“Do you remember how you died?”
“I remember the beams creaking, someone yelling the tunnel support was about to give way. That’s all.”
“Had any miners died before you?” I interjected.
The specter jerked around as if startled to see me. “I did not know of anyone else who died.”
“Before the cave-in,” Hattie continued, “how long was it between the time you heard whispers and when you heard the beams start to creak?”
“A couple of days, maybe three or four, tops.”
Miss Hart and I glanced at each other. I gave my head a little shake, letting her know I had no more questions. I didn’t think the ghost had much more information to give us.
Apparently, Hattie felt the same way. “I’m going to release you now. When I do, I want you to know that you are free to go. You do not have to remain in this world.”
It was an oddly passive means of sending away a spirit, I thought. Generally, I was much more forceful in my dismissals. But the miner stood up, straightened out his rough-hewn clothes, and nodded firmly, as if he had been granted the permission he’d been waiting for. Then he turned and walked away from us, fading as he went. Within seconds, he was gone.
“Well done, my love,” the Marshal said. Unwilling to intrude, I released Miss Hart’s hands, but not before squeezing them.
When I released her, everything around me seemed to flicker as if something had rushed by me, even though I knew, logically, that nothing had. As I regained my senses in the world of substance, I realized that Trip and the Swansbys had moved from their former positions. I hadn’t been able to see them while I was focused on the spirit realm. I hadn’t even realized it, and that was new for me, as well.
“Did you learn anything useful?” Trip asked, his eyes crinkling in concern.
“You seem worried,” I murmured.
“You were in deeper than usual, and gone longer, as well.”
“I was?” I glanced around the saloon and found its inhabitants in somewhat different positions than they had been in when I began the trance with Miss Hart. “It seemed as if we were gone for only a few moments.”
“You sat stock still, holding one another’s hands and staring at each other, silent and motionless, for over an hour.”
I blinked my surprise. That suggested a deeper state than I was used to, certainly, though Miss Hart’s story of an entire ghost town engrossing her so much that she almost starved to death certainly seemed to fit with such a trance.
Trip’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t pursue the topic, turning to include everyone in our conversation and speaking to Miss Hart and me both. “Did you discover anything useful?”
“We learned the order of events,” I said. “First, there was whispering, then laughing, and then physical attacks.”
“But each attack seemed, from what I can tell, to come from objects already within the environment.” When she took less laudanum, Miss Hart was insightful.
I nodded. “The demon, whatever it is, doesn’t ever seem to touch people with its own body.”
“So it possibly has no corporeal form,” Mr. Swansby suggested.
“Or hasn’t managed to take one yet, if it has that capability,” Mrs. Swansby said.
“That’ll make it hard to shoot with most of our weapons,” Trip said.
“It’s in a silver mine, right?” I asked.
My companions nodded.
“Paranormal specters are generally repelled by pure metals. Gold, silver, and the like,” Miss Hart said.
“And iron, too, at least for the Fae,” Mrs. Swansby interjected.
“Exactly. So what is it about this creature that makes it able to exist deep inside a silver mine?” I glanced around at my companions
“Not only exist,” Mrs. Swansby said, “but function well enough to attack.”
“Unless, of course,” her husband said, “the metal is the reason that it hasn’t been able to manifest a complete body.”
I shook my head. “No. Something about this whole thing bothers me.”
“Do you think it might be like the earth demon we encountered in Rittersburg?” Trip asked.
“Possibly. I’m not sure demon was even the right word for that, whatever it was.” More than that, I was fairly certain it was the same thing that had killed Flint. I hadn’t cared what we called it at the time, not as long as I could destroy it. But now, I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I would have been better off trying to learn more about it before I dispatched it.
“I have never known the spirits to survive contact with a pure metal,” Miss Hart said, her voice musing.
“I will double-check my manuals tonight to see if I can find anything like it in them,” Mr. Swansby offered.
