Whispers Out Of The Dust
A Haunted Journey Through The Lost American West
Whispers Out Of The Dust Copyright 2015 David J. West
Cover design/art by: Nathan Shumate
Digital formatting by: Hershel Burnside
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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LOST REALMS PRESS
For Athena
Contents
Foreword:
The Toad in My Study
Jornada del Muerte
Stranger Come Knocking
Curse of the Lost City
Skullduggery
The Big Mouth
Gods of the Old Land
Right Hand Man
The Thing in the Root Cellar
Black Jack’s Last Ride
A Rose for Miss Dolly
If I Call to the Pit
Devil Takes the Hindmost
The Groaning Desk
The Blessing Way
Chief John Rides Again
Wisp of a Thing
There was a Woman Dwelt by a Graveyard
Bury Me Deep
Return of the Toad
Afterword:
Map of Saint Thomas and thereabouts
“And thou shall be brought down, and shall speak out of the ground, and thy speech shall be low out of the dust, and thy voice shall be, as of one that hath a familiar spirit, out of the ground, and thy speech shall whisper out of the dust.”
— Isaiah 29: 4
“Go west, young man.” — Horace Greely
Foreword:
Have you ever heard of St. Thomas? Probably not. This book began as an interesting collection of journals, articles and newspaper clippings relating to that ghost town. It would be difficult to find a more barren and lost land that yet had some small amount of moisture present than St. Thomas. For the last seventy-five odd years the town itself was drowned under sixty feet of tap water for Las Vegas via Hoover Dam.
St. Thomas was a literal hotbed of haunted happenings. A veritable Mecca of the outlandish and horrific all contained within the Moapa valley. And for the sake of a fascinating story I will face and pray in that cursed direction five times a day, My Friend.
Founded in January of 1865 by Mormon settlers sent by Brigham Young to grow cotton. St. Thomas rests at the conflux of the Muddy and Virgin Rivers not far from the Colorado which feeds that leviathan Lake Mead. At most there were only ever 600 souls in the city upon founding (usually less). The initial settlers remained thereabouts for only just over six years. Others moved in and out over the course of the next sixty years.
While all other documentable sources indicate a problem with federal taxes and the filling of the reservoir as a reason for their departure, other possibilities presented themselves as I read on. I have no reason to doubt the veracity of the parochial testimonies claimed herein. At every turn in my research their tale is backed up by cold hard facts.
To both the seeker and the curious, a warning:
I have only edited pertinent content so as to get to the raw-head and bloody bones of this collection of tales. Spelling and grammar errors have remained untouched so as not to pollute the journalistic integrity nor stain the intent of any of the numerous and possibly fallible witness statements.
I have also taken the liberty of placing chapter titles, quotes and footnotes where none previously existed. I cannot resist an overly dramatic chapter title. You, Reader, should have the privilege to taste the copper in the air, smell the lingering brimstone and feel the cold caress of a spiders legs upon your bare skin. The pulp fiction heart in me is still very much alive despite this black pilgrimage into the wilds of academia and non-fiction. My wanderings herein lean toward storyteller and grim chronicler rather than documentarian or, heaven forbid, “respectable writer”.
The title quote from Isaiah is apropos considering the God-fearing nature of most of these observers. By and large they were all (whether Saint or Sinner) people who knew on which side of the pearly gates they stood.
Everything contained herein is absolutely true at least so much as the chroniclers of these found documents understood it. I suspect most of them never believed that this material would be shared with anyone outside of possible family members or law enforcement. In the case of one of these journals, there was even an active attempt at suppression!
But I digress . . .
If indeed there are any other misspellings or missteps or even misdeeds—they are my own. I would suggest you praise or complain to me alone for any misgivings contained herein and take care to not harass the dead for their hasty words or tragic failings. They’ve already done their time and toil here on earth and you don’t want to be inviting any of them back.
David J. West
Lehi, Utah
August 22, 2015
“ — A country in ruins, dissolved by the peltings of the storms of ages, or turned inside out, upside down, by terrible convulsions in some former age . . . Poor and worthless as was the country, it seemed everywhere strewn with broken pottery, well glazed, and striped with unfading colors.”
— Parley P. Pratt 1849
The Toad in My Study
Or How I Found these Mysteries
At first glance I believed these found documents had belonged to some wishful armchair treasure hunter desperate to find a gold nugget that would solve his financial woes. I would have soon thrown it all out but something crawled out at me from the waste basket of ages, croaking, ‘Here I Am, Come and See’.
