendant. I cannot recall what was said, even now. I had come to think that such things were below me, trusting in my host, in his hospitality, and that was all that mattered. I was followed immediately by my wife and my youngest sister, near two decades my junior. Following the death of our parents some years prior, we had come to be all that remained of our family, with me her guardian. Looking back now, I can see clearly the design of this, but again …

No. I have a story to that must be told.

It was for my sister that we had come to this place, for she had met a man of some stature in society, a man whom I had come to believe may be worthy of my dearest sibling’s hand. Ilyena—with her golden hair and her natural poise—she was everything that a woman of our class ought to be. Detached and aloof to the proper degree, she was far from prone to flights of fancy. In fact, while relaying some tales of my travels, she had come to admonish me for what she had believed to be very Münchausen embellishments. Yet mention of one Harold Ruthven had been known to render her into very unladylike bouts of giddiness.

Harold Ruthven was a Scottish industrialist who had made a name for himself in the Eastern Provinces. While his businesses were diversified, he had acquired a small fortune by cornering one market in particular. Labor. I had investigated this man, and as I should. Harold Ruthven was not only a man of culture whose line could be traced to the aristocracy, but he was also a man who had successfully navigated the world of business. With his connections and successes he could not only provide for my sister in the manner that she deserved, but he would also allow her an opportunity to elevate her social status. Yes, I felt Harold Ruthven to be a good match for my dearest sister.

But wait, a story must begin at the beginning, and though this is
a
beginning, it is not
the
beginning. For you see, my dear reader, I am not innocent in this matter. I am not the victim that you may wish me to be. No. For I know now that what happened on that voyage happened because of my ignorance, because of my arrogance: the arrogance of a man of science. I am as much to blame for their deaths as I am to blame for
his
. I know now that what I had taken for a monster was anything but. The beast of
magic
which we had sought to study was anything but that which our study of the lore had led us
wise
men to believe. For you see, my dear reader, we are all a part of a family. As I sought to provide for mine, so he sought to avenge his. But I get before myself. I must first describe for you the events that brought us to this sad affair.

In those early days, I fancied myself learned. My colleagues and I were recently graduated from University. Schooled as we were, we had begun to dabble in the occult. We did not do this for reasons of fetish, like so many, but as a matter of intellect. Having studied well the world of man, we were drawn to the uncertainties offered by the practices of superstition. We left our universities and, taking advantage of our station, we became adventurers. We believed in science. In the visible truth of a hydraulic piston, a steam engine, or the myriad other miracles of everyday life.

It was the folly of youth, calling ourselves adventurers and thinking we ventured where no others had. The generations of mythos should have been treated with the same respect and reverence as our professors’ volumes. Instead, we treated each new case with frivolity and skepticism. We responded like the Brothers Grimm to each tale of horror, to each rumor of beast.

A modicum of redemption may be found in knowing that our earliest pursuits found nothing to discredit our views. Unfortunately, we never thought to question our dismissals. We failed to ask the most basic question of epistemology; we assumed our skepticism to be superior and never bothered to examine it or the premises upon which it was based. This is the truth of arrogance, the truth that led us to the events of that fateful day.

As I have previously mentioned, my colleagues and I were students of the world. We had debunked the horror of the
Magi of Liverpool
, exposing the trickery of mirrors and clockwork for what it was. Just as easily we had established a purely rational explanation of the
Kraken of Ballybrack,
showing the mechanized monster for what powered it. Despite these early successes for science, we had come to face the very real truth that some mysteries were beyond our understanding. There was a village of the damned, Dalmigavie if I’m not mistaken, in which the occupants had disappeared with not a trace left behind. After nearly a month of investigation, our only discoveries were an etched wall, diagrams, and obscure references to a something called
Cthulhu
.

We followed any rumor on our grand quest for the truth. Visiting backwater villages, we came to know the squalor of the masses, eating their food and bearing witness to their poverty. How naïve we were to think that such things made us wise of the world. In truth we were just spoiled aristocrats living off of the success of our predecessors. We spoke with the people and studied their superstitions. Often we discounted certain attributes or drew correlations between one mythos and another, but to our credit we did study. Though we may have dismissed the lore, we at least listened to everything. Being the scholar that I am, I had taken careful notation of our investigations. In fact, it was this approach which served as the basis for my many publications on the subject, and which later secured my post at the Queens College.

Following this pattern we found ourselves in a small village in the hills some miles outside of Lesko, in Poland. We were drawn to this region by the tales of an
Oupire
, which, according to local legend, was a reanimated corpse. The regional mythos indicated that the body contains two souls, the lesser of which remains in the body after death. The theory was that this lesser soul could, on occasion, reanimate a corpse that would then act in many ways as an animal. I can tell you now that this is only partially true.

