The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  Worthington leaned in putting his elbows on his knees. “Pastor, what will it take for you to accept the recent events are of supernatural origin?”

  “More than the unreliable words of a killer.”

  “We have a growing assembly of men roaming the streets, right now, doing whatever is in their power to stop these vampires. They’ve decapitated more than sixty deceased men. They believe.”

  “The Hungarians. They are little more than uneducated day laborers. They would believe anything if they were told enough.”

  “Very similar to some fisherman I’ve read about.”

  Blair snickered at Worthington’s remark.

  Jones scowled. “I’m not scared of you, Mr. Blair.”

  “Why would you be?”

  Worthington interrupted. “You are like the prophet who spoke about the coming truth, yet when it was presented to him, he did not see it and was offended. Pastor, it is time for you to choose, because this situation will grow, intensifying until it lands in your lap.”

  “This will go away like every other story I have read about the West. As soon as some people leave Gothic and others take their place, the deaths will become rumors and life will go on.”

  “This is not that kind of story.” Worthington squeezed the arm of the chair. “I uncovered information in regard to several Eastern European villages that disappeared. Or should I say, the people of the villages had. The rumors in the surrounding area all pointed to supernatural powers—vampires, the walking dead. I heard the same type of stories in China, Africa, and South America. Pastor Jones, the sudden death of a mining town is no cause for alarm in any part of the world. They boom then bust. That is what we should expect here, sudden death. The killing has commenced. It will soon be over.”

  “And whatever it is will be gone to the next town, village, or city slum,” Blair said. “Gothic will be another faded memory.”

  Worthington leaned back. “Mr. Blair, can I count on you to fight this?”

  The question sent Blair’s thoughts spinning. His freedom sat in a saloon somewhere drinking and womanizing. Pruitt was his ticket to a normal life. How normal could Blair’s future be, knowing this thing, this demon, roamed the earth? After two meetings with it, the chances were slim. Could this be a chance for redemption? Or maybe it’s another stop on the journey to perdition? Either way, he could not let the beast escape. Not after what it did to the children at the mission. If the devil laid claim to his soul, he’d make sure the hosts of hell knew his name.

  “I’m in.”

  Worthington gave him a small smile and bobbed his head. “Pastor, are you with us?”

  Jones shook his head. “This isn’t really happening. You will keep the town on edge with your talk of demons. There is a murderer out there. That’s all. Or will you start selling vampire cures?”

  Blair rolled his eyes. “Ye of little faith.”

  “You’re one to talk, Mr. Blair. Turning your back on God because your family was killed. Then returning after the mutilation of children.”

  The professor lifted his palm to keep Blair in place. “I can respect Pastor Jones’ decision, because he is young and leans on the teachings of religion instead of branching out to see the kingdom. Pastor, I would ask you to pray for us, but you would have no belief in your own words. And real prayer is what this town needs to alter the demonic atmosphere.”

  Worthington pointed at Jones’ heart. “Search your spirit, Pastor. The sickness, the greed, and oppression that permeates this town is not natural. A praying church could sense this, could fight it. But a church like that has a praying pastor to lead them.”

  “Professor, if this is real, demons, possessed miners, or whatever they are, can we defeat them?” Blair asked.

  “Without the covering of prayer...” Worthington brushed by Jones and moved to the door. “We’re going to need some assistance.”

  * * *

  No light flickered onto the street from the entrance of the No Name Saloon. Worthington and Blair stepped through the swinging doors. The room was almost as dark inside as the night was outside, even with the burning oil lamps.

  Blair paused and studied the saloon. He’d been in numerous dim whiskey joints like this one. He never got used to them—the smell, the fights, and bad liquor—but he felt safe. Few people asked questions of lone men hiding in the shadowy corners, unless they were looking for trouble. Blair found both calm and chaos in such dwellings; more of the former kept him coming back.

  He followed Worthington to the full table. András Kovách and Sándor Varga sat with four American miners drinking whiskey.

