by Lukens, Mark
“Hello!” Jed called out, walking slowly towards the house.
No answer. He didn’t even hear a dog barking.
“Anyone here?” Jed called.
Still no answer. Everything was silent; no noises except the cold breeze whistling through the group of trees to his left, rattling the leaves like the scraping of thin, dry bones. A horse snorted from inside the stables.
“I’m a U.S. Marshal,” Jed said, holding up his badge that he had dug out of his pants pocket. “I’m a lawman. My name’s Jed Cartwright. My men and I were robbed by bandits. They stole my horse and pack. Killed my men.” A white lie, but the truth would be a little too complicated to explain right now.
No one answered from the house.
Jed still had his badge in his hand, both of his hands raised halfway up in surrender. “Please don’t shoot. I just need some help.”
A few moments later Jed stood in front of the porch steps. He studied the front windows, but didn’t see any movement behind the glass. There was some kind of Native American weaving attached to the front door of the home, and bone chimes hung from the edge of the porch roof on leather strings.
Jed figured the family that lived here was Navajo. Many of the Navajo had been given small plots of land by the government recently after the years of battles throughout this region. Many Navajo had built homesteads and even small villages around here—places that wouldn’t be on any map. Many Navajo herded sheep or raised cattle and traded horses.
“Hello,” Jed called out. “Ya-tah-hay,” he said, calling out the greeting in Navajo, not even sure if he was saying it correctly. It was one of the few phrases he knew how to say in Navajo. Maybe the people inside were nervous as they watched him walk up to their home with his badge in his hand—maybe being a U.S. Marshal wasn’t doing him any favors right now.
“I don’t mean you any harm,” Jed said as he stepped up onto the front porch, still looking for the glint of a rifle barrel in the windows. “I just need some help.”
Maybe there were only women and children inside, the men having gone off to tend to a herd or sell part of it. Maybe the women and children were too scared to open the door for him. Maybe they didn’t speak English.
The front door opened by itself, just a crack, the hinges creaking, the sound so loud in the silence.
Something was wrong here. At first Jed thought the feelings of fear and dread were just hangovers from what he’d felt up in those woods, and that would be perfectly understandable. But that wasn’t the case. He felt something terrible had happened here—something like what had happened up in those woods. Now that the front door was open, he could smell the blood and gore from inside the house . . . the smell of death.
CHAPTER 7
Jed jumped awake, sitting up on his bedroll. He looked around, not remembering where he was for just a second. He saw the dying fire, then he saw David sleeping nearby. He saw the shapes of the horses in the darkness just beyond the light of their campfire.
He let out a slow breath, shuddering a little. He had fallen asleep. He’d been dreaming about being inside David’s house again. He lay back down and tipped his hat down low onto his forehead, shivering a little in the cold.
A moment later he closed his eyes, and he was back on the front porch of David’s house.
*
Jed was beside the front door in a flash, staying to the right side of it in case shots were fired. He drew his Colt .45 and hugged the wall beside the door. “Everyone okay in there?”
No answer.
The smell of blood and death was stronger now, like the smell of the dead animal they’d seen on the trail in the woods, the one that had been turned inside out. Or the smell of Dobbs.
“I’m coming inside,” Jed yelled. “Please don’t shoot. I’ve got a gun with me, so don’t shoot.”
Jed kicked the door all the way open and then backed out of the way.
The smell was even stronger with the door all the way open. He heard the sound of flies buzzing around inside. He had given enough warnings to whoever was inside the house. If someone in there was hurt, then he needed to get inside to help them. He rushed in through the doorway with his Colt .45 in his hand.
The house was a wreck. Furniture was tipped over, paintings torn off the walls, a handwoven Navajo blanket ripped to shreds on the wood-planked floor. Broken bits of glass and pottery littered the floor along with the smears of bright red blood. The walls had more blood on them, splatters of it everywhere. Among the debris on the floor were what looked like small bits of meat. It seemed like someone’s body had been dragged across the floor over and over again, leaving trails of blood behind. And there were trails of blood on the walls, too.
Jed almost retched. His stomach convulsed, his mouth beginning to water as his digestive system readied itself for the vomit to come up. But he managed not to throw up. He pulled his bandana up over his mouth and nose with his left hand while still holding his gun in his right hand. The bandana only helped a little with the smell.
Several people had been murdered here. Maybe a whole family. Something had happened in this house that was as bad as what had happened up in those woods.
Jed fought against the voice in his mind screaming at him to leave. He remained in the house, taking a few steps deeper into the living room, his boots crunching over the broken bits of glass and pottery. He did his best not to step in the large swaths of blood, but it was difficult to avoid all of it.
“Hello?” Jed called out, clenching the handle of his Colt even tighter. He felt a little silly calling out to the empty house, but he had to see if someone was still alive.
The kitchen area off to the left of the living room was divided by a stone fireplace that was cold and black inside. The kitchen was as ransacked as the living area was. The kitchen table and chairs had been smashed to bits, dishes shattered. The potbelly stove was tipped over onto its side, the exhaust pipe torn from the wall leaving a circle of daylight invading the kitchen through the adobe wall.