Trip flashed him a sharp look. “Took those with you when you left, huh?”
Mr. Swansby gave a lopsided smile. “Seemed the least they owed me under the circumstances.”
“And I am planning to dream walk tonight if I’m able. Perhaps I can gather more information,” Mrs. Swansby said.
“Mind if I take a look at those manuals with you?” Trip asked, and Mr. Swansby nodded his assent.
We gathered up our belongings, paid the bartender, and headed back to the hotel. I slipped my arm through Trip’s, holding on to him as we walked along the wooden sidewalk, each wrapped in our own thoughts. The winter cold swirled around us in the darkness, and I was glad to reach the warm comfort of the hotel.
The next day was Christmas Eve. If we took a full day to get to the mine and waited to descend into it until the next day, it would be at least thirty-six hours before we encountered the demon. We needed to spend part of that time resting, if at all possible.
Chapter 7
The next morning, we all gathered for breakfast in the boardinghouse dining room.
After we had all our fill of breakfast, Cole Swansby pushed back his seat from the table. “Are you ready?” he asked his wife.
She looked pale and tired, but she nodded. “I dream walked last night.”
“What did you see?” Trip leaned forward eagerly.
“You have to understand, I’m not as good at dream walking as I am at communicating with spirits in my sleep. None of the spirits came to me, though, so all I have are the images from the dream walking.”
“Tell us.” Miss Hart’s voice was distant. I was pretty sure she’d been into the laudanum again. I hoped she would abstain during our descent into the mine.
“It was a strange dream, full of odd images. Not as clear as I would like it to have been or even as it usually is.”
“Maybe we can figure the messages out as we go,” I suggested.
“We were in a dark place, all of us. But there was another man with us—not Mr. Carlisle, but someone else. He was surrounded by stars. They spun around him and then turned into a gun. He used it to shoot a log.”
“A log?” I asked. “From a tree?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Swansby replied. “And I knew that he was saving us. He’s important. We’ll need him.”
“But it’s no one you’ve met before?” Trip frowned. “I don’t know how we’re going to find anyone else at this point.”
“If he’s meant to be with us, he will find us,” Miss Hart said.
Mrs. Swansby chewed on her bottom lip for a few seconds. “And sometimes my dream walking symbols are merely symbols. He might not be a real person at all.”
“What else?” I asked.
“I dreamed of silver and iron and bronze, all braided together and wrapped around us, tying us to each other and staking us to the ground, like horses tethered. And Mr. Carlisle watched us, but no one could see him.”
We all blinked and looked at each other.
“I’m afraid none of it made sense.” Mrs. Swansby turned her eyes toward the floor.
I didn’t want to agree with her, to suggest to her that her dream walking was useless, but I feared it might be.
At that moment, Mr. Carlisle joined
us.
“Is there any breakfast left?” he asked, more cheerfully than any of the rest of us had managed that morning. We pointed him toward the sideboard dishes. “I arranged to have a map of the mine sent over this morning,” he announced, possibly explaining his cheerful demeanor. “I think you should all study it.”
We spent the rest of the morning tracing the route into the mine and down to the cave in. When we were certain of our route, we made a plan for taking down the demon.
Then we separated, each to spend the remainder of Christmas Eve in our own way. Trip and I retreated to our room, taking a bottle of wine with us for our own, very private celebration.
The evening reminded me that it was important to make the most of the time we had. Every hunter knows that. And this might not be a traditional Christmas Eve, but it was the one we had, and we would delight in it while we could.
We loaded our horses and left the next morning, spending Christmas day traveling up the mountain, following the snowy path in single file. The mine wasn’t far in sheer distance, but the treacherous terrain meant that it took all day.
That night, we camped not far from the entrance to the mineshaft entrance.
I don’t think any of us slept well that Christmas night.
