"You're next," said a man's voice as soon as darkness had captured the room once again.
"Son of a bitch!" Jericho snarled, throwing himself from the bed and rolling across the floor. The next match flared to life and he scanned the room one more time. There was no movement but the closet door was now closed. He turned the oil lamp up again.
"You ain't getting me back in there," he said to the closet. He picked up the chair from in front of the chest of drawers and wedged it beneath the handle of the door. Thinking twice about what he had just done, he removed the chair, opened the door, and retrieved his saddlebags before repeating his earlier barricade.
The portal sealed, he looked around the room. The mirror drew his attention. On it, a thick red liquid dripped in the shape of letters. The words it spelled were chilling: "You die" was a pretty solid threat. He reached out a finger to touch the liquid. It felt and looked real enough, and he was certain that he had been exposed to enough blood in his time to recognize it when he saw it.
"Y'all gotta be joshing me," he said aloud. "I ain't done nothing to piss y'all off, and you're gonna tell me about how you're gonna kill me? I notice you ain't managed nothing but holding me in a closet. That ain't real special. All I want is to get some sleep. But you know what? Y'all want the room so bad, you can have it. I'll go tell the downstairs dullard I want a new room. I ain't never seen the like," he added, throwing his clothes on and exiting the room.
He tromped down the stairs, still shaking his head over the fact that an unseen force had essentially talked him into leaving a room behind. The tiny bell on the front desk rang twice beneath the impacts of his hand, and after a moment, the black-haired clerk emerged from the office, wiping at tired eyes.
"Help you?" he muttered, yawning behind a closed hand.
"I need to change rooms," Jericho said. He smiled despite the situation as he spoke the next words. "Mine's hainted."
"What does that mean, sir?"
"Weird stuff has been going on all night, and now there's voices in the room and writing on the wall, and I'm thinking I'm gonna need to switch rooms before someone gets lit up with one of these," he said, patting the butt of his revolver.
"Sir, there is no one in your room."
"That's a fact. Least of all me," Jericho replied.
"And you are hearing things?"
"Yup. Voices and such."
"And you're not going to stay in there because of voices?"
For the first time, Jericho picked up a tone beyond boredom in the youth's voice. It was contempt.
"Boy, you better listen to me --" he began, but the clerk cut him off.
"Oh, yes, sir. We'll see if we can move you to a room less likely to be 'hainted', as you say. We wouldn't want you to be all frightened to sleep in a strange room."
"Oh, to Hell with this," Jericho said, shaking his head. "You think I'm scared? You don’t know what I… Look. I just want to sleep and they're keeping me awake!"
"Of course, sir," the clerk said, turning away to return to the office. "Try to count sheep. I hear tell that is effective."
Suppressing the urge to dive across the desk and throttle the youth, Jericho turned back toward the stairs.
"Better off sleeping in a stable," he said, half to himself and half to the retreating clerk. He worked his way back up the stairs to retrieve his saddlebags, after which he could do exactly that.
When he stepped off onto the second floor, he noticed that the hall was cold. Not just cool by evening temperatures, but uncomfortably so. His flesh prickled at the sudden temperature change. Only one of the oil lamps was burning any more, and the hallway was a long tube of shadow. As the lamplight flickered, the shadows danced and moved, adding to the threatening feeling of the hallway.
"Don't go in there," he heard again.
He refused to reply to the voice, and instead jerked at the handle of his room, flinging open the door and stepping in. He stopped at the realization that the room was dark again. The curtains were drawn against the moonlight and the oil lamp that he had left burning was now extinguished.
A low, angry growl started in his chest. He fished out yet another match, noting absently that he was going through the lucifers faster than he would lighting a campfire in the rain. It flared in the dark and he touched it to the wick of the lamp, turning it back up.
There was a man standing at the foot of his bed, glaring at Jericho with baleful eyes. He wore a buffalo hide coat and a long filthy beard fell from his face.
