by Catie Rhodes
Tanner smiled, blushing at the same time. “I can probably stand that.”
I grabbed on to the mantle’s smooth edge, letting its power drop over my vision. The black opal pulsed with each of my heartbeats, growing warm as I let the mantle manifest. The world of Tanner’s tent took on a glow. The smoke from the incense turned bright white and seemed to have tracers connected to it.
Around Tanner moved a shifting nimbus. A closer look revealed the faces of Tanner’s wife and daughters. Their spirits protected Tanner, watched over him. I moved closer, and the woman’s ghost changed her face into a long, ugly horror mask with hollow eye sockets.
My first instinct was to recoil, and I let myself do it for a second. But I knew from experience I had to face my own fears because they weren’t going away. I gathered my strength, pulled on the earth energy from the ground at my feet, and accessed the part of me that was made to communicate with the spirit world.
I reached out to Tanner’s dead wife, tried to soothe her, to assure her that Tanner needed me for what he was about to do. She rushed at me with the likely expectation I’d run. I stood my ground and tapped into her emotions, something I’d been able to do ever since I could remember.
Her anger and sadness about the way things had ended for her and her daughters washed over me, so understandable and raw it almost became my own. But I had learned to stay on top of that too. I opened my heart to her, let her see my good intentions, my lust for Tanner, my hurt over Wade, my fear that my life would never be anything I truly loved, all of it.
Tanner twisted to face me. “Are we doing this?”
I waited for his dead wife’s answer. She’d either step aside or make me fight her. I didn’t want to do that, but I would do what it took to find the skull lantern. She glared at me with suspicious and jealous eyes but stood down. I stepped forward, put my hand on Tanner’s shoulder. He jumped at my touch. I pumped the power of the mantle into him.
Tanner leaned over the obsidian scrying mirror and slowed his breathing. The lights strung through the tent buzzed, brightened, then flickered. I pushed more of the mantle into him. He let out a pained grunt and stiffened. At the same time, the mark of Miss Ugly’s signature on my chest flamed to life.
I glanced down at the front of my shirt to see it smoking, light glowing beneath it. Tanner was at the wrong angle for me to see if his wound glowed as well, but the sweat dampening the back of his shirt gave me a good idea something was causing him intense pain.
I leaned around Tanner’s body, now sharing his gift, and watched the black obsidian scrying mirror. Images swirled in it. Faces, places, even animals. Finally it settled on a neon light, the kind you see over a bar. I could only see two of the letters, an o and an n.
Tanner’s shoulder tightened underneath my hand. His body quivered with effort. The view on the scrying mirror began to pan out. More and more letters of the sign became visible. So did tables with people sitting at them, enjoying pitchers of beer and mystery drinks in smudged glasses. Finally, the whole sign was visible. It read, “Welcome to the Pale Horse Saloon.” As we watched, it flashed blue, then red, then white.
Tanner began to tremble hard, sweat rolling down his face. The view panned out further until we saw the whole room. At the very back, a set of eyes glowed in the darkness.
Tanner made the view zoom in on those eyes. We got close enough to see it was a skull on what looked like a silver-embossed walking cane. A light glowed from it, but no candle or other source was visible.
Tanner panned out again. I searched for people guarding the skull lantern or for anybody who might give us trouble. Everybody seemed too focused on having a fun night out getting soused, and nothing else.
The panning out stopped with a jolt, as though we’d hit a wall. Tanner’s knees bent as he strained to direct what we saw. But our view didn’t budge. The image winked out.
11
Tanner released the tension in his muscles. His dead wife’s face appeared, wanting me off her husband, worried I’d hurt him. Understandable. I let go and stepped back.
Tanner turned to me, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It was like something just blocked us. I’ve never had that happen.”
“Don’t apologize.” I already had my phone out, tapping in “Pale Horse Saloon.” Immediately, I got a match for Pale Horse, Texas. The word saloon appeared in the preview. “Hey, come here. I think we got it.”
