Kyle and Roger nodded at this.
Drake angrily slapped John’s shoulder. “Oh don’t you start! I expect hysteria from Lunkhead and Cainer but not from you.”
Tom spoke up, sounding nearly as pissed off as Drake, “There is no such thing as ghosts!”
Kyle pointed out, “Until tonight, there was no such thing as this place— it didn’t fucking exist— and you know it!”
“Bullshit!” said Tom.
Drake called it, “Horseshit.” He went on to say, “We were kids when we went looking for this place the last time and we were stoned out of our minds! We just missed it, that’s all.”
Kyle called that, “Bullshit,” then added, “And you know it.”
“What I know,” shouted Drake, “is that there is nothing supernatural about that fog!”
It was right about then that the fog reached shore. John suddenly broke away from the others to grab his own gun.
Tendrils of mist slithered toward them, like groping ethereal tentacles. And still the fog rolled closer. As it finally reached the Fearless Five, Roger was wincing, as if he was expecting something painful or maybe even deadly.
Instead, he gasped, as he shuddered violently.
All five of them were immersed in a frigid cold. The temperature dropped at least forty degrees.
“Holy fuck!”
“Goddamn, that’s cold!”
“What the hell?”
Roger rushed over suddenly and got in Drake’s face. “What were you saying about the fog?”
For the first time, Drake Dupree seemed to be at a loss for words.
A stillness came over everything. There was a heaviness to the frigid air, a thickness to the chill. They could hear nothing but their own breathing, which was pluming up hot from their excited lungs, mixing with the mist.
“This is insane.”
They were all looking out toward Bullet Lake when the light appeared in the distance. They all jumped, two of them gasped, one of them squealed, and Roger said immediately, “Okay, that’s it. I’m outta here!”
Drake grabbed Roger’s arm. “No fucking way, Lunkhead. You’re staying right here with us.”
Tom hissed, “There is no fucking way that light is some fucking lantern being held aloft by a goddamn ghost! No fucking way!”
“It’s probably somebody in a boat,” said John.
Tom added, “Yeah. It’s just some guy in a boat. He didn’t turn on his lights until the fog came up.”
Drake gestured at Tom and John. “What they said.” He turned Roger around and gave him a little push toward the light. Roger immediately took a step back.
Kyle had said nothing but the plumes of his breath were puffing from his face with increasing speed.
Drake couldn’t seem to let go of the notion that this was all somebody’s idea of a practical joke. Breaking ranks, he walked over to retrieve his own gun, muttering, “Whoever it is, they’d better be out there by coincidence… because if this is somebody’s idea of a sick practical joke, I’ll be the one they oughta fear.”
Tom was wearing an expression like he just had to eat his least favorite food. All his good-humor and bravado were gone and he seemed annoyed that he was suddenly forced to take this situation seriously. He didn’t say anything as he went to get his own rifle.
Around them, the fog became agitated. It swirled and spiraled and broke apart, as if blown away by some kind of downdraft whirlwind. In a matter of a few seconds, the mist on shore broke apart, allowing all of them to see each other again more clearly.
The terrible chill was also lifted from their bones.
Moonlight shined down on them.
Across the lake, the fog was still thick and churning. And somewhere out there in the middle of that cloud, a light was burning brightly, a light with a flicker to it.
“That sure looks like fire.”
Kyle agreed with Roger. “It’s definitely not a flashlight.”
“Somebody’s fucking with us.” Drake was muttering so softly, they could barely hear him. “Somebody is definitely fucking with us.”
Without warning, the light across the lake began moving.
“Oh, shit,” moaned Roger. “It’s coming right for us!”
Drake sounded annoyed when he said, “It’s just some jerk-wad in a boat. You can bet your skinny white asses that ain’t no ghost!”
“But the light—”
Drake cut him off, “The light is a lantern, all right! The dude in the boat has a lantern!”
Kyle’s face was as white as the fog. “A lantern? This is 2012, asshole! People carry fucking flashlights, not lanterns!”
Tom said the craziest thing, which didn’t exactly break the tension but did momentarily ease it. “What kind of goddamn Injun carries a lantern in the first place? Didn’t Indians use torches?”