On the morning of our third day in the village, the day in which we had planned to depart, we were surprised by the presence of another visitor. His name is not one that I can repeat. The first reason for this is that I swore never to reveal that knowledge; the second is that despite all of our time together, I am not certain that he ever revealed to me the truth of his name.

We knew him then only as Markus. He had come to this village for the same legend we had heard of. He revealed to us that he was a hunter, not a scholar, and that his purpose was quite different from ours. He sought to kill that which we sought to study. Naturally, we were both attracted to and repulsed by him. While accompanying him would allow us a unique study, how could we take seriously a man who believed so foolishly in such things? Nevertheless, it was an opportunity we could not pass up.

***

Along our travels he revealed to us a contrivance he termed a shotbow, which he informed us had been crafted by his own hands. Along the barrel and stock I recognized many engravings derived from ancient and holy practices; each one was a ward against evil or a petition for protection. There were others which were foreign to me and which I suspect were barbarous in origin. It was the front of this weapon, however, which I found the most curious, for it bore a well-worn and aged handle, hammered of iron into the form of our Lords symbol.

When asked, he joked in a most unchristian fashion that one could best combat the living dead by harnessing the power of that which was once dead but yet lives. With this, he had a clockwork assembly feeding several hardwood stakes with silver heads and brass capped ends into the barrels, a short blade of silver that bore the very same engravings as the bow, two vials of blessed water, and incensed oil for burning.

It would not be incorrect to say that we had thought little for this man or his precautions. My fraternity and I had decided that we would accompany him on his
hunt
, if only for the academic opportunity which it presented. Despite his warnings, we were certain that there existed a perfectly natural explanation for the stories that we had come to hear. Perhaps this so-called
Oupire
was a mere hermit with the misfortune to have lost his faculties. Though, I must admit that a part of me had been made wary by his admonitions.

He had certainly viewed us as the spoiled aristocrats that we were. I recognize now that my affection for his warnings resulted solely from the surety of their declaration, pronouncements that were uttered with a certainty I had not known since University. He spoke to us like a professor … and we mocked him for it. A part of me suspected at the time, and I am now certain, that he had been fully aware of our highbrow chides. We had taken his lack of response to such things as a sign that he lacked comprehension. I have come to recognize that he responded as a wise man would to children who could only learn a lesson in the hardest way. Pray that the world never arrives at a time that it is standard for its peoples to assume lack of intellect or wisdom due to linguistic barriers, as we did. A sad world that would be.

Early on the day of his hunt, we gathered in the stable yard. The soft autumn sun was made softer yet as it was filtered by a thin fog. Some nights I reflect upon this expedition, and I fancy that the fog clung to my skin in a most unnatural way. I know this to be false, but still, I fancy the image. We left the inn and village behind, and even the most boastful of us had sense enough to hold his tongue. For all our talk and exuberance, there was a part of us that must surely have known what was to come.

We traveled that day and camped early in the hills, building a small fire to stave off the shadows and boiling tea to warm our blood. While we brought to boil a broth, our companion busied himself drawing glyphs upon the trees. Determined to make the most of this venture, and intrigued as I was by grimoire, I copied each glyph into my notes and accompanied them with notations of purpose and origin, at least insofar as my guide could answer. I know that my fraternity viewed this with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was doing as we had sought out to do, but on the other, I was encouraging this man’s deviant ideology. Regardless, they held their tongues.

The following day brought with it a silence we felt in our bones. Even the birds kept their songs unsung that day. Our companion told us that we felt the touch of the
Oupire
. He pointed to marks upon one of the trees, which he claimed was sign of the
Oupire’s
presence, though I must confess that all we saw were the scratches of a small animal. I felt as if we had been pulled into a gypsy’s lair and fallen victim to her sleight of hand. We were beginning to experience a collective paranoia, one for which we knew not the cause.

We rode in silence for most of the day, with an occasional comment from our companion regarding some obscure lore or another. While I took notes, my fellows brewed upon his words in quiet solemnity. Tension among my fraternity increased as the day passed. I could tell that Niles in particular was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the circumstances in which we found ourselves. He railed at each mention of the occult. I can see now that we had each committed intellectual sin; we had allowed ourselves to derive our conclusions before we had examined the evidence; and in doing so, we had denied any evidence a chance for consideration. Our travels had become a game to us, and we no longer conducted ourselves as scholars.

Our companion continued as if unaware of the pensive silence hanging over us. He would pause occasionally to sniff the air or examine the terrain. Several times he would remove a strange device, which he claimed measured energies. Comprised of several rings, brass and silver in construction, one inside the other and each free standing, it would spin and spin. Sometimes a ring would stop and reverse its order, or rotate to spin in a new direction. I had assumed the thing to be a trick of magnetism, but each time he would study it with care, and then nod as if the answer to his unspoken query was clear.