There was more blood in the kitchen, like someone had splashed buckets of blood around.
But no bodies.
Maybe the bodies were in the bedrooms.
That creepy-crawly sensation was moving along Jed’s skin again, that sensation that he’d come to know so well. His mind was buzzing with panic, his muscles twitchy.
Jed went back to the living room, his boots thudding on the wood floor. His path towards the other side of the house disturbed the flies that hovered over the bloody smears, the flies scattering. An archway in the far living room wall led to the two bedrooms.
A wide trail of blood led into the small hall area beyond the archway. Hundreds of maggots wriggled around in the blood. The doors to two bedrooms were almost all the way shut. It was darker back here in the small hall area, colder, and the smell was just as bad.
He checked the bedroom to his right first, pushing the door open with the barrel of his gun. The room was as destroyed as the rest of the house: furniture broken apart, blankets and clothing torn to pieces, glass shattered, feathers from the pillows everywhere, some of the feathers stuck in the bloody smears like it was tar.
But there was no one hiding in the bedroom. No bodies.
He checked the other bedroom, pushing that door open slowly. This was obviously a boy’s bedroom judging from the broken bits of wooden toys all over the floor. The bed was flipped up against the wall.
There was no blood in this bedroom—the bloody smears stopped at the doorway.
Jed stood there for a moment, staring down at the floor. But he had to make himself turn away. He was sure the skinwalkers had done this—they had wiped out an entire family. It was time to leave now. He would take a few supplies and a horse and saddle.
As Jed turned to leave, he heard the whimper of a child. He turned back around and looked at the bed leaning against the wall—the place where the whimpering had come from.
Someone was still alive.
Jed took a step i
nto the bedroom, but then he froze. He thought of the hooting owls and howling wolves in the woods; he thought of Red Moon telling him that skinwalkers could mimic any sound, transform into any animal they wished. Could it be a skinwalker behind that bed making the whimpering sound of a child? Could a skinwalker be trying to draw him closer? Were there more skinwalkers right outside the house, inhabiting the dead bodies of the family, controlling them? Were the dead stumbling towards the front door right now?
“Come on out,” Jed said, aiming his gun at the bed.
The whimpering stopped.
Jed’s blood froze in his veins. He was suddenly sure he was being tricked.
“Show yourself!”
A boy poked his head out from between the leaning bed and the wall. He looked to be eight or nine years old.
“Come on out,” Jed told the boy, still aiming his gun at him. “I don’t mean you any harm. I just need to see who you are.”
The boy just stared at him, still cowering in the shadow of the upright bed. He looked to be full-blooded Navajo, and there was a chance that he didn’t even understand English.
“I won’t hurt you,” Jed said. “I’m a U.S. Marshal.” He pulled his bandana down so the kid could see his face. He dug his badge out of his pocket and showed the boy. “See? I’m a lawman.”
The boy came all the way out from behind the bed. He was dressed in wool pants and a button-down shirt that looked too big for him, most likely a hand-me-down from an older brother.
An older brother who was dead now.
The boy’s hair came down to his shoulders, and his dark eyes were wide with fear. There was a chance the boy was too traumatized to speak.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jed said in a softer voice. He lowered his Colt, but he didn’t holster it yet.
The boy stood very still in front of his tipped-up bed.
“What’s your name?”
The boy wouldn’t answer.
“Do you understand English?”
The boy nodded.
“What’s your name?” Jed asked again in a gentle voice.
“David,” he whispered.
Good, at least David could understand and speak English. “Who did this to your family?”
David shook his head, refusing to talk, on the verge of tears.
Jed decided on a different line of questioning. “The ones that did this to your family, are they gone now?”
David nodded.
“Okay,” Jed said more to himself than to David. “Did anyone in your family get away? Could they be hiding somewhere else around here? Hiding like you were?”
David’s chin trembled and tears pooled up in his eyes. He shook his head no.
“The bad people took your family, didn’t they?”
David nodded.
Jed sighed. He wasn’t going to get too far with this conversation with David. Jed still felt nervous—downright scared—but for some reason he felt braver now that he had someone to look after. He had no choice now but to master his own fear so he could take care of this boy. Jed had lost a lot up in those woods, but it was nothing compared to what David had gone through in this house. And those skinwalkers weren’t done yet—they could be back at any moment.
You have to give him what he wants. Roscoe’s words echoed in Jed’s mind.
Jed didn’t want to think about what he’d seen in those woods. Right now he needed to clear his mind of fear and those rambling memories, right now he needed to focus on the task at hand like he’d always done. The skinwalkers hadn’t only kept to the woods, they’d been down here in this valley at some point, slaughtering David’s family and dragging their bloody bodies throughout the house and then taking the bodies with them.
Why had the skinwalkers taken David’s family? To make grotesque trophies out of them like they’d done to Dobbs’ skin? To reanimate them? To send them back to ask for things?
Judging by how tacky the blood was Jed guessed that the murder of David’s family had happened at least twenty-four hours ago, maybe even longer. That meant that those skinwalkers might have come down to this valley to kill David’s family before they even attacked him and his deputies in the woods. Maybe there were two groups of them, one group down here and one group in the woods.
