Some Dark Holler (The Redemption of Ephraim Cutler Book 1)

by Luke Bauserman

  “Since its removal from the almanacks, the knowledge to calculate the yearly Cut Off Day has been forgotten. However, using my knowledge of the stars, I have rediscovered the way to reckon the yearly date of Abdannsdag. I include it here, in hopes that it will help those faced with supernatural foes. I pray that this knowledge will not fall into the hands of those who would use it for dark purposes.”

  Nancy shook her head. “My pappy certainly was as learned as folks said he was.”

  Ephraim continued. “The Cut Off Day occurs between the rising and the setting of the full moon, when the signs are in the secrets.” Ephraim looked up from the book. “We know we’ll have a full moon tomorrow, but what does the rest of it mean? ‘When the signs are in the secrets’?”

  “That I can help ye with,” Nancy said. She grabbed the almanack and flipped back to the diagram of the man. “The heavens are divided into twelve signs—ye can see ’em at night.” She pointed to the symbols surrounding the man. “These are the signs.”

  “You talkin’ ’bout the stars?” Ephraim asked.

  “Them, along with other things in the sky. Each sign is linked to the body, and each sign rules a part of the year.” She pointed to a symbol that resembled a scorpion. “This is the sign that’s in the secrets.”

  Ephraim studied the sign. It was connected to the man’s groin by a line. “What part of the year does it rule?”

  “The signs are in the secrets right now,” Nancy said. “The full moon that’s a-comin’ tomorrow night marks the Cut Off Day.”

  Ephraim sat back in his chair. “I haven’t seen the hellhound since it chased me, and now I’ve got to find it before the full moon sets tomorrow.”

  “And you’ll be needin’ iron,” Reuben said.

  “What should I use?” Ephraim asked. “A knife would be near useless against that thing. There’s no way I could get in close enough to stick it, not without it bitin’ my head off.”

  Reuben rubbed his chin. “You any good with a bow and arrow?”

  Ephraim shook his head. “I haven’t played with one since I was little. I’m a good shot with a rifle, but even if I had mine, how would I get an iron bullet into it?”

  Nancy walked over to her bed, got down on her knees, and reached under it. She pulled out a musket, a powder horn, and a worn leather bag. “I’ve shot creek stones out of Ruination afore. I used to have a sack of lead balls, until Earl ate ’em. I figured I could pick ’em up again once they came out the other end, but I never did find a single one.” She looked from Ephraim to Reuben, who were both staring at her. “What I mean to say is: I reckon ye could ram just about anythin’ down the barrel, long as ye got enough powder behind it.”

  Reuben took the musket from her and inspected it. “Smooth bore,” he said. “It ought to work. But you’ll need an iron ball.” He handed Ephraim the gun.

  “How are we goin’ to get an iron ball?” Ephraim asked. “Manson Owens is the only one ’round here who could do it.”

  “He the blacksmith in town?” Reuben asked.

  Ephraim nodded.

  “Then we’ll pay him a visit.”

  “I don’t know ’bout that. He’s the one who caught me after I killed Silas. He probably thinks I killed Jubal too.”

  Reuben patted his pistol in its holster. “I’ll use this to make the blacksmith do the work for us. If everythin’ you read about this Cut Off Day is true, I’m goin’ to get me some iron, too, and cut down Bill Boggs.”

  “Ye won’t be needin’ that with Manson,” Nancy said. “Just tell him what’s been going on over the past few days. He’ll hear ye out and help ye. Be careful not to be seen by someone else though. Oh, and Ephraim, I have somethin’ for ye before ye go.” She rummaged through a basket in the corner and came up holding the cream-colored shirt Ephraim had seen her talk to.

  “Why are you givin’ me this?” Ephraim asked, accepting the folded shirt.

  “It was my pappy’s, as you know,” Nancy said. “The only thing I ever seen that belonged to him besides that almanack. I’d be ashamed to use it now that I’m a witch. I know ye ain’t goin’ to be stickin’ ’round these parts after this is all over, and I want ye to take it.”

  “Thank you, Nancy, but I’m not cunning-folk. I wouldn’t know how to use this.”

  Nancy smiled. “I may be old, Ephraim, but I ain’t no fool. This’ll help ye, and when the time is right, you’ll learn how to use it. And I want ye to keep the almanack too.”

