9 Tales Told in the Dark 5

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  “Sure was. Yo’ and me both, Captain.”

  And suddenly, Caleb remembered. Not just the rare night battle, in all its confusion and terror. And not just the aftermath, when the Yankee troops surrendered but some of the Confederates kept firing. Including his overexcited brother. And, Caleb knew darkly, including himself.

  But that wasn’t all. That wasn’t the worst of it.

  In a blinding, terrible flash, Caleb Morse remembered—a face. The large round face of a black Yankee corporal. A face that Caleb pressed a Sharps revolver into. A Sharps revolver just like the one he now held. And he had pulled the trigger, destroying that face forever.

  Or perhaps not quite forever . . . .

  Screaming, Caleb emptied his pistol into his mysterious visitor.

  But this time, the black man did not fall.

  This time he simply vanished.

  On the shelf above the fireplace, his bullets had damaged the tintypes of his dead family. The photographs of Eustace and little Nettie weren’t so bad. But the stereo shots of his parents were a hopeless ruin.

  For the first time in years, Caleb Morse wept.

  ><><

  That night was long and black and sticky. LIKE SWIMMING THROUGH A VAT OF HOT TAR, Caleb thought... But he would not—could not—bring himself to sleep outside on the porch. Or even to open one of the shutters in hopes of trapping a vagrant breeze.

  No.

  He was out there, waiting.

  Not that the unpainted shutters or the crude deadbolt Caleb had affixed to the door would do any good. Hell no! Even the walls themselves were nothing to the strange new foe he faced.

  For a lifetime, Caleb had earnestly believed in ghosts. It just made sense, somehow. But he’d never thought to actually encounter one, to come face-to-face with such an otherworldly apparition. And there was, of course, no escape. Not from a spirit who was after vengeance. And the worst of it was this big black ghost had some right to his fury.

  Despite himself, Caleb relived it all, his mind racing, replaying it over and over. The great waking nightmare from his past . . . .

  THE BATTLE RAGED IN PITCHED DARKNESS. THE WHISTLE OF MINIE BALLS AND BULLETS, THE THUNDER OF CANNON. EXPLOSIONS. AND THE SCREAMS OF FEARFUL, ANGRY MEN. OF THE WOUNDED. OF THE DYING. AND OF THOSE SIMPLY LOST IN THE MADNESS OF COMBAT. THE FACES—EYES WIDE, FEATURES TWISTED. TEETH BARED, LIKE THE FANGS OF SOMETHING RABID. AND THE HARD, FLICKERING, UNCERTAIN LIGHT FROM THE TORCHES—THE MUZZLE FLASHES ONLY ADDING TO THE DISTORTION. CHOKING, HALF-BURNT CLOUDS OF POWDER. AND MEN—REASONABLE AND DECENT MEN, NOW LOOKING MORE AND MORE LIKE DEMONS.

  AND AFTERWARD, A LINE OF PRISONERS.

  BLACK MEN IN BLUE, ON THEIR KNEES. AND HIS BROTHER, EUSTACE, BRANDISHING HIS PISTOL—HIS FACE STILL MAD, STILL DEEP IN THE BATTLE FRENZY. EUSTACE, WALKING DOWN THAT LINE—FIRING, KILLING HELPLESS MEN!

  THEN ONE HUGE BLACK MAN, SHOUTING SOMETHING. BREAKING FREE. UP IN CALEB’S FACE, SCREAMING—PLEADING WITH HIM TO DO SOMETHING; TO STOP IT. SCREAMING, DEMANDING. LUNGING . . . .

  THE CONFUSION.

  THE SUDDEN ANGER.

  THE FEAR.

  AND THE PISTOL, SO WARM AND FAMILIAR IN HIS HAND.

  END IT.

  END IT.

  END IT!

  ><><

  Caleb felt an inexplicable warmth upon his face. He moved slowly to the window, revolver held ready. Slowly, cautiously, he moved the shutter aside. The flash of daylight nearly blinded him.

  “Sorry. Shouldn’ta come at yo’ like I done.”

  Caleb looked up, red-eyed and past shocking. Past belief, or even disbelief. He simply turned, faced the reappeared apparition.

  “Name’s Griff,” the ghost told him.

  “Griff,” Caleb repeated, wetting his lips. “You done it, didn’t you? Kilt ‘em all—my whole family. Took the lot of ‘em, for revenge?”

  “Not me. First off, yo’ Daddy was long dead, ‘fore the war even. Yo’ knows dat. As for da rest, I sure wanted to at first. After all, yo’ kilt my people—yo’ an’ that brother of yourn.”