Tanner came to stand next to me. This time, I knew enough to search for the presence of his lost family. Though I could no longer see them because I wasn’t tapping the mantle, they hovered nearby, insuring Tanner would never take a step without their presence hanging over him. I tamped down the attraction to him, tried to keep it all business, and had a harder time than I’d expected.
“Can you see?” I asked Tanner. He reached two fingers out, enlarged the text on the screen, and nodded. I tapped on the entry for Pale Horse, Texas. It turned out to be an article in an e-zine devoted to creepy sites in Texas. It read:
* * *
Pale Horse, Ghostly Rider
by Louisa Mora
Pale Horse, Texas is a ghost town built on top of a ghost town. It became a ghost town again only eighteen months after being rediscovered by investment prodigy Dane Whitlock.
Whitlock discovered Pale Horse, Texas when he won the historic Hill Country estate, Rosen Ranch, once owned by cattle tycoon Alton Rosen, at auction.
The text broke to show a picture of a pristine rock mansion shadowed by ancient oaks. Winding sidewalks cut through the manicured yard. A “For Sale” sign was stabbed into the lush grass. “The diaries were in a box in the attic. I sort of wish I had never found them,” Whitlock said when this journalist caught up with him at his Austin, Texas condo.
The diaries Mr. Whitlock refers to belonged to an Eleanor Rosen, whose brother, Alton, Jr., left Rosen Ranch in hopes of beginning his own cattle empire. Alton, Jr., claimed an expanse of land even farther west in Texas, in isolated Gunpowder County. There Alton, Jr. discovered the remnants of an early settlement.
Many of the structures had decorative features created out of human bones. One structure, which seemed to be a meeting place, contained a lantern made from a human skull.
Despite his fear, Alton, Jr. tried to make a go of his investment. He used local stone to build a church, hoping the presence of the Holy Spirit would chase away any demonic entities. He named the town Pale Horse in loose reference to the apocalypse described in the book of Revelation found in the Holy Bible.
The text stopped to display a picture of a building built of reddish tan stones with the peaked windows and steeple seen on older churches. A second picture zeroed in on the building’s cornerstone. It read “Erected in 1852” and had a Mason’s symbol and another one that looked like a figure eight with an extra loop.
Alton, Jr.’s first letters after building the church reported more settlers had moved to Pale Horse and things were going well. But then a final letter arrived with the following message: “Sis, these people have been here before. They were the original settlers. They tricked me, and now all is lost. I’m sending this letter with a traveler passing through. If it finds you, and you haven’t heard from me, know that I loved you and thought you a fine sibling. Tell Father I’m sorry for this failure and for the loss of my eternal soul.”
"More than a century and a half after Alton Rosen, Jr. headed out to the wilds of Gunpowder County, Texas to find his fortune, Dane Whitlock did the same. Unlike Mr. Rosen, Dane Whitlock had modern technology on his side.
"He used satellite photos to find the town of Pale Horse and had hired guides to help him find his way to the town. ”
The text stopped to show a picture of downtown Pale Horse, which wasn’t more than a few sun-warped, dilapidated wooden buildings with tumbleweeds stuck between them. The caption read “Pale Horse as it looked the first day Dane Whitlock laid eyes on it.”
Whitlock wanted to make Pale Horse a destination for young hipsters and immedia
tely began pumping money into the site, arranging for modern conveniences and turning Alton Rosen, Jr.’s church into a saloon, which he named the Pale Horse Saloon.
But Whitlock’s dream was short-lived.
“Everything went wrong,” Whitlock says. “The appearance of the skull lantern mentioned in Alton Rosen, Jr.’s letter to Eleanor seemed to make matters worse.
“We put the creepy thing in the saloon. That’s when things really went south. We began hearing hoofbeats nearby. We’d go check, and nothing would be there.” Dane Whitlock has never been back to his ghost town and says he’ll die before he returns. He says anyone interested in purchasing Pale Horse, Texas should contact him.
The text broke one last time to show a cleaned-up Pale Horse, Texas downtown with a large realtor’s sign in front of the first building.