John had heard the old legend told many more times than the others. In a whiney voice, he said, “The lantern isn’t his. It belonged to Joe Flagg, his first victim.”
They all remembered that it was Joseph Flagg— the first settler of Trinity County— that the ghost borrowed his name from.
Drake gripped his gun tighter as he hissed through gritted teeth, “That ain’t no fuckin’ ghost.”
“Quiet!” Tom suddenly hissed, causing Drake to point an annoyed expression at him. Roger said, “What?” and Tom shushed him. “Listen.”
They listened but heard nothing, not a bird, not a wave on the lake, not a sound.
“I don’t hear anything.”
Tom’s face furrowed, his frown sinking lower. He looked at Drake and said, “No sound of a motor. No sound of oars. And all the crickets have stopped chirping!”
They were silent again, as each of them strained their ears. Roger had his head cocked like a dog.
The clearing was as still as a grave.
“So?” Kyle gave Drake a look that said, Explain that.
Drake was shaking his head. He didn’t seem to have an explanation.
As Kyle, Drake, and Tom were exchanging looks, John suddenly said, “Look!”
All the Fearless Five turned their eyes to Bullet Lake.
The light had stopped moving. It was about three hundred yards out from shore. It seemed high, numerous feet above the water. Despite the soupy thickness of the fog, the bright beams dazzled with their strength.
Roger lifted his gun, aiming his rifle at the light.
Kyle went running over to him, nearly shouting, “No, no, no!” He instinctively reached out and pushed Roger’s gun down. “Are you trying to kill somebody?”
Drake came sauntering over to them, his cocky smile back. “See, Lunkhead? Even Cainer knows that ain’t no ghost!”
Tom and John moved over to the other three, all of them just a few yards from the edge of the water.
Suddenly Drake cupped one hand to his mouth and shouted, “HEY, ASSHOLES! YOU PRICKS IN THE BOAT ON THE LAKE! GIVE IT UP! WE AIN’T AFRAID OF NO GHOSTS!”
Tom chuckled. “Damn straight! We’re GHOSTBUSTERS!”
Roger didn’t realize Drake spontaneously used a line from the Ray Parker Jr. song; he had never seen the movie Ghostbusters; so he looked at Drake and Tom like they were rabid. “Have you guys lost your minds?”
Drake and Tom laughed, but there was a shrill edge to their nervous snickering.
It was Kyle who pointed out, “The fog is rolling back.”
Sure enough, they could see a few yards of the water’s surface now, where before every inch of the lake was covered with fog. As they watched, the mist churned and flowed slowly back, receding, oozing away from shore toward the bright, steady light.
John now sounded totally unnerved. He was sweating, his bald head glistening with beads of perspiration. “This really is just like the legend, guys. Just like it.”
Drake’s declaration sounded hollow again, “There ain’t no ghost out there.”
Kyle was still watching the fog roll back. He said, in little more than a whisper, “Well, in a couple minutes, we�
�ll know for sure, won’t we?”
All four of the armed men clutched their weapons. Roger wasn’t pointing into the fog, his rifle was aimed at the ground, but he was gripping it in such a way he could raise it in an instant.
For the next minute, the only noise they heard was the sound of their own breathing. Time slowed down, making every heartbeat rumble like thunder. John wiped sweat off his forehead. Roger had begun to tremble, the barrel of his rifle bobbing up and down as his hands shook. Tom unconsciously licked sweat off his upper lip.
And then, just as the fog was about to roll past the light, revealing who was holding it, it was John, of all people, who muttered the prayer: “Dear Lord God, deliver us from evil.”
Before anyone could admonish him for his sudden need for religion, the ghost was revealed.
Injun Joe was exactly as they’d always imagined him, only with far greater detail, which only added to his shocking reality.
He was nearly seven feet tall, a mountain of a man made even taller by a robust headdress. He wore a breechcloth and thigh-high leggings made from deerskin, the leggings attached to a belt with leather ties. His belt was woven in chevron designs and decorated with crow feathers, copper ornaments, wampum, and moose hair floral embroidery. The Indian’s arms and chest were bare except for paints and jewelry. A black tattoo covered most of his breast, looking a lot like the head of a roaring bear. A necklace of grizzly bear claws hung around Joe’s neck.
