Dead Man's Rain

by Frank Tuttle

The storm spilled inside, rain pouring, wind whipping, cold blast rushing. It blew the door back wide, caught the left-hand door, flung it open too, knocked me back and down on my knees.

  I let the cold rain spray my face. The voices and the shadows grew dim, Petey whined and I opened my eyes.

  At first, I saw only darkness. But then lightning flashed, Petey growled and there, on the lawn, was Ebed Merlat.

  Ten long strides away, grave clothes wet and whipping, face pale, eyes rotted away, mouth wide open in a frozen lipless scream.

  He walked for the open doors. Each time his grave-boot fell, thunder wracked the tortured sky. He lifted his stiff yellow hands and the wind howled and roared anew—and in the thunder, I was sure I heard the beginnings of a long, loud scream.

  “All them years in the ground, boy,” said the voices. “Savin’ up a scream.”

  He turned his eyeless face upon me, and I am not ashamed to say I rose and ran stumbling away.

  Petey herded me with nips and yelps toward the safe-room hall. Rain and wind blew in behind me. That, and that awful thunder that meant Eded Merlat was one step closer to coming home at last.

  I bounced off the walls and left blood on every surface, but somehow I made it back to the door. I collapsed in front of it, heard the widow weeping and sobbing behind the iron.

  “It’s nearly over,” I said. “Not much longer.”

  I don’t know if she heard me. But she heard, as did I, the sound of heavy footsteps treading slowly down the hall.

  I tried to rise but couldn’t, and failed to crawl as well. The footsteps sounded louder, sounded nearer, no more accompanied by thunder, but with the loud crunch of grave-dirt upon the polished tiles.

  The voices about me rose up, then fell to whispers. Petey stood stiff beside me, wolf growling warning, dead man or no.

  A shadow fell over me, and the air—the air grew as cold as the heart of winter, or the bottom of a grave. I closed my eyes and jammed my hands, even my numb left hand, over my ears. I felt the iron door buckle where the dead man laid his hand upon it, but I heard no scream.

  Mama’s hex let me hear something else, though. Ebed Merlat stood above me, an iron door and a grave between him and his widow, but I was able to hear some of what passed between them.

  “I could not,” she said. “Forgive me, I could not.”

  “I know,” spoke the voice I’d heard earlier in the thunder. “It is I who must be forgiven, for asking such a thing.”

  “I loved you,” said the widow, and she sobbed and beat the door. “I always loved you.”

  “And I loved you,” said the voice. “Forgive me.”

  The widow cried. And then the door latch squeaked as it began to turn, as she opened the door to let him in.

  “No,” he said. He must have laid hold of the latch, because it groaned and broke. “Goodbye,” he said. And though the widow pushed against the door, it held fast and shut. “I will always love you.”

  As he spoke, I felt him turn away. Caught the edge of a sorrow so deep and so vast, it had bridged the gap between life and death. Then he stepped away, and the sorrow turned to rage. And as he walked down the hall his footfalls turned again to peals of thunder.

  Voices sounded, upon the stairs. The heirs had found the open doors. Did they hear the footfalls, too?

  “Daddy’s home,” I croaked. Petey licked my face. I heard screams down the hall, and felt the thunder swell, and then, though my hands were jammed tight against my ears, I heard Ebed Merlat scream.

  All that time in the ground, Mama had said. All that time watching his wife torture herself because she couldn’t kill the man she loved. Watching his sons and his daughter creep and plot and sharpen their blades against this night.

  He opened that dead mouth wide, and he screamed, and soon I did too, just to keep the awful wracking sound of it out of my dreams forever. I screamed and I screamed until my voice was gone and the last candle-flame guttered out and then, without warning, so did I.

  Chapter Six

  Noon found me standing at the Sarge’s grave. Sunlight shone and set the birds to singing, and it felt good on my face and arms.

  I leaned with my back on a tall, sad marble angel and kept my eyes on the widow’s urn atop the Sarge’s stone. Orthodox tradition demanded that the Sarge’s widow pass each day for thirty days after the funeral. The Sarge’s friends and family were to keep the urn filled.