Jericho threw himself at the intruder, his fist flying out to tag the man on the chin. The bearded face seemed to shimmer and Jericho's hand passed through the man with only the slightest sensation of contact. Off balance, he stumbled forward into the mountain man. A second later, and he was completely through the man. His blood felt chilled and he began to shiver.
Still stumbling, he turned back to see the mountain man reach down to the bed. While Jericho had been unable to interact with the man, the blanket was apparently fair game for him, as the intruder hoisted it up and peeled it free from the bed. He threw it at Jericho, the colorful fabric spreading out like a gladiator's net.
Jericho threw up his hands to ward off the attack, stepping back one more time. It was one time too many. His lower thigh caught on the window ledge and he fell backward. He heard and felt the glass pressing against his back as it gave with a cracking sound, and then he was tumbling out the window. His rump landed on the sloped first floor roof and before he could do more than slap ineffectually at the cedar shakes that acted as shingles he was airborne and headed for the ground.
The impact drove all the air from his lungs and threatened to leave him unconscious. He landed at an angle, but mostly on the outside of his left thigh. When his shoulder smashed into the ground, his head snapped back and forth, leaving floating bits of light in his vision. It had only been from the second floor, but the fall was uncontrolled and he had no way to protect himself.
Coughing, he pushed himself back to a sitting position and then forced himself to stand. He ached worse than the time the family mule had kicked him as a child, and he knew that the entire left side of his body would be bruised tomorrow. He spat a dark stream into the dirt.
"Are you all right?" inquired a powerful voice. Jericho turned to see the severe features of Reverend Prescott. The preacher stood a head taller than Jericho, although he would probably have been just as imposing a figure if they were the same height, Jericho guessed.
Wiggling his tongue experimentally in his mouth, Jericho spat blood again. "Bit my tongue," he said.
"Was that before or after your ill-conceived attempt at flight?"
"Let's go with 'during'."
Prescott looked up to the shattered window. Only a tiny bit of glass remained in the frame. "I take it there was some sort of an altercation?"
Jericho picked up his hat where it had been knocked from his head. He slapped it against his leg to clear dust from it and then jammed it back onto his head.
"Preacher-man, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Prescott stepped closer, looking down into Jericho's eyes. There was no hint of mercy or forgiveness in the cleric's gaze, and lesser men had quailed before his fixed stare.
"I believe a great many things," he said.
"How about hainted hotels?"
"Not you, too."
"You see?" Jericho asked. "Told you that you wouldn't believe me."
He pointed up to the window. The motion sent a spike of pain through him. It would be a while before he was fully recovered, he knew.
"There was a man in my room, but he wasn't there, if you follow me. I tried to grab him and stepped right through him. It was like dunking my head into meltwater."
"You say you stepped through him?" Prescott asked. His voice had gone from imperious to a more curious tone.
"Like he was a breeze. Didn't have no meat to him at all."
"What did he look like? Did he speak to you?"
"Never sai
d nothing, but he looked like a big old mountain man."
"That is an oddity, indeed."
"He was ugly as sin, too. I like that one better," Jericho added, pointing again. At the window, a young woman was looking out at them and the light from the room could be seen through her body. She seemed to flicker in and out of existence.
As if the words had summoned her, the woman began to drift down from the second floor, a shimmering mote on the evening breeze. Prescott stepped back with his right foot, adopting an aggressive stance, and thrust a glittering metal cross out before him.
"You have no business here, Hellspawn," he said. "I rebuke you!"
The woman looked back toward the hotel and her head shook slowly from side to side. She remained where she was, however, hovering a good five feet above the street. Thick black hair flowed out behind her, borne on invisible winds. She looked back toward the two men and a smile lit her features.
"Father in Heaven!" Prescott uttered, his eyes going wide at the sight. A moment later, and the color drained from his face. "Nancy Hawkins!" he said in a ragged whisper.
"You know her?"