  “His new girl ain’t nothing to write home about,” said one of the Americans sitting at the table. He pointed at a fellow miner in a dirty red shirt.

  “Olyan ronda, hogy ha lemegy a bányába, feljön a szén,” András Kovách said to Sándor Varga, who instantly cackled so loud and hard his eyes watered.

  The Americans at the table waited to hear what was funny. Varga translated between laughs and catching his breath. “She’s so ugly, if she went into the mine, the coal would come up on its own.”

  The table roared, all except Red Shirt. He tossed back a shot of whiskey and snarled.

  “Ronda, mint a bányálo,” Varga added. His red face held a huge grin. “Ugly as a mine-horse.”

  Red Shirt stood up, knocking over his chair. The men hooted and laughed. One neighed like a pony. Red Shirt cussed them and went to the bar.

  “Gentlemen.” Worthington greeted them. “Please excuse our interruption. Mr. Kovách may I have a word with you, please.”

  Still smiling, Kovách pointed at him. “You are the man with all the questions.”

  “Yes. And I have a few more that are slightly delicate.”

  “Please, sit.” Kovách waved off the three remaining American miners. “This is Sándor Varga. He can stay.”

  “It is a pleasure.” Worthington shook his hand.

  Blair eyeballed the three men as they moved to one of the two empty tables. He could tell they didn’t like being shunned away. But they also showed Kovách respect in the process. Blair didn’t trust them. They felt the same by the way they glared back at him.

  “Mr. Blair. Mr. Blair.” Worthington called him over, but he was fixated on the three men.

  “Jonathan. Please, sit down.” Worthington motioned toward an empty chair.

  Blair took the seat. He peeked back at the other table checking for any weapons. Red Shirt had rejoined them.

  “I’ve seen you in action,” Blair said.

  The Hungarians gave him inquisitive glances.

  The professor leaned in and spoke quietly. “Gentlemen, we are interested in, shall I say, the reason for your actions.”

  “Why do you want to discuss this?” Kovách was defensive.

  “We think we are on the same side of this struggle.”

  Kovách and Varga spoke to each other in Hungarian. The conversation was short, but intense.

  “What do you think is happening here?” Kovách asked.

  “Hell has come to Gothic,” Blair said. Worthington frowned at him. Though the words were his, they were probably a little dramatic for the situation.

  “There is a demonic presence trying to influence this town,” the professor said.

  “More like obliterate.” Blair waved his hand as if to wipe the town away.

  Worthington raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “How did you know the steps to take to stop this malevolent presence which has manifested itself as vampires?”

  “Do you mean cut off their heads?” Varga asked.

  Worthington nodded.

  “When I was a boy, my village was attacked,” Kovách said. “The killers only struck at night. The old men and women knew what was happening. They left. My parents stayed and died. My brother and I lived with Sándor’s parents afterward. He too lost family in the attacks.”

  “They were like my little brothers,” Varga said.

  “Only a fe
w people survived, none that stayed,” Kovách said. “We weren’t to speak of the vampírs, for we were taught if you spoke of such things, they would return. Though once every so often, Sánd’s father would talk to us, never speaking the word ‘vampír.’ He called them…how do you say…night stalkers.”

  Varga motioned to his own throat with his fingers. “Papa instructed us to cut off their heads and to pierce their hearts. That this would stop them from killing others.”

  “Do you know how they became vampires?” Worthington asked.

  “The old men talked of a ruling vampír,” Kovách said. “When he bites others, they become vampírs. The blood is dirty… tainted.”

  Worthington nodded. “I have to respectfully disagree. Vampires are humans, but possessed by a demonic forces.”

  Kovách made the sign of the cross on his chest. “Ördög?” Varga sat straight up. “The devil?”

  “Yes,” Worthington said. “That is why the men you have seen here changed back to normal after or right before they died. The demon left them.”

  “Interesting.” Kovách tugged at his short salt-and-pepper beard with his thumb and finger. “I have doubts.”