But the story doesn’t end there. Legend trippers who have made the arduous journey out to Pale Horse, Texas report meeting a variety of odd people, some of whom sound like something out of a horror movie.
When this journalist put out the call for experiences of people who have journeyed to Pale Horse, she got reports about people with glowing eyes who chased intruders, foaming at the mouth.
Note from Louisa: Please remember that Pale Horse, Texas is private property and visitors are technically trespassing.
A chill crawled up my back as I finished the article. Pale Horse didn’t sound like the kind of place I wanted to visit. I handed the phone to Tanner and tried to walk off the odd details I’d just read about.
Tanner read for a few more seconds after I finished. “Despite what this article says, it looks like someone’s settled out there. If you want to get the skull lantern back, we’ll have to pay them a visit.”
I didn’t want to visit Pale Horse, Texas. It sounded like one of those creepy places I always ended up having to go to. But Tanner was right. This was the only way to get the skull lantern for Miss Ugly. “Fine. Let’s see if we can figure out where it is.”
Within thirty minutes, we’d talked to Cecil and told him our plans so someone would know where we’d gone in case we never showed up again. Shelly had gotten Kenny and his wife, Anita, to watch my tent. They grudgingly agreed to close up both Tanner’s and my tents and take all the valuables back to camp.
Tanner did a little more research on Pale Horse, Texas and learned Dane Whitlock had spent millions to put in a passable road between Pale Horse and the nearest town. He thought we could make the trip in less than two hours.
That put us at the Pale Horse Saloon before two a.m., closing time for most bars. Not that people running an illegal business on land where they were trespassing kept regular business hours.
“Let’s take my truck.” Tanner walked past my much newer truck to his beat-up jalopy.
“Think it’ll make the trip?” I put my hand on my ride.
“It made it all the way from California.” Tanner straightened and fixed me with his intense stare.
“How many times did you have to stop and look for a mechanic?” I had no intention of antagonizing Tanner, but the way he stiffened let me know I’d crossed some line. “We get out there in the sticks, and there won’t be anybody to help us.”
Tanner crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve been to Death Valley. I know more about isolated country than you can imagine.”
I threw out what I hoped was the winning card. “In that truck?”
Tanner slumped, and I knew I had him. I unlocked my truck and started climbing into the driver’s seat.
“Can I at least drive?” His voice came from right behind me. He’d snuck up on me again.
I didn’t like handing over control to Tanner and wasn’t sure why he’d expect me to. Then I thought of all the sadness surrounding him, how grateful he’d seemed when I gave him the salve and the white willow bark for his wound. Maybe he needed to feel in control of his fate. I handed him the keys.
“If you get sleepy, let me know. I don’t want to end up in some hundred-foot ravine with a rattlesnake all coiled and ready to bite me. ” I raised my eyebrows at Tanner, and he gave me a sheepish grin and nodded.
I climbed into the truck and watched as Tanner settled into the driver’s seat, plugged his phone in to charge, and started the directions. After the hours of running back and forth, of fighting demons both figurative and literal, the fatigue I’d been ignoring came back full force. My eyes drifted closed.
I woke when the truck ran over a rough spot. The dashboard clock showed I’d been asleep an hour and a half. I glanced over at Tanner. He had both hands on the wheel.
“Sorry that woke you up. We just left the main road and crossed onto the road Whitlock had built. The entrance has been torn up. Wouldn’t have known had it not been for your GPS.” I rose in my seat and twisted to stare behind us, but there were no lights. The only thing visible was a cloud of white dust burned red by the truck’s taillights.
“You think Whitlock tore up the road to keep squatters out?” I wanted this to be a normal case of squatters taking over any place where nobody was there to stop them, but I had a bad feeling. Especially after Louisa Mora’s comments in her article about things legend trippers saw out here.
“I don’t know,” Tanner said. The spirits of his wife and kids swirled around him, very visible now that I knew to look for them. They feared what Tanner would do to himself and stayed only to comfort and protect him. But their presence created a link between Tanner and his sad past, allowing him to hold on when he really needed to let go.