"I should," he said. "I buried her last week."
"Well, now, that puts a different coat of paint on things," Jericho said. He flexed the muscles of his left leg, grimaced, and pulled the flask from his vest. He lifted a silent toast toward the floating woman.
"It don't look like she means us no harm," he said. Prescott made a snorting sound.
"She is held at bay by the power of the Lord," he replied. "Forbidden to attack His servants."
"Hold up a step or two," Jericho said. He stepped forward, past the posturing cleric, and called up to the floating spirit. "You tried to warn me about that mountain man, didn't you?"
"Don't go in there," she repeated. The words seemed to drift more than her form, but it was the same voice he had heard twice in the hallway upstairs.
"I daresay young Miss Hawkins there tried to help me. I reckon she ain't gonna come and change all that now."
"Annabeth? Girl? Is that you?" Prescott asked, his voice cracking. The spirit nodded.
"Thought you said her name was Nancy."
"That was the name she went by. Annabeth was her Christian name. She ran a restaurant on Able Street. Made a fine meal, she did."
"So how is it she's up floating in my hotel room, what with you burying her and all, Reverend? Seems to me you said that didn't happen."
Prescott grabbed Jericho's arm and spun the gunfighter around to face him. The angry eyes had returned, and he fixed Jericho with them as he snarled a response.
"Someone has defiled the grave. I consecrated her burial myself, and the fact that she has returned means her rest -- and my work -- has been violated. This cannot stand."
He looked up to where the spirit hovered. "I shall sanctify your place once again, Annabeth. I shall regain you your sleep."
"And I'll send whoever did it screaming into their own Hell," Jericho added in a matter-of-fact tone.
The spirit touched her chest and held up one pale finger. She pointed at the hotel and held up all ten. She then pointed toward the southeast and simply wiggled all her fingers.
"Do you mean to say that there are more spirits roused from their slumber than just you?" Prescott asked. The joints of his fingers cracked as he held his Bible with more force. The spirit nodded and again made the gestures with her fingers.
"Someone's been busy," Jericho said. "I'm gonna enjoy putting a slug in whoever it is."
"Your revolver will be of little use to you, I fear, in combating the forces of evil that may be arrayed against us."
"Begging your pardon, but it's been mighty handy in putting folks underground in the past."
The preacher shook his head. "We do not go forth to slay men this night. We will be assailed by more of the spectral forms that attacked you upstairs. I think you will find that the pistol is ineffective against them."
"How about a shotgun? I've got one of those I can go get."
"When one is confronted with Satan's minions, the weapons one chooses must be based on the form of the enemy. Against men, your firearms would surely suffice, but against agents of evil in spectral form, it is faith that will turn the tide."
"Well, not to be too blunt here, padre, but that means I'm pretty much screwed."
"Have you no faith, my son?" The angry, lecturing firebrand was gone, replaced with the caring and calm minister.
Jericho reached up to the chain around his neck, displaying a thin silver band that was carried on the links. He let Prescott see it for a moment before slipping it back beneath his shirt.
"Had some once. She's dead now."
"You can see her again. You can be with her for eternity."
"Preacher, there ain't no redemption for me. Magdalene was all I lived for. Now there ain't nothing but a long hunt for a butcher of men, and, I suppose, time out of that tonight to kill some ghost-raising fellows."
Nancy had taken advantage of their discussion to drift closer until she had actually passed them up. From her position behind the reverend, she turned and beckoned.
"I reckon she wants us to follow," Jericho said, pulling down on the brim of his hat and taking the first painful step.
"You truly intend to confront the demons behind this?" Prescott asked. Jericho nodded, firing a cigarro. He offered one to Prescott, returning it to his case when the reverend declined.
"I reckon so," he said. "Somebody's gotta hold them accountable for what they done out here, and I hear tell that two hands would do a better job than just one."
"Then we shall stop by my church. I have lanterns. I fear that the cemetery is not well lit at this hour. While we are there, I will bless you and sanctify your weapons for the fight."