  Worthington continued. “If this is demonic, biting someone will not spread it like a disease, like we have here with numerous episodes. Probability would declare the existence of more than a single demon or vampire in the area to pull this off.”

  “A ruling demon could bring such a plague on a village,” Kovách said. Varga agreed.

  “Can we kill the demons?” Blair asked.

  “That is why they were taught to decapitate and pierce the vampires,” Worthington said. “To make sure they were dead. If we can kill the man before the demon leaves, the hell creature dies.”

  “What about garlic?” Blair smiled. “Or maybe we should we get the pastor to stir up a batch of holy water?”

  Varga blew air out of his nose as if trying to keep a laugh inside.

  “Folklore, Mr. Blair. The garlic just happened to be presented to a possessed human who had a horrible allergy to allium. The allergic reaction was hypersensitive—like a chemical burn—which caused people to believe garlic to be a tool to combat vampires. When in fact the allium was only a nuisance to the host. Holy water is an irritant.

  “Their superhuman strength, stamina, speed, agility… have been mistaken for invincibility. Think of the possessed man in the tombs of Gadara.”

  Blair nodded. The Hungarians questioned the professor with confused looks.

  “It’s an old Bible story,” Worthington continued. “Demons gave a man the strength to break chains and shackles. These displays are simply the control of the demon over the body. They are harder to kill. But a direct hit to the heart or head will indeed cause sudden death. The demon can manipulate the body until it is dead, sometimes even a little longer. But if it stays, it dies too.”

  “You have done your research, Professor,” Blair said.

  “Mr. Worthington, you are a professor, an instructor?” Varga asked. “That is why all the questions.” He laughed.

  “Professor, please continue,” Kovách said.

  “If someone is bitten, they don’t turn into vampires. Once again, this display is only folklore. But a wonderful gimmick to scare us into believing we are doomed, allowing the possession.”

  “How can you be so sure of this?” Varga asked. “Do you have proof?”

  “Not the kind you want to see,” Worthington said. “But think of the history and folklore. From what I know, there can be no other explanation.”

  “But if you are wrong?” Varga held up his hand and rubbed the veins in his wrist. “And it is in the blood?”

  “I’m not. I am willing to stake my life on it.”

  Varga leaned in. “You may have to.”

  “The sucking of blood is more ritualistic than a need. Blood sacrifices are offered to the demon as a false covenant. But to keep up with the folklore—the bloody necks are a tremendous way to spark fear. As your actions have shown.” Worthington pointed at two axes leaning against the wall next to the table then lowered his head. “Deputy Jarod’s death was in vain. He wasn’t tainted with vampire blood, nor was he possessed. I am sad over his passing.”

  “There is only one way to be sure,” Varga said.

  “All I ask is that you trust me, for a short time, and see for yourself.”

  “We’ll discuss this,” Kovách said.

  “The sunlight will destroy them,” Varga said. “The vampír in the jail house ran from the light when the door opened.”

  “Sorry, the sunlight does not harm them, but the cover of night is always good for evil. It is their eyes. Like when you step from the mine into the daylight—your eyes must adjust. But the host’s eyes don’t adjust, which causes them to cower. I believe the demon needs the host’s eye to be dilated in order to see. Their pupils don’t contract, another natural human reaction the demon has trouble controlling when introduced to bright light.”

  Varga shook his head in frustration.

  “Some demons have switched human hosts, as you have seen, Mr. Blair,” Worthington said.

  “You have seen this?” Varga’s expression was both inquisitive and doubtful.

  Blair nodded.

  “Where did you see this? Here?” Varga pressed.

  “Not here. Years ago, but the demon didn’t disguise itself as a vampire.”

  Again, Varga and Kovách spoke to each other in Hungarian.

  “Professor.” Blair’s tone was soft. “If these people are possessed, can they be saved? I mean, can the demon be exorcised, in order to save the person without shooting them or cutting off their head?”