  “But—”

  The old woman held up her hand. “My doctorin’ days are over. The only thing that book could teach me now is how to work evil. It’d be best if it weren’t nowhere near me.”

  Ephraim tucked the almanack and the shirt into the bag.

  “Go on now, you two,” Nancy said. “I’ll stay here in case Isabel shows up. There ain’t no time to be wastin’.”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “I bet that’s Isabel,” Ephraim said, his heart leaping in his chest. He ran to the door and flung it open. “Isa—”

  Jake Fletcher stood outside in the snow, rifle at the ready.

  Ephraim jumped away. Reuben pulled out his pistol.

  “Easy now!” Jake said, taking a step backward. “I just come up here to deliver a message from Reverend Boggs.”

  “What does he want?” Ephraim said.

  “He wants you to know that he’s got your girl. Caught her last night. She ain’t been harmed, and if you want her to stay that way, the reverend says you need to meet him tomorrow at midnight in Butcher Holler, at Wes Sherman’s old place. He said to bring his book with you.”

  Jake turned and ran back into the woods.

  “Coward,” Ephraim said. He slammed his fist on the wall. “We’ve got to go after her. We got distracted by the almanack; we should’ve been looking for her.”

  Nancy shook her head. “Jake said they caught her last night, Ephraim. It wouldn’t have done no good.”

  Ephraim’s whole body felt tense. He paced back and forth in front of the open door, oblivious to the snow blowing in around him. “Silas is dead. Ma is dead.” He looked at Nancy. “You’re a witch. And now Isabel is a hostage, all on my account.” Tears of self-loathing sprang to his eyes. “All because I shot a man who didn’t deserve it.”

  He threw the musket on the floor. “I don’t want to kill anymore! I don’t want anybody or anythin’ else to have to die, or get hurt, so that I can live. I should go dig myself a grave and sit in it until this poison finishes its job.”

  Reuben laid a hand on Ephraim’s shoulder. “Don’t lose your head. Remember, Boggs is behind this.” He looked Ephraim in the eyes. “It’s true: you killed an innocent man. You’re right to regret it, and I imagine you’ll spend the rest of your days regretting it. Remember, though, this has all been Boggs trying to play you right into the Devil’s hands, just like he did with my boy, Amos. Don’t give up now. We have to work together to stop him, so he doesn’t do this to someone else.”

  Ephraim lowered his head. “All right,” he said. “But forget the hellhound. We need to go after Isabel.”

  “And what if ye cain’t find her?” Nancy put her hands on her hips. “I’m sure Boggs is guarding her well. By midnight tomorrow ye won’t be in no shape to deal with him. Go deal with the hellhound first. Once that poison is drawn out of ye, ye can square off with Boggs. Besides, that Isabel is clever. She can take care of herself.”

  Ephraim was quiet. He knew Nancy was right. He stooped and retrieved Ruination.

  Reuben patted him on the back. “Let’s go get our iron,” he said.

  Ephraim and Reuben crouched on a thin blanket of snow, ears pressed to the back door of Manson’s forge. Ephraim heard the rhythmic clink of the hammer against the anvil as the blacksmith worked. Someone else was in there, too; Ephraim caught stray words and phrases.

  “—killed my prize boar hog,” the visitor said.

  CLANK.

  “Same bear that tore up my bee gums, bet you a
dollar,” Manson said. CLANK. “Caught his toenails a while back.” There was the hiss of hot metal being quenched. “That’s why I’m fixing this here trap.”

  Ephraim listened hard, willing the visitor to leave quickly. The banging of the hammer resumed, and he caught the words “piece of my hog left” and “bait.” Another few minutes passed before at last Manson bid the visitor goodbye and the front door of the shop opened and closed.

  Ephraim looked at Reuben, who nodded. They eased the back door open and slipped inside.

  A partially repaired buckboard wagon sat immediately in front of them, propped up on blocks of wood. Ephraim looked underneath it and saw Manson hammering at the anvil through the spokes of the wheel on the far side.

  He leaned toward Reuben and whispered, “I’ll talk to him. You guard the front door. Lock it so no one comes in.”

  Reuben nodded.