The chief’s face was hard as stone, his jaw jutting, his nose sharp. At first, the Fearless Five thought his eye sockets were empty but then they realized his eyeballs were entirely black, like the eight-ball in a game of billiards. Dark energy spun in strange eddies, giving his unearthly eyes hints of movement. Rings of red pigment were painted around the Indian’s eyes, on his eyelids, coating his eyebrows. The crimson circles made his black eyes appear even blacker.
Hanging from both of Joe’s long ears were earrings, decorated with crow’s feathers. Joe’s headdress was also made of crow’s feathers, with some long vulture feathers mixed in, instead of the traditional white feathers of eagles or hawks.
In Joe’s left hand, he held aloft a blazing lantern. His other hand hung at his side, balled into an enormous fist.
Clouds of hot breath huffed visibly from his face. The ghost breathed.
“No fucking way! No fucking way! Are you seeing this shit?”
“Holy Christ, what is that?”
“It’s Injun Joe! Are you fucking blind?”
“This isn’t happening!”
As each of them registered their shock, the ghost of Injun Joe just stood there, holding his lantern aloft, scowling at them. His eyes roiled with obsidian energy.
Without warning, Roger shouted an inarticulate roar at the top of his lungs, as he opened fire on the figure standing on Bullet Lake. Flames blazed from the end of his rifle as repeated gunshots rang out.
No one knew what to expect but it was evident no one expected blood. True, the specter looked totally solid, totally real, but it was clearly a phantom. It was standing on top of the water (like a Native American Christ figure) and its eyes were unearthly. But when Roger shot Joe squarely in the chest, it caused a vicious splatter of shredded flesh and red blood. Three of the Fearless Five moaned with disgust and John squealed in horror.
Joe was hit three times and each shot did massive damage. Each shot also knocked him back a step, as if he was being roughly shoved. Waves on the lake radiated outward from his backward footsteps. The lantern swayed in his hand.
But Joe remained on his feet, standing on the surface of Bullet Lake.
Roger stopped his bear roar only to shout, “YOU’RE NOT FUCKING REAL!” and wildly fired more shots. None of these hit Joe but one blast went just above his head, decimating the black feathers there. His dark headdress was blown apart.
“I don’t fucking believe this!” cried Drake.
“Who is that guy?” whined Tom.
Roger looked back at Tom and furiously shouted, “Open your fucking eyes! It’s Injun Joe!”
Speaking so softly nobody heard him, John gasped, “Grandpa wasn’t crazy!”
Roger fired again at the water-walking Indian, hitting Joe again in the chest. He kept pulling the trigger of his rifle until all his ammunition was spent. As his gun clicked impotently, Roger looked at the damage he caused with platter-sized eyes.
Joe’s chest was macaroni. Blood rained down his body, dribbling down his legs. Something in his chest seemed to be fluttering, as if a hole had been scooped out to reveal a laboring lung.
There was no expression of pain on the Indian’s face, despite his horrible wounds. He looked as grim as ever.
Like a thespian on a stage, Joe ignored his audience as he performed his next actions. Holding the lantern in his left hand, he reached inside it with his right and grabbed up the fire. Withdrawing a ball of flame, the lantern went dark. His chest still gushing blood, the ghost now knelt down and set the lantern down, on top of the surface of the lake. Standing back up, Joe then threw back his head, opening wide his jaws.
He plopped the fireball into his mouth, swallowing it.
Only then did he turn his nothing eyes on the Fearless Five. They all felt he was looking at them but they learned in a moment which of them had actually drawn his gaze.
The specter’s black eyes flared up, igniting with blasts of orange fire. His eyes burned for all of three seconds before the fire went out . . . .
And then Roger Luttman burst into flames.
Lunkhead screamed in agony as his face went up first, like the head of a match.
Drake, Tom, John, and Kyle shrieked like little girls.
“I’m BURNING!” There was a loud SHOOOF as Roger’s clothes caught fire. His entire body was quickly blazing, as intensely as if it had been soaked in gasoline.
That was when John pissed himself (and wasn’t even aware of it.)
“The water! THE WATER!” Drake was backing away from Roger, nearly as fast as everyone else, but he was pointing at the lake, screaming at Roger, “GET IN THE FUCKING WATER!”