"If that's what it's gonna take to see this through," Jericho said around a yawn.
The two followed the faintly glowing figure of Nancy Hawkins from one street to the next. Soon, Prescott detoured to the east and they walked up the steps of his church. He opened the doors and ushered Jericho inside.
"You have a knife," Prescott said. "Draw it."
The heavy Bowie came out with a hiss of steel, glittering ominously in the light of two lamps that flanked the doorway. Prescott held out his hands and Jericho laid the knife across the man's palms.
"Impressive," mused the reverend, turning the blade over in his grasp. He walked up the central aisle between rows of pews, approaching a pulpit emblazoned with a wide-armed cross. Behind it, he placed the knife on the edge of a baptismal, which was little more than a larger-than-normal wash tub. Jericho took a moment to examine the church. Everything was simple. There were no stained glass windows such as he had seen in other similar buildings, and everything from the pews to the pulpit were made from hand-hewn wood. There were no tapestries, no candelabrum, and no fixtures that were not made from the simplest forms possible. He started to ask about it, but he could hear Prescott chanting something under his breath.
The reverend picked up the heavy knife and submerged it into the baptismal waters, never ceasing or even slowing the phrases he was speaking. When he drew it forth, water dripped and ran off the blade in smooth rivulets. Prescott kissed it near the wide guard and nimbly flipped it until the blade lay along his forearm. He extended it hilt-first to Jericho.
"When you engage them, use the knife," he said. His voice was that of a drill sergeant, and Jericho listened. "Against the spiritual the strength you have will be the telling factor. Faith is the greatest ally, but as you claim to have foresworn such faith, you will be relying on your own inner strength, on your will. When you strike, know that you do so with the blessings of the Lord. Your knife is an extension of you, and by that logic, an extension of His will. You are acting to save His servants, and in so doing, you become one. He will watch over you as you fight for His people. When you fight them, you are actually saving them. You must focus completely on the task at hand, and each strike will send them home to their eternal rest.
"
"My will," Jericho echoed.
"You must know without question that your strike is perfect. It will be perfect every time. Not always in accuracy, but in strength. When you wield this blade, you are wielding the sword of the Angels. Do you understand?"
"I reckon so."
"Then be ready, Mister..."
"Jericho Sims."
"Mister Sims, I am pleased to have met you this day. My name is Zachariah Prescott. Today I wish upon you the blessings of the Lord. May your aim be true, and your heart strong."
Jericho began to reply, but Prescott was lowering his head to pray and Jericho followed suit in respect.
"Father in Heaven, I ask that you watch over this man, Jericho Sims, and that you guide him to be your servant. Through his hands may your justice rain down like the flaming hail that Pharaoh faced, and may those responsible for this heresy be shown the light of your truth and delivered into your hands for their fate. Archangel Michael, stand by his side as he fights. Amen."
"Zachariah, here, could use your help, too," Jericho added, pointing to Prescott and looking toward the ceiling. "I may be holding the cutter, but he's the one who knows you."
The comment brought a quiet chuckle from the reverend. He turned a smile on Jericho.
"There is hope for you yet, Mister Sims. You actually prayed tonight."
"It's Jericho. Mister Sims was a lifetime ago," Jericho said, catching himself as his hand rose unbidden toward the ring at his neck.
Prescott extended a hand and shook the callused grip of the gunfighter. "I am honored to know you, Jericho," he said. "You are a brave man."
"Well, somebody's gotta put paid to whoever it was that evicted Nancy Hawkins from her grave, yeah? Ain't many things left in life I'm good at, padre, but that's damned sure one of them."
"I'll thank you to watch your tongue in the house of God," Prescott cautioned, a touch of the firebrand creeping back into his tone.
Phantoms of Phoenix: A Jericho Sims Tale (The Adventures of Jericho Sims Book 3) Page 3