Curiosity about what had happened to them churned in my brain, but I’d never ask. It wasn’t my place or my business. All it had to do with me was a warning that maybe I didn’t want to pursue Tanner Letts romantically. No matter how hot he looked in his tight T-shirt and jeans, no matter how intense his green eyes were, no matter how there was just something about him that touched me deep.
Tanner had slowed the truck considerably. He leaned forward, staring at the road ahead with an intensity that looked exhausting. Maybe he was tired.
“Want me to drive the rest of the way?” My nap had refreshed me.
“I’m good. In L.A., where I lived before, there were always streetlights, no matter where you went. It’s dark out here. If there are deer, we won’t see them until it’s too late.”
I sat up in my seat and stared out into the darkness ahead, hoping I’d get a flash of the headlights on the deer’s eyes before they darted out. I could scream at Tanner to brake, but we’d probably still hit them and possibly make the truck undrivable.
“I thought you said you’d been to Death Valley, and it was more isolated than this would ever be. Surely you’re used to darkness.” I stole a glance at Tanner, gauging his reaction to the light jab.
He snorted. “I went there once with some buddies in college. Bunch of scared city boys.”
We both laughed. I kept a careful eye on the darkness for moving shapes. In the distance, a few lights flashed. I silently pointed. Tanner slowed almost to a stop. “That’s gotta be it, and it’s obviously occupied.”
“You ready for this?” I stared at his shadowed face.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” He took his foot off the brake and started us moving again.
A few minutes later, our headlights flashed over a large sign. It read “Pale Horse, Texas.” Then underneath, “Population: To Be Determined.” It should have been cute, but it wasn’t.
The town, unlighted, was a flat expanse of shadowy, dark buildings sticking up like tombstones. The only light came from the Pale Horse Saloon. We drove toward it. As we neared, so did the frenetic beat of heavy metal music. The screams of the lead singer sounded like someone was castrating him with a pair of pliers and a cutting torch. Those screams might be real. I cut off the thoughts. It wouldn’t help to imagine what I’d find inside the Pale Horse Saloon.
Tanner parked my truck in front of the stone building I’d seen on the website. It sat in a bed of loose looking sand that seemed to be piled high
er on one corner than the other. He took a deep breath and opened his door. I did the same, hurrying to his side of the truck so I didn’t have to walk into this weird place alone. Not that I was scared. Because I’m too tough to be scared. And there’s flying pigs on Sunday.
Tanner opened the door. A roar of music blasted out, so loud I felt the bass against my skin and rattling against my eardrums. I stepped inside first, ignoring Tanner’s effort to get around me and play alpha male. It was a decision I regretted almost immediately.
All conversation stopped, and every head in the saloon turned to face me. Tanner shut the door and hurried to my side, putting one arm around my waist. Despite my fear, the sexual charge between us hummed a little harder. He pulled me toward the bar and sat on one of the new, made-to-look-antique stools that Dane Whitlock must have left behind.
A huge man wearing a black leather vest over his bare chest sauntered toward us. In one hand, he held an object I couldn’t quite identify. The other hand held a dirty towel he was using to polish the object.
Rather than speaking to us, he spoke to the room. “Fresh meat, folks.” Nobody answered. He set whatever he’d been polishing on a shelf and walked the rest of the way to us. “What can I get you folks to drink? It’s all lukewarm, but it gets you where you want to go.”
“Water,” I said and pulled out my wallet.
“Whiskey,” Tanner said and pulled out his wallet, which I knew was just for show, because it was empty, except for his lucky two-dollar bill.
The man behind the bar scoffed. “Free for newcomers. We’re trying to build our brand.” He cackled at his own words.
I didn’t get the joke, and the intensity of his laughter set off warning bells inside my head. Deep breaths. Stay alert. Sit still. Don’t let him know you’re scared. I’d been to my share of backroads taverns and ice houses. Some of them seemed like portals into Hell. This one was no different.