Chapter 8
The next morning, we gathered at the entrance to the mine. We had grown increasingly quiet that morning as we collected our gear, both standard and special issue from the P.I. Agency. Now we stared solemnly at the entrance.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“You mean other than saying to hell with it and going home?” Mr. Swansby asked with a wry grin.
“Other than that, yes. I suggest that now would be a good time to begin calling one another by our Christian names.” I paused briefly, then added more quietly, “It will make calling for each other’s attention simpler during times of danger. I’m Ruby, and this is Trip.”
“Call me Hattie,” said Miss Hart.
“I’m Annabelle, and my husband is Cole,” Mrs. Swansby supplied.
We all looked to Mr. Carlisle.
“As I will be remaining up top, you may continue calling me Mr. Carlisle.” His tone was dry, but not without humor.
“Whatever you say, boss man.” Cole Swansby settled his hat more firmly on his head.
I had opted to wear my Stetson that morning, as well. My hair was coiled up into a bun inside it. I’d learned early on that wearing my hair long provided unnecessary handholds when I was engaged in battling demons. I was glad to see that Miss Hart—Hattie—and Annabelle Swansby wore their hair up, as well.
I had also discovered, much to my dismay, that traditional clothing for ladies provided the same disadvantage. And although the slimmer skirts the dressmaker had assured me were in style at the moment would minimize the problem of additional fabric providing handholds, they simply did not afford the range of movement necessary for monster-fighting.
Therefore, today I had chosen to don my new attire, the clothing I had bought in Fort Worth. I wore a fitted shirtwaist tucked into tightly tailored trousers. These, in turn, were tucked into my boots. All of this was designed to present a silhouette with nothing to hold onto. For all that it exposed my figure to anyone who saw me wearing it, I had decided that was infinitely better than dying because some monster grabbed a ruffle and pinned me down with it.
Over all of this, I currently wore a contraption of a skirt that the dressmaker had helped me design. The petticoat was sewn in, and the entire thing tied at the waist. I could drop it to the ground with a single tug of a ribbon. Over my shirt, I wore the brown leather tactical corset. Unlike fashionable corsets, designed to draw in a woman’s waist, this one did not constrict my breathing or movement in any way, though it did conform to my shape nicely. Various loops and ties were buttoned to it, and I had discarded those I would not need on this trip, leaving them with the rest of our gear in the room in Leadville.
Now, looking at the entrance to the mine, I pulled the ties of my skirt and carefully stepped out of it. I folded it and placed it in one of my saddlebags. I gave Lakota a scratch behind his ears and murmured to him, then spoke to Mr. Carlisle. “You’ll make sure horses are well cared for if necessary?”
He nodded solemnly. “Of course.”
I turned to rejoin my companions, only to discover that both of the other women had made similar clothing arrangements. To my delight, Hattie Hart wore a pair of silk pantaloons that mimicked the line of a skirt when she stood straight—until, that is, she gathered the hems of the pant legs, tied a ribbon around them, and tucked them into her boots. Once again, her clothing was infinitely more fashionable than mine, and today, her eyes clear of the ill effects of laudanum, she looked like the woman of wealth I suspected she truly was.
Annabelle Swansby had clearly sewn her own trousers, as they were made out of the same material as the calico dress she had worn the night we went to the saloon. But she had chosen to wear something very much like a cowboys’ riding leathers over her calico trousers. A woman in chaps. It was a glorious sight to see.
All three of us wore gun belts strapped around our waists.
The more time I spent around these women, the more I liked them. The two ladies examined my tactical corset with great interest.
Together, the three of us marched back to the opening the silver mine, where Trip and Cole Swansby waited.
“Merry Christmas, y’all,” Trip said with a mischievous grin. “Shall we?”
Bidding farewell to Mr. Carlisle, we began our descent.
Only a few yards into the silver mine, the entrance tunnel took a turn, cutting off most of the light from outside. Cole had already lit a lantern, and he held it high to illuminate the path in front of us.