  It had been empty when I came. I’d picked it up, poured out rainwater and filled it to the brim with the Lady Merlat’s gold.

  And after, I stood and I watched. There were those who would rob widows urns, snatching coppers from the elderly, adding insult to grief and loss.

  They would do no robbery today.

  Twice a priest had passed, dipped his mask. I’d glared, and he’d gone away.

  Wise man. I closed my eyes for a moment, let the sun warm my bones and ease my aches.

  All about Rannit, hammers rose and fell. Lord Merlat’s storm had left shingles strewn on every street, had torn trees whole from the ground, had sent four barges wallowing up over the docks and onto the muddy banks of the Brown River. This time, for a change, the wealthy had suffered the most—the Hill and Heights had seen the brunt of the storm.

  I snorted, opened my eyes. They just thought they’d seen the brunt. But they hadn’t been in House Merlat.

  I shook my head, rubbed my left arm, winced when I recalled the widow reaching up and snatching a bloody crossbow bolt from my flesh. I was lucky the wound hadn’t gone septic.

  We were all lucky Lord Merlat hadn’t been after the widow.

  I’d awakened just after dawn, my head still spinning, weak as a kitten. The House had smelled of fresh air and rain, and bright sunlight shone, further down the hall. A pair of squirrels scampered and fussed in the ballroom. Outside, birds sang.

  I’d risen, banged on the safe-room door, been glad to hear Jefrey bellow in reply. It had taken me nearly an hour, one-armed, to wrench the bent door-latch open to let the widow and Jefrey free.

  The widow found a chair and sat, shaking and pale and wordless. Jefrey and I left her, crept upstairs. I told him what I’d seen, though not what I’d heard. I don’t think he believed a word of it until he saw the second floor.

  Doors smashed, burst into splinters, some of them charred and crumbling, as though struck with a fist formed of lightning. Holes in the walls. Burnt spots on the floor. A long double-edged knife, half the blade melted in a puddle of bright steel just beyond a broken door.

  But no bodies. Doors smashed, one after another, as though someone—three murderous children and their two surviving hirelings, for instance—ran from room to room, shutting and barricading each door behind them, watching as each door was shattered and broken. Running and hiding, until at last they passed into a room with no way out, with Ebed Merlat’s thunderous footfalls drawing nearer with each moment.

  That last door, too, was shattered. A final shattered door, another empty room. We never found the Merlat children. Never found the men they’d hired. Even the man I’d stabbed in the ballroom was gone.

  I never told the widow, but I think that their father gathered his children up and took them with him. I think that if we were to open Ebed Merlat’s grave we would find them all there, broken and bloated in his relentless embrace.

  Despite the sun beaming down on me, I pulled my arms across my chest and shivered.

  The widow had insisted on calling the Watch. We told everything. But since there were no bodies, we might as well have been putting on a clown-and-king puppet show. In the end, the Watchmen shrugged and scratched their heads and went away.

  Jefrey and I decided the Merlat children’s special helpers snuck in somehow with the grocery wagon. The delivery kid went missing the next day, right after someone saw him buying a horse. I wish him luck, down south. He’ll need it.

  I stomped my feet, pulled away from my angel, stretched my arms out and winced, but stretched them out anyway. Only a
n idiot stands in the sun and muses on the dark.

  So I looked up. The sky blazed the dark, well-scrubbed blue that you see only after truly vicious storms. The close-cropped grass atop the rolling hills was thick and green, the air smelled cool and clean, and all around oak leaves whispered peacefully in a gentle breeze. “Peace,” said all the gravewards, in the tall plain script of the Church.

  “I hope so,” I said aloud to the stones. “I hope so.”

  I heard rapid footsteps behind me but did not turn.

  “There you are, boy,” said Mama.

  I feigned deafness. I wasn’t quite ready to forgive Mama her stunt with the hex, though my curiosity about where she got such a charm was beginning to wear down my need for silence.

  Mama came, huffing and puffing, to stand beside me. “Thought you’d be here,” she said, rummaging in the huge, ancient canvas bag that hung at her knees. “Lady Merlat and Master Jefrey came by lookin’ for you.”