  Ephraim took a deep breath, leaned Nancy’s musket against the wall, and stepped out from behind the buckboard. Manson had his back turned and didn’t see him. “Mr. Owens,” Ephraim said.

  Manson stopped hammering, raised his head, and looked toward the front door.

  “Mr. Owens, back here,” Ephraim said.

  Manson turned around. The hammer dropped from his fingers. “Ephraim! What are you doin’ here?”

  Ephraim held out his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I want to talk to you,” he said, stepping aside so that Reuben could make his way to the front door. “This is my friend, Reuben. He’s goin’ to watch the door so that no one steps in on us.”

  Manson folded his arms and studied Reuben. “All right then,” he said. “Be careful when you drop the crossbar—it’s heavy. Smashed more fingers than I can count.” The old blacksmith turned to Ephraim and motioned to a bench by the forge. “Sit down, Ephraim. Tell me what this is all about.”

  Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief and moved to the seat. “You’ve probably been wonderin’ where I’ve been,” he said.

  Manson simply nodded.

  “Well, I’m goin’ to tell you,” Ephraim said. “There’s a lot goin’ on in Sixmile that folks don’t know about.”

  He began with the night he’d killed Silas Henson and told the story in mostly sequential order from there, explaining about the hellhound, Boggs’s pact with the Devil, the almanack, and Abdannsdag.

  Manson remained quiet throughout the entire tale, listening intently, not moving from the anvil. When Ephraim finished, the smith turned and stared at the coals glowing in the forge.

  “I believe you,” he said, stroking his beard. “Every word. But I fear there ain’t many in the town who will. I ain’t been much of a churchgoin’ man since Reverend Boggs came to Sixmile. Truth is, there’s somethin’ ’bout him that just don’t sit right with me. The missus thought I was losin’ my faith.” He chuckled. “I must say, I never figured Boggs for a servant of the Devil, but that ought to get her off my back when I tell her that.” He shifted off the anvil and looked at Ephraim. “You got that old musket with you?”

  “It’s in the back,” Ephraim said. “I didn’t want you to think I’d come to shoot you or anythin’.”

  Manson smiled. “Let me have a look, and we’ll make you some iron balls.” He snorted. “Though it sounds like you already got a pair, takin’ on a hellhound in the woods at night.”

  Ephraim grinned.

  Reuben cleared his throat, and Manson looked to the front door. “Somethin’ you need, mister?”

  “I was wondering if you had anythin’ else, a weapon forged out of iron. I aim to settle a quarrel with the reverend.”

  Manson moved to a corner of the shop and began sorting through various tools and implements. “I got an old iron corn knife here,” he said, holding it up.

  The corn knife was about as long as a man’s arm, with one edge sharpened.

  Reuben examined it. “That’ll do.”

  “I’ll put a fresh edge on it for you,” Manson said, producing a whetstone from his apron pocket. He took a few minutes, honing the blade and testing it on his arm until it shaved off a patch of hair. “There you go,” he said, handing the weapon to Reuben. “Now”—he turned to Ephraim—“let’s see that musket.”

  Ephraim handed the weapon over. The blacksmith inspected the gun and stuck a grime-blackened finger into the end of the barrel. “Looks to be .75 caliber. You’ll be needin’ an iron pumpkin ball.” He sat the gun down and scratched his chin. “Question is, how am I goin’ to make it for you?”

  “Can’t you cast some, like you would a lead ball?” Ephraim asked.

  Manson shook his head. “I can forge iron, not cast it. There’s too much air in my fire. If I got it hot enough to melt the iron, it’d just burn it up.” He walked over to a bench and rummaged through a pile of iron scraps. “I think I know what we can do,” he said, holding up several chunks of iron shaped roughly like cubes.

  Manson piled charcoal into the forge and pumped the bellows. He picked up one of the iron chunks in a pair of tongs and shoved it into the fire. Yellow flames spat out from under it. Then he took a splayed cigar stub from his apron pocket and lit it with a coal from the forge.

  Manson pumped the bellows a few more times. “You want to keep your fire hot, but not too hot,” he said, turning the chunk of iron in the coals. The metal was glowing a cherry red. “Got to watch the colors.”

  Gradually the iron began to glow a translucent yellow. The heat made the surface of the metal shimmer. “There she is.” Manson drew the metal from the fire and laid it on the anvil. “Now to make it round.”