The air was dank and cold, and I shivered.
“Cole, do you have a map of the mine? The one Mr. Carlisle gave us?” Mrs. Swansby asked.
He fished in his pocket and pulled it out.
We had all studied it the night before, of course, but it was reassuring to have it in front of us, to know that we would be able to find our way out again. We followed the main tunnel down, down, down.
We left a spell on each of the various side tunnels as we passed. At every intersection, we stopped. Trip marked the tunnel with an anti-demon sigil, I closed my eyes and chanted a quick containment spell, then pressed my hand to the mark to empower it.
Time stretched out, seeming to expand, to last longer than the time my pocket watch showed had actually passed.
When we spoke, it was in whispers, as our voices echoed uncannily, coming back to us distorted and somehow more terrifying than any independent sound would have been.
We had agreed to get as close to the sight of the first cave-in as we possibly could. If the demon had been there once, it might make a repeat appearance.
As we drew closer to that site, I began to hear faint echoes of whispers. At first, I thought it was maybe my imagination, but the whispers grew louder and more pronounced.
Eventually, Annabelle said, “Does everyone else hear that?”
We all nodded as the voices kept up their gibbering whispers.
And then the path we had followed opened up into a huge, echoing chamber. The cavern floor dropped away from one side of the path, leaving only darkness above and below. It was impossible to tell how deep or how high the chamber was, but the path cut across one side of it and led even farther down.
We were halfway across when Hattie Hart gasped and cried out inarticulately.
Chapter 9
Almost immediately following Hattie’s cry, a harsh masculine yell echoed through the chamber. We all jumped and turned around in different directions, searching for its source.
I concentrated, and to one side of us, the shape of Hattie’s beau appeared, pinned to the ground by the claws of something immense, but otherwise unseen, its legs leading up into the darkness of the cavern around us.
Hattie started toward him, and I grabbed her arm. “It’s not
real,” I urged her to remember. “It’s part of the spirit realm.”
“I know,” Hattie said, her voice strained. “But it’s hurting him.”
“I see it, too,” I said. “But you know that it is not real.” I emphasized every word.
But then, Trip spoke. “Um, Ruby?” His voice sounded more tentative than usual. “I see it, too.”
I spun around and stared at him. “What? You can see it?”
“Help me,” groaned the man on the floor.
One of the claws lifted almost delicately and pierced his upper arm. He let out a howl.
“I see it, too,” said Cole.
“And hear it,” his wife added. Glancing around the floor beneath my feet, I scooped up a handful of pebbles, took aim, and tossed them at the figure pinned to the ground.
“Ouch.” The man flinched away. He clearly felt the impact of the rocks.
“He’s corporeal,” Cole said, his voice full of awe.
“Oh, holy hell.” Trip followed up the comment with a low whistle.
“What are we dealing with?” Annabelle asked, her eyes wide.
I glanced at Hattie, who had said nothing during all of this. Her face had gone as pale as Annabelle’s was by nature, the skin stretched taut over her face, her mouth pinched and tight.
“Tell me what to do.” Her voice was husky, as if she were about to cry.
“If he’s real, we have to save him,” Annabelle said.
I glanced down at the demon detector in my hand. The lightbulb had not lit up as Mr. Carlisle had assured us it would in the presence of demonic energy. Trip noticed the direction of my attention.
“Maybe some sort of golem?” he guessed.
“I think the man is Hattie’s companion—her spirit guide.”
Hattie nodded and whispered his name. “Grant Madsden.” Her voice grew stronger. “It is. It’s him. He disappeared from my side and reappeared there. I know it’s really him. I can feel it.”
“But I think you might be right about the claws, Trip,” I continued. We all stared at the scaly legs that disappeared high into the dark recesses of the open cavern space above and below the trail we were on. “I believe they’re a construct of some kind.”
Curse of Christmas: A Collection of Paranormal Holiday Stories Page 14