Wailing an excruciating shriek that somehow added the crackle of fire to it, Roger Luttman barreled toward the lake, trailing flames. John, Tom, and Kyle joined Drake in shouting for Roger to get into the water. Lunkhead lumbered out until he was knees deep in the lake, and then he dove beneath the waves.
On shore, the screaming continued until Drake yelled at the others to, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
No one was exactly certain what they were seeing. Strange lights were now emanating from beneath the water where Roger went down. They watched as the light beneath the surface shot outward (toward Joe). After gliding at least twenty feet through the water in a single second, Roger broke the surface, hollering “I’M STILL BURNING!”
Roger blubbered, thrashed, and screamed. His hair was gone now, totally ashed, and yet the top of his head still burned as if it was emitting natural gas. Fantastically powerful flames threw up great clouds of steam.
John screamed inarticulately in response to Roger’s death screams.
Drake groaned, “I don’t fucking believe this!”
A screech became a gurgle as Roger Luttman again went under. Roger’s flaming, submerged form zipped out to where Joe was standing. There, directly below the Indian’s feet, Roger seemed to grow momentarily brighter and then Lunkhead’s dead body sank to the bottom of the lake, thirteen feet below. Even as the remains of a good friend descended through the water, they continued to burn.
The Fearless Five— now diminished by one— looked again at Joe.
He looked back. His eyes were black again— flameless, lifeless.
The Indian smiled, revealing jagged yellow teeth.
Drake roared like a bear as he shouldered his rifle and fired.
He shot three times and hit all three times. Joe took three more bullets to the chest.
Bloody macaroni became gushing spaghetti.
This time, however, Joe wasn
’t staggered. His body was jolted by the impact of every shot but his footing remained rock steady.
Drake now paused, taking careful aim so he could deliver the coup de grace, the perfect head-shot. “DIE, YOU MUTHERF—”
Joe moved like an oiled nightmare. His right hand lashed out, with blurring speed, flinging the giant tomahawk.
The handle of the hatchet was three feet long, blackened from fire, with two raven’s feathers hanging from the bottom. The wide blade was also blackened with soot and ash, except for the razor sharp edge, which glittered in the moonlight as it spun in flight.
Drake didn’t even have time to pull the trigger before his head was cleaved in two.
The tomahawk struck a tree nine yards behind Drake with a sonorous CRACK!
All three of the living men were splattered by the dead man’s blood.
Drake Dupree fell, his body wracked with terrible spasms. Twitching and jerking, his finger already tight on the trigger, he fired his rifle one last time, post-mortem, nearly shooting John in the ass.
Tom, John, and Kyle shrieked a chorus of terror at the sight of Drake’s head. His body had fallen on its side in such a way they could see his brains drooping out of the fault-line carved straight through his split skull.
It was the sound of repeated impacts on water that finally caused them to shift their attention back to Joe.
He was striding toward them, now splashing up water with each determined footfall.
In one hand was a black bow.
In the other hand was a black arrow, feathered from a buzzard.
Seeing the approaching monster, John immediately turned tail and started to run.
When John started running, Joe stopped, now only about ten yards from shore. Further out, Roger Luttman was still burning at the bottom of the lake.
Kyle, unable to move, screamed at John, “NO! Don’t RUN!”
Tom screamed, “LOOK OUT!”
The arrow was notched; Joe stood ready; but the ghost paused when he heard Tom’s shout.
Running, John turned his head back over his shoulder to look.
Dark arrows flew, one after the other, with the same incredible swiftness of the tomahawk before them. The atmosphere squealed as it was pierced.
John’s glance back only took an instant, but in that instant, the arrows struck. The shaft hitting his right eye struck a second before his left eye was decimated by a second arrow. Obeying Newton’s Law of Inertia, his body in motion remained in motion, even after the brain powering it had stopped. John went down in a twisted heap, the shafts of the arrows jutting from his eye sockets. He emitted a staccato squeak, which was followed by a brittle-sounding snaps as the shafts of the arrow struck the ground and broke.
Fishing in Brains for an Eye with Teeth (Thirteen Tales of Terror) Page 18