  “So you admit killin’ ‘em? Eustace and the womenfolk?”

  “No.” Griff shrugged, gestured with a huge but insubstantial hand. “Dead can’t do much, dat’s pure truth. Not to da livin’, anyways—not like da livin’ do to each other—and to themselves.”

  “But the womenfolk,” Caleb insisted, his voice rising. “They was innocent!”

  “Yo’ kilt my people,” Griff said with icy calm, but his eyes flared with emotion. “And not in no fair fight, neither—but after, when they done gived up. Yo’ an’ yo’ brother murdered ‘em—murdered all my people!”

  “Stop saying that! I’m not proud of Fort Pillow. You wanna hear that? Fine. There it is. I lost control. Of my men, my own brother—and of myself. I kilt you, just to make you stop screaming in my face. So I’m guilty. My brother too, I reckon. But neither of us hurt nobody’s family, you lyin’ nigger!”

  “Like hell.” The bluecoat snorted, shook his large head. “Like Unholy Hell yo’ didn’t! Dem boys in my squad, dey was my family. Only ones I ever knowed. Only ones the likes of yo’ kind ever let me know! And then yo’’ done murdered ‘em. If dey was yo’ men, yo’ brothers, what would yo’ do, white man?”

  Caleb shook his head.

  “Swore I’d come back. See yo’ an’ yourn got the same.”

  “And you did.” Caleb’s stomach churned.

  “I did what was needful.” Griff pulled on his cloak, as if impatient. “But yo’ an’ dat Eustace never even came back here. An’ a ghost—he gets to choose, but jus’ one place. Has to stay there till his mission’s done.”

  “You’ve been here ever since? Haunting my family?” Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “What about Eustace? You—”

  “Had nothin’ to do with his dyin’.” Griff shook his head, gave a bitter chuckle. “Drove hisself right crazy on his own in dat prisoner of war camp. Near forced the guard to shoot him, I hear. Crossed the deadline, without no permit.”

  “But the women? My Momma?”

  “Did what was needful,” Griff repeated. “Didn’t like it none. Not at all. ‘Specially not concernin’ yo’ sister, Miss Henrietta.”

  “Don’t you speak Nettie’s name, you black—” His voice died suddenly and Caleb stared.

  “No. ‘Course not, Caleb. I ain’t alive, yo’ mind? All I could do—all I done—was be here; tell ‘em things. Mostly things dey already knowed but couldn’t admit to. Some local folks did catch sight on me a time or two, after yo’ Momma went an’ Miss Henrietta was out here alone. Maybe I done soilt her reputation some, for which I’s sorry. She was a quality sort, from what I saw.”

  “Both were,” Caleb murmured, slumping back into his chair. “But why didn’t they write, ask me to come?”

  “Protectin’ yo’, I reckon. Yo’ knows womenfolk. Thought dey could stick it out, get used to me.”

  “And you drove ‘em to it. First my Momma, with her rope. Then Nettie—she knew that swamp better than anyone. No accident, no matter what nobody said—I knew it, right off!” Caleb put back his head, closed his eyes. All this—all this suffering, on his head. His responsibility. “Are they at least at peace now?”

  “Can’t rightly say. I mean, I’s here,” Griff pointed out. “Trapped, same as yo’. Long as my vow is incomplete, see? My awful, angry vow—to see yourn whole family dead!”

  “But they—oh.” A chill ran down Caleb’s spine. “You won’t be free till I’m dead. And you have to stay here?”

  Griff nodded. “Place I chose, when I had da chance. Yo’ could jus’ walk away, I reckon. Find ‘nother place to be hidin’ from da army.”

  Caleb blinked. “You know about that?”

  “Ghosts get to know next to everythin’ on Earth. Like it by magic, one might say.”

  “What’s waitin’ beyond?” Caleb asked. “You must know?”

  “Not me,” Griff admitted. “Only knows there be somethin’. Maybe better, maybe not.”

&nbs
p; “Heaven or Hell.”

  “Or somethin’ else,” Griff replied softly. “But jus’ might be time dat yo’ an’ me both get to findin’ out. Both sort of overdue, if yo’ take my meanin’?”

  Caleb nodded slowly. He drifted toward the fireplace and the ruined photographs. “My father always said I’d come to a bad end. Me and Eustace both. Could I—have some time to think on it?”

  “Surely, Caleb.” The huge ghost had grown quiet, his tone respectful. “We both got plenty time.”

  He faded from view and Caleb Morse stood alone, remembering.