  I stared ahead.

  “The widow was wearin’ a grey dress,” said Mama. “Smilin’, too. Said she wants you to come around for supper, some evening. Jefrey wants to ask you something about a dog.”

  I picked out a graveward and decided to count the carved angels that flew about its shaft.

  Mama guffawed.

  “Thought you might be hungry, waitin’ for your Sergeant’s widow,” she said slyly. “Ham and cheese, ain’t that what you like?” Wax paper rustled. “Lowridge cheese and Pinford ham?”

  The smell rose up, and my traitor stomach grumbled in reply.

  I made her wait a handful of seconds. Then I reached down and took the sandwich, broke it in two, handed half to Mama.

  “Thanks, Mama,” I said. Pride has its place, but so do Eddie’s sandwiches. Mama cackled victoriously.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied. She wrapped her half, shoved it back in her bag. I bit and chewed. Mama was silent while I ate.

  “You ain’t hearin’ his scream still, are you?” she said when I was done.

  “Just in dreams,” I replied. “Not often, anymore.”

  “That’s good,” said Mama. “Real good.” She looked out across the long, silent ranks of stones and shook her head. “I reckon you might be thinkin’ it ain’t fair,” she said, still not looking at me. “Poor men stay dead. But you just seen a rich man walk.”

  I nodded. I had indeed.

  “I saw his face, Mama,” I said. The sun didn’t seem so warm, while I remembered. “It wasn’t his money that brought him back.”

  Mama nodded. “Guilt,” she said. “Guilt and rage. He found no peace, did Ebed Merlat. Like as not he never will.”

  Then she looked up, patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “I reckon your Sergeant is better off,” she said. “I reckon he’s at rest, knowing his friend is seein’ to his widow, seein’ to his daughters. He won’t walk, boy. He won’t walk because he don’t have to.”

  I looked away from her. The Sarge and Petey and a host of others—were they really watching, looking down on us from somewhere? Was another, warmer sun beaming down on them, making all they’d suffered under this one seem long ago and far away?

  “I hope so,” I said, again.

  Mama didn’t answer. She just nodded and clasped her hands behind her back. We waited together in the bright and warming sun while distant hammers fell and the blue jays sang and flew.

  About the Author

  To learn more about Frank Tuttle, please visit www.franktuttle.com (or visit various online police blotters available throughout Mississippi). To hire Frank for yard work, squirrel maintenance or intersolar spacecraft construction, send an email to Frank at franktuttle@franktuttle.com. And remember, Frank cries easily, so if you didn’t enjoy Dead Man’s Rain, please lie.

  Look for these titles by Frank Tuttle

  Coming Soon:

  The Mister Trophy

  He used her. She can’t trust him. But the fire burns between them hotter than ever.

  7% and Rising

  © 2007 Kim Knox

  For Level Seven Observer Cahn Dal, her mission is simple—on the surface. Travel 700 years into the past, alter a complicated equation that will assure the continuation of this timeline, and slip out unnoticed. Except someone else got there first, and he’s waiting for her. Alexander Roen. The man she has loved since she was a teenager, and, to her disgust, finds she still desires as hot and as hard as ever.

  Roen, former Level One Observer, known traitor to the Foundation, and hampered by an old injury, needs Cahn’s help to find out who’s behind a massive conspiracy to alter the timeline. His body isn’t too broken, though, to forget his long-denied passion for Cahn.

  Cahn reluctantly agrees to help find the one piece of evidence that will solve Roen’s puzzle. But when she finds it, barely escaping with her life, they find it isn’t the end.

  It’s just the beginning of a deeper nightmare, one filled with monsters of unimaginable horror.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for 7% and Rising:

  A sharp rap at the door made her jump.

  “Cahn?” The wooden door swung back. “Would you rather wait for food?”

  Cahn crossed her arms in front of her breasts. Daily, she landed in time-frames covered in sludge and stark naked, but letting Roen see her in a white vest and tight shorts made her feel exposed. Uneasy. Heat burned in her cheeks. Damn him, she hadn’t blushed since she was a teenager. “Yes. Fine.” She nodded towards the bed, unwilling to move her arms. “I think I need to pass out.”