  “Why risk it?” Varga said.

  “I will answer in the affirmative,” Worthington said. “The miners dragged Michael James, bound with chains, into town. Would you step up and ask him to pray?”

  Kovách and Varga both let loose belly laughs and rocked back and forth. Kovách slapped the professor on the back. “Get this man a drink.”

  The reaction annoyed Blair, but he kept his cool. “So, it is possible.”

  Worthington nodded. “But nothing I would want to participate in.”

  “It would be one hell of a research project, Professor,” Blair leaned back, picking the front legs of the chair off the floor. He sensed the thoughts running behind Worthington’s eyes—probably something he had never given much consideration.

  “Professor Worthington.” Kovách smiled when he addressed him as such. “So, why are you here, discussing these things with us?”

  “We will be requiring your assistance. This situation is going to get much worse. Though your methods have, shall we say, upset some folks, I know why you do what you do. Together, we shall rid this town of demons.”

  “Do you think there is a ruling vampír here?” Varga asked the professor.

  Blair glared at Worthington. Don’t tell him.

  “I do.”

  “How do you know this?” Varga sat up.

  What are you doing? They’ll kill him before I can.

  Before I can what?

  Find out if it was him in Mexico and why it did what it did to the children? Deep inside he knew the being was the same demon. But he wanted to know why.

  Worthington rubbed his neck. “It is only a feeling, which is hard to explain. Do you feel the heaviness in the air?”

  Varga shook his head. “Who is it?”

  Don’t say it. Blair clinched his fist under the table and gave the professor a slight shake of the head to stop him. Worthington would not look at him.

  “That I don’t know for sure, yet.”

  Blair relaxed but sought the door before more questions forced their secret.

  Kovách checked with Varga. “You will let us know when you do?” Kovách asked Worthington.

  “Yes.”

  “And why are you here?” Varga asked Blair.

  “I’m still asking myself that. Concerned citizen, I guess. Or maybe I w
ant to kill some demons.”

  “I don’t care much for your attitude.” Varga frowned at Blair.

  “I get that a lot.”

  Blair reached for one of their axes. He smiled at the Hungarians and peeked over at the other table where their helpers waited impatiently. He twirled the ax, then dropped it on the table. “Until then, happy hunting, gentlemen.”

  * * *

  Jonathan Blair picked at splinters in the doorframe of the No Name Saloon as Professor Worthington said his goodbyes. They left together. The four American helpers moved back to the table with András Kovách and Sándor Varga. A round of drinks was ordered and delivered.

  András asked Sándor a question in Hungarian so the American couldn’t understand.

  “I don’t trust the professor,” Sándor said. “He has much knowledge, but we have seen this evil before.”

  “Your doubts are my doubts,” András said. “The professor is a smart man. His understanding is unique, but I don’t think it is complete.”

  “And what of Mr. Blair?”

  The man had deep eyes. Eyes that saw more than others. “Something about him makes me uneasy.”

  Sándor shook his head in agreement. “I heard he beat up two guards at the Maroon Saloon the other day, and there are rumors he’s a wanted man.”

  “He is a fighter. Good to have on our side. But I think they know more than what they are telling us.”

  “What is it?”

  “I think they know who the ruling vampír is.”

  “Why did they not tell us?”

  They either wanted to kill it themselves, or they had others plans for it. “I don’t know. But if they are willing to kill vampírs we should fight alongside them.” András rubbed the handle of an ax. “We must make sure their kills are true. I don’t want one of these demon men coming back to life.”

  “But what if the professor is right? That it is the devil?”

  “Do you want to take that chance?”

  “No.” Sándor reached for the other ax.

  “Nor I.”

  * * *

  “What do you think?” Jonathan Blair asked Professor Worthington as they stepped into the dark street toward the hotel. Miners meandered from saloon to saloon in search of food, liquor, and women. Mining towns seldom close the doors in the middle of the night as the coal laborers were either indulging, sleeping, or working at all hours.