  ><><

  His father was a tyrant and a bully, but not always. God, no—not always! Caleb recalled the fishing and the hunting. His father, trying to teach his boys how to cut and shape a bow. The old man had known real Indians, in the days before the Great Removal of Andy Jackson’s day.

  Yes, Old Hickory.

  His father’s hero and mentor, even as Nathan Bedford Forrest was Caleb’s own. And what would the Memphis general say about his present situation? Caleb trembled, thinking about Forrest’s capacity for righteous anger. An officer controls his troops. They’re his responsibility. As much a part of him as his very hands and heart.

  The sudden quiet of the room made Caleb uneasy. It was lonely here, with nothing but his random memories. And no one—not even a grim-faced, black-skinned ghost to share them with.

  “Ho, Griff!” Caleb looked around. “Come on back, will ya?”

  “Still not ready?”

  “Gettin’ there,” Caleb murmured. “Hard, you know?”

  “Surely. Hardest fights, dey ain’t with nobody’s army. Dey inside. The battle to—face what yo’ are, what yo’ done. An’ then to accept da—well, da results.”

  “The consequences of our actions?”

  “Yeah. Big word, but it sound about right. Jus’ like what dat general of yourn is doin’ right now!”

  “What? Forrest? Tell me what you know! Yankees catch him?”

  “No, Caleb. Ain’t tryin’ to. No need. Who yo’ think turned dem Klansmen of yourn in? Who had da inside knowin’, could name all da names? And who been arguin’ all along, against lettin’ da Klan turn too violent?”

  “You’re a liar! Nathan Bedford Forrest wouldn’t—”

  “Wouldn’t what?” Griff asked gently. “Wouldn’t get finally sick and tired of all da killin’? Of all da hatin’ an’ da wastin’ of lives an’ time an’ blood?”

  Caleb retreated to his chair again, slumped back into it. The Sharps revolver—a heavy weapon favored by Forrest’s cavalry for its ability to double as a club—lay beside him on the table. He stared at it. “Always used a lot of ammunition,” he said. “But we got the job done. At Brice’s Crossroads, Johnsonville, a hundred places. Did what we had to, like Forrest taught us.”

  “An’ what did he teach yo’?” Griff asked, not unkindly.

  “To stand up for what we believed in. Even if nobody else would understand. Or agree. To be responsible for our actions.”

  AND TO PAY OUR DEBTS. Caleb added silently.

  He reached into the battered carpetbag, brought forth a single black-powder charge and a bullet. It would do the job, of course. Carefully, he fitted the bullet into an empty chamber and snapped the gun back together.

  Then, a last time, Caleb Morse looked up.

  “The hardest battle,” he said. “And the last one, too.”

  Griff did not respond, except to nod.

  THE END

  THE KINGDOM OF THE ANASAZI by Jeffery Scott Sims

  I. Canyon Diablo

  “What a dump,” I groaned.

  Old Vorchek shook his head in that irritatingly smug, wise way of his, observed, “Really, Mr. Walters, you must find it in yourself to appreciate scenes of the unusual. You come to a place greatly removed from the world you know-- certainly in time, at any rate-- but I aver there are hidden charms in stark landscapes.”

  Maybe, but I’d aver they were well hidden. I gazed across a grim, too warm, barren landscape of bleak hills, dry gullies and semi-desert scrub, punctuated with forlorn ruins of toppled stone, crumbled brick, and rotting lumber, the wreckage of the long defunct town of Canyon Diablo. Far from the world? Not as measured on the map, for we were mere miles from the super highway to the south, separated from that ribbon of speeding civilization only by the hopeless dirt and rock road that led us here (thank God for four-wheeled drive), and less than an hour’s good haul from Flagstaff. In time I guess we’d lost about a hundred years, give or take a decade, whenever the area last meant something to anybody.

  Correction: it still mattered to Vorchek, for reasons that eluded me. That’s Professor Anton Vorchek, who conceived this dusty expedition into the dreary heartland on the forgotten fridge of the big Indian reservation. He cooked it up, he with his fussy clothes and the floppy oilcloth hat and the out of place tie, his little manicured beard and that annoyingly precise, foreign sounding talk. A hot shot scholar, they told me, working at a second-rate college where I made the mistake of enrolling, so now I, Finn Walters, was here, dragged along by him with the geologist Dr. Parker, and Vorchek’s assistant or girl friend (I hadn’t figured which, if not both) Theresa Delaney, about my age, who was a dish, if infuriatingly stand-offish.