Why would they kill David’s family? David’s family had nothing to do with Red Moon, did they? And why spare David?
They spared me, Jed thought. They told me to leave Red Moon for them. And I did.
It was early afternoon now, maybe only five hours left until sundown. Staying the night in this house was out of the question. They needed to get to a town, a place where they could get some help and send men back here. But first they needed to take two horses and some supplies.
“We need to leave, David,” Jed told him. “Those people that hurt your family, they could be back at any time.”
David nodded.
“I need to take two of your pa’s horses, okay? I’m a U.S. Marshal. Remember? I’m just borrowing the horses so we can get away.” Jed wasn’t sure if the skinwalkers were mounted or not—he hadn’t heard the sound of horses in the woods at all—but at the very least he had to assume that some of them had his and his men’s horses. “I’ll leave a note behind, okay?”
The boy stared at him blankly.
“You got some paper I can write on?”
David didn’t say anything or make a move.
“You just wait here,” Jed told David. “I’m going to get us out of here. I’m going to protect us from those people that did this to your family. I’m just going to go and get a few supplies together to take with us. Do you have a pack you can get together?”
David stood there for a moment, but then he bolted over to the other side of the bedroom where shelves were built onto the wall. The shelves had been hidden by a blanket before, but the blanket and some of the shelves were down on the floor now. David pulled a canvas pack out from the mess.
Good, the boy understood him. “That’ll do fine, David. I want you to put a change of clothes in there. Just one. Don’t make your pack too heavy. If there’s something else you want to bring along, a special toy or book, you can bring that, too.” Jed glanced down at the broken and battered wood toys—nothing really looked salvageable. “Or if there’s something special you want to keep from your ma and pa.”
David gave Jed a slight nod.
“We’ll be back,” Jed said. “We’re just going to go and get some help. Bring back more lawmen like me. I can’t leave you here by yourself. You understand that, don’t you?”
David nodded again, and then he bolted to a small dresser, opening the top drawer. He was hurrying, shoving a shirt and a pair of pants down into the canvas pack—obviously ready to get as far away from this house as possible. He dropped the pack on the floor and opened up a wooden box on top of the dresser. He pulled out a fat pencil that was whittled to a point. He held it out for Jed to take.
“Thank you, David. That will help quite a bit.” Jed advanced slowly towards David, taking the pencil from his hand gently.
David followed Jed as he went through the living room and then into the kitchen. He didn’t really want the boy to see all of the blood and bits of meat inside the house, but there was going to be no shielding him from the horrors out here.
Jed looked through the pantry in the kitchen and found an old flour sack. He looked around for supplies they could use, but there wasn’t much. He found a tin can on its side that was half full of coffee. He closed the lid tightly and added it to the flour sack. He grabbed a pack of kitchen matches, a dented coffee kettle, and a small metal cooking pot. He also found a sack of dried beans and an extra canteen for David, some eating utensils, and a stack of Navajo flatbread.
The flour sack was half full but not too heavy. He used a scrap piece of butcher paper to write a note on:
Had to borrow 2 horses and some supplies. Will return them. Family murdered here.
Jed Cartwright U.S. Marshal
Jed l
eft the note behind, holding it down with a broken piece of pottery.
He hurried back to the living room. Even though the bodies weren’t inside the house anymore, the smell was still nauseating and Jed had his bandana up around his face again, covering his mouth and nose.
David stood in the living room with his canvas sack, which didn’t look too heavy. He bent down and picked something up from the floor amid the shattered glass—it looked like a piece of paper.
“Can I see?” Jed asked as he approached David.
The boy held out the photograph to Jed. David was in the photo along with his mother, father, and an older brother. Jed felt a pang of sorrow knife through him, his throat choking up with emotion. He handed the photo back to David who folded it in half and stuffed it down into his pants pocket.
“Did . . . does your pa have a gun?” Jed asked David as they hurried to the front door. “A rifle or a shotgun?”
David nodded.
Jed stopped and looked at David. “I didn’t see one in the house.” He thought the gun might have been taken along with the bodies, but he didn’t want to say that to David. “Does he have it stashed somewhere else?”
David didn’t answer.
Jed didn’t want to waste too much more time inquiring about a gun. There weren’t any bullet holes or shotgun blasts anywhere in the house—only blood and small pieces of flesh. Maybe David’s father kept a shotgun in the stables, hidden somewhere.
“Just wait here a few seconds while I have a look around outside,” Jed told David at the front door.
The boy looked panicky.
“I’ll be right back in. I’m not leaving you. I just want to make sure those (he almost said skinwalkers) men aren’t out there anywhere waiting for us.”
David nodded. He hadn’t spoken a word except for his name so far, but at least he was communicating.
Jed stepped out through the front door with his cloth bag in one hand and his gun in the other. He slipped all the way out onto the front porch, closing the door behind him. He walked to the end of the porch, trying to look everywhere at once. He didn’t see any movement anywhere, and he didn’t hear any noises. He still had a feeling of dread weighing him down, that creepy-crawly feeling dancing along his skin, a feeling he’d come to know so well in the last twenty-four hours.