  He took up the hammer and swung it down on one of the chunk’s corners. The soft iron gave under the blow with a dull ring. Manson turned the chunk, knocking the corners and edges in. “Now we take another heat,” he said, plunging the iron back into the fire. “Put that musket barrel up here where I can look at its diameter.”

  Ephraim picked up the gun and leaned the end of the barrel against the anvil.

  Manson took the iron to the anvil again. He hammered faster this time, pausing every few hammer strokes to squint at the barrel. “That ought to do it,” he said, scooting the rough orb to one side of the anvil. “But we’ll make you a few.”

  By the time Ephraim and Reuben left the smithy by the back door—with a “thank you” for Manson and a “good luck” in return—Ephraim had three iron pumpkin balls. It was snowing again, and they used the cover to slip unnoticed back into the forest.

  Reuben turned to Ephraim and stuck out a hand. “I think we’ll part ways here for a while,” he said. “If Boggs is goin’ to be in Butcher Holler tomorrow night, I want to get there before him. Get the lay of the land and get the jump on him.”

  “I’ll see you there at midnight tomorrow,” Ephraim said. “Don’t let him hurt Isabel.”

  “I’ll do my best. You just find that hellhound. You’re ready for him.”

  I hope so.

  Ephraim watched Reuben slip off between the trees. He remembered the last spot he’d seen the hound, on the bank of the creek downstream from the Laura. He might as well start his search there.

  He sighed, shouldered the musket, and set his jaw. Let the hunt begin.

  31

  Peyton

  Clabe didn’t wait for Jake to return before seeking out the Hensons. A few minutes after Jake’s departure, he tightened the cords that held Isabel to the chair.

  “You best stay still, missy. I ain’t goin’ to be gone long, and if I come back and find you tryin’ to run for it, I’ll beat you silly. You hear?” He scooted her away from the window, then left, locking the door behind him.

  Isabel’s fingers and toes soon grew numb from the tightness of the rope. Beneath the gag she moaned in discomfort. She tugged against the ropes, wincing when they cut deeper into her flesh. The knots were firm, and Isabel knew she’d never loosen them without help. She closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer.

  Minutes passed slowly into hours. The sun sank past the window, and the parsonage g
rew colder. Isabel sat in her chair, her head drooping in a semi-stupor.

  Her head snapped back up again when voices from the yard reached her ears, muffled by the walls and distance. Her heart leaped at the possibility that there was someone outside who might be able to help her.

  She threw her weight forward in the chair. It moved no more than an inch. But she repeated the motion, again and again, inching the chair toward the window until she was right next to it, her head level with the bottom pane. Her nose touched the cold glass as she peered out into the yard, searching for the source of the voices. Down by the garden, barely within her field of vision, stood two men.

  She turned her head and pressed her ear to the window.

  “… told me you said for me to meet you here,” one of the men was saying. Isabel recognized the voice. Peyton!

  “I did,” the other man said. It was Clabe. “I got a deal to cut with you.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “You still offerin’ two hundred dollars for Ephraim Cutler?”

  “Yes, I am,” Peyton said slowly. “Do you have him?”

  “Is it worth two hundred dollars to you if I tell you where he’ll be tomorrow night?”

  “Of course it is—assumin’ you’re tellin’ the truth.”

  “Oh, I know where he’ll be,” Clabe said. “Fetch that two hundred dollars and I’ll tell you.”

  “Now wait a minute…”

  Isabel pulled her ear away. She wanted to hear more, but this might be her only chance to get free. She reared back and slammed her forehead into the glass. It didn’t break, and Isabel grimaced in pain. She tried again, and this time it shattered. Isabel felt one of the cold shards slice her skin.

  Out in the yard, the men stopped talking.

  “What was that?” Peyton said. He looked up the bank toward the cottage.

  Clabe cocked the lever action on his rifle. “Stay where you are, Peyton!”

  “What’s this all about?” Peyton asked. “Who are you hidin’ in there? Is it Ephraim?”

  “Afraid I can’t say. Reverend Boggs hired me to keep that a secret.”

  Isabel leaned toward the window. She could barely make out the top of Peyton’s head. He was quartering away from her.