  We got there that afternoon in Vorchek’s tired van, with its oil pan somehow intact, with enough supplies to camp for at least a week. Historical and scientific study, he told me-- some fun!-- analyzing rocks and trash, I supposed. I got credits out of the deal. I needed them, so I agreed, even though he left me oddly uncertain as to the purpose. Well, if he didn’t think to explain, I didn’t care to know, so we were even.

  He said, “Mr. Walters, you and Miss Delaney set up the tents, while Dr. Parker and I confer.” The girl muttered under her breath, obeyed with a shrug, which I figured was habit. Actually she was a knock-out: blonde, not threateningly tall, nicely and abundantly curved, dressed more like a fashion model than an outdoors woman. I particularly got a kick out of those boots of hers, riding high up her shapely legs. Of course I tried, not for the first time, to instigate conversation. Results were distressingly similar.

  “Does Vorchek expect to make a name for himself in this hole?” Another shrug, the slightest of dismissive twitches. “Maybe there’s buried gold hereabouts.”

  Theresa replied, her voice lovely and cold, “It’s old. The professor likes old. His interests here are historical and anthropological. He’s looking for a mystery. He thinks there’s one tucked among these rocks. It could be. He’s found them before.”

  “What’s this one?”

  “Ask him.” We didn’t talk much after that. It irked me that I only saw her animated when she spoke to Vorchek. The rest of us, apparently, didn’t count. There must be aspects to that old goat that didn’t register with me. To be fair, he’d rubbed me the wrong way from months back, when I started his elective course, so I might be biased. From the grades I received from him, and cutting comments inscribed in fancy script on my papers, I’d certainly assumed he didn’t think much of me. Regardless, here I was, by his special invitation, no less.

  Having finished laying camp we strolled to join our comrades, heavy in discussion. Parker, a short fat guy, swept his arm to the north, saying, “Igneous about the bridge, Anton, sandstone under, limestone at the bottom. If what you seek is natural, then only the lowest depths will serve.”

  “Then we descend,” Vorchek replied casually.

  “It’s a long drop, with no record of a trail. We may not be equipped.”

  “There must be a trail, Doctor, if my theories hold true.” They broke off as we approached.

  “Got our plans all straight?” I queried.

  Parker nodded, said, “For the moment. We’re taking a hike out that way, no more than a mile. Let’s all go. You’ll want to see what we’re facing.”

  “I’ve heard,” Theresa said shortly, but we went, the four of us, across the dreary, monotonous terrain, past heaps of antique rubbish, over or
around low sandy hills, until suddenly the earth opened at our feet, revealing a deep, narrow gorge, with a slender, rusty, obviously abandoned railroad bridge crossing it in the near distance. It wasn’t the Grand Canyon, it wasn’t picturesque, it was just a stony gash, a great raw wound in the ground. It was really dark down there.

  “The namesake,” announced Vorchek. “Canyon Diablo, so called by railway builders of yesteryear because of their inordinate difficulty in throwing that span across it. Truly it seems wasted effort now.”

  “It’s creepy,” sighed Theresa.

  Vorchek grinned, Parker laughed. The latter retorted amiably, “It needn’t be, despite the stories. I can’t bring myself yet to accept them. Nevertheless, it’s a formidable obstacle. It can cause us grief.”

  I chirped brightly, “We can cross it on that bridge, unless it’s been condemned.”

  Vorchek glanced at me, his eyelids low, his mouth tensed in a wry smile. “We do not cross. Tomorrow morning, son, we climb down, to the very bottom, if necessary.”

  I stared into the depths with more personal interest. Even then I felt crawling the long hairs on my neck.

  With the coming of a balmy dusk we stoked a blaze in an old campfire ring, Theresa cooked us a stew which I quite enjoyed, I sipped a can of beer afterward, then admitted to myself I was likely to go nuts out here before the trip wrapped up next week or whenever. Nothing to do, no radio reception, no Internet, and frankly boring companions. The girl was fine to look at, but I didn’t count on more, and all my fantasies did was aggravate. She gave me a remarkable view of her cold shoulder whenever I attempted social intercourse, and any other kind was a joke. The two scholars, huddled on the far side of the fire, yacked away in low tones, puffing at their pipes, Theresa occasionally joining them to ask something or collect notes from Vorchek. She mainly devoted herself to those papers, smoking a cigarette while she scribbled. I sat like a stone.

  Wisps of intense conversation reached me over the dying crackle of flames. Once Vorchek said, rather loudly, “Most of the reports center on the vicinity of the bridge. There are so few tales from our immediate locale that I dismiss, provisionally, the town site. The more recent reservation accounts clearly lead back to the canyon. The evidential lines converge. There we must investigate.”