  Roen smiled. His dark eyes sparked gold in the lamplight. “You’ve probably forgotten, but it’s called sleep, Cahn.”

  Her chest tightened. He was being nice again. And that so wasn’t the Roen she knew. “Thank you for the reminder.”

  “Here.” He lifted a mug she hadn’t noticed him holding. “This will help.”

  “What is it?”

  Roen limped towards her and the rising scent from the mug reached out to tantalise her. Cahn breathed it in and almost sighed. “Your special chocolate.”

  “Very hot milk chocolate with fresh double cream and caramel syrup…”

  “You’re evil.”

  Roen smirked. “I know.”

  Her hands closed around the mug and, for a long moment, she let herself breathe in the rich aroma of chocolate. Roen knew her weakness. It had been years since she’d last had it. Years. She sipped and the cool, light touch of the cream lingered on her lips, her tongue. She tilted the mug and the rich flow of sweet liquid chocolate made her sigh.

  Memories rose unwanted. Roen’s bright apartment with its clean painted walls and expensive furniture. Her mother laughing at something Roen had said. Her father quiet and just showing his slow, cautious smile. Roen’s sisters holding up their cups, demanding more from the ancient chocolate pot that he’d pilfered on one of his missions.

  Dead. They were all dead. Only she and Roen remained.

  Her hand shook.

  Hot tears burned her eyes and her throat tightened.

  Roen grabbed the mug before she spilt it and dumped it on the table. “Cahn?”

  She turned from him and scrubbed hard at her wet face. “It’s too rich for me,” she muttered. “I’m used to…” Her words faltered at his warm hand on her shoulder. His fingers squeezed, gentle, comforting. Damn the man. Damn him. Why couldn’t he just be himself? His real self? “Roen, stop it.”

  “What?” His hand slid from the thin cotton of her vest to her bare skin in a slow caress. “This?”

  Cahn couldn’t breathe. “What…what are you doing?”

  He brushed away her wet-slicked hair and pressed a kiss below her ear. She shivered. Roen did it again. And again. Soft. Slow. Insane. “Do you still want me to stop?”

  It was all her little private fantasies come true. Roen wanted her. Her?

  “Cahn.” His breath stirred her damp skin. “Turn around.”

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to face him. His thumb brushed her lips and she j
umped. She stared at him, not quite believing the shine of want in his dark eyes.

  “We have to grab what time we have,” he said.

  He traced her jaw, fingers light. Cahn froze. He couldn’t mean it. Roen had never wanted her. Never. A smile touched his mouth, edged with regret. His gaze dropped away and he sighed. “But then again, perhaps not in this reality.”

  He stepped back and his hand fell to his leg as it whirred. “Not as I am.”

  No. Roen wasn’t getting away that easily.

  “Yes,” Cahn said and covered his mouth with her own.

  A Demon is on the loose. And it’s bad to the bone.

  To Summon a Demon

  © 2007 Kim Knox

  Muscles and mind straining, Inaeus hurled the sword. Spell-thick steel buried itself deep into the monster’s spine. The Demon screamed down the night in its pain…

  That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.

  The Demon is once again on the loose, and this time it possesses a powerful crystal that has it leaving even more death in its wake. With the approach of the full moon, Inaeus must kill the demon and destroy its crystal before it can call more of its brethren from hell.

  Inaeus knows who summoned the Demon. Conde. His former colleague, his former friend. The one woman he can’t have. Conde has no loyalty to the League he serves, and broke his trust long ago. But now she is back and offering to help him defeat her creature.

  Why?

  Come hell or howling Harpies, Inaeus is determined to get the truth out of Conde. If they live long enough.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for To Summon a Demon:

  Almost full moon.

  The Demon would be waiting.

  Inaeus stirred the steaming pot, pushing his mind away from thoughts of the confrontation. Conde settled beside him, staring off into the darkness of the forest.

  Could he believe her?

  Conde had no reason to lie to him. Never had. She was already an Outcast, shunned by the League. She couldn’t damn herself any further. And Conde was the one person he trusted implicitly.