Digging in and spending quite a few dark nights and early mornings making sense of the twisted thing, I was presented with a much more sinister portrait than initially imagined. This was not the work of a single collector, even a deranged one. This, My Friend, was the trial all antiquarians such as myself, dream of receiving.
That this work became much larger than first expected is an understatement of rude proportions. Originally this was to be only an interesting historical blog post about what I had discovered. I thought perhaps I would share the story via the usual social media avenues. But rather than this being like so much of my fiction which often enough the tale grows in the telling, this rather revealed itself to have far more material and macabre repercussions for those involved, albeit luckily not myself included yet.
Now, as to the discovery of the collection: Some may know that I am a literary pulp-fiction writer and therefore love books a bit more than usual person. My large and handsome library/study houses some seven thousand volumes. I still frequently haunt both new and used book stores on the lookout for another interesting acquisition. As I suspect a great many writers are, I am drawn to the curious, historical and dramatic.
I enjoy new books from varied
names and authors, both friend and foe. I am drawn, however, to dusty back corners of used shops where shelves straining under the weight of nearly forgotten tomes, books that were abandoned to the dark recesses and printed long before I was born.
Strangely enough this particular collection of writings did not begin in such a darkened place but in the overly bright sunshine of a Deseret Industries[1]. I happened to be in Las Vegas. And as is my usual habit, I went searching for old rare books that, more often than not, the employees have no idea on the value thereof.
Disheartened at a lack of interesting books, I settled on a few large picture frames. As I drove around back to have them loaded, I heard a young employee complain about a truckload of materials. They had just been dropped off unceremoniously without the delivery person so much as waiting for a tax receipt. Having once worked in a similar establishment I can vouch that when a parent or elder family member passes on, the family, having no interest or care for their departed members possessions, dumps them en-masse at a local thrift store. Often what is worthless junk to one person is a priceless treasure to another. Antiques Roadshow anyone?
In particular, there was a large heavy trunk that had just been dropped off. The tattooed young men questioned each other on what to do with it. It was a faded blue steel with copper accents. This one was much water damaged and in poor shape.
The young man complained to his fellow temporarily employed comrade that he could not lift it on his own. They then attempted to throw it in the dumpster beside my car but even together they could not lift it the gargantuan monstrosity. They looked to me hopefully.
Instead of assisting I suggested they open it, remove the materials inside, make it lighter and do the job themselves. They, however gifted, did not know how to open it. I showed them being familiar with the old practice of latches and snaps.
Inside amidst the stink of mothballs and mildew was quite a collection of moldering newspapers, rotten old books, shoes and a leather satchel. ‘It’s all junk’, declared the younger of the two employees. Not disagreeing with him, the other prepared to pick up the debris and toss it overhand into the dumpster.
Knowing that neither would care nor object, I rifled along with them to sate my own curiosity and see what else was inside the trunk. Picking up the leather satchel, I was struck with the weight of it. I placed it on the ground beside me to see what was beneath it. There were a few more old newspapers and yellowed parchments of illegible handwritten notes. The water damage was pervasive. Though I had hoped to see something truly worthwhile, alas there was not.
After disposing of numerous items, the two employees hefted the entire trunk and tossed it into the dumpster. They then proceeded to walk back into the yard area unconcerned for the lonely satchel that remained at my feet. I had not been impressed with the sour leather bag, though its weight did cause some curiosity. I waited a moment until the employees were out of sight and drew back the tight straps and peered inside, half expecting dead mice.
Instead, the satchel was full of stacked papers, some yellowed and hand written and oddly legible considering the rest of the trunk. Others appeared to be newspaper clippings or magazine pages torn from whatever article was of interest to the former owner. There was also a small stone statue that looked like a crudely carved toad made from reddish desert stone. This was enough to capture me. Regardless of the foul musty odor permeating from the bag, I put it in my trunk and drove away.
I forgot about the bag for another week while sightseeing, casino work and such. It was not until I was home that I remembered the odorous bag which I put in storage so as not to befoul my study.
Now weeks later, I was looking for a particular volume that had not found its way into the study, and smelled the bag. Planning to look inside once more then throw it away, I opened it and drew forth the toad-like idol along with the stack of papers. Thoroughly searching the bag until it was empty, I threw it in the trash. Then I looked through the papers while thinking the toad might make an interesting conversational paperweight.
The collection of papers appeared random until I was struck by the oldest of them. It was from a Spanish conquistador in 1540 and translated to English in January of 1865. The most recent of the collection was dated August of 1938. The journals were from a variety of different people. Only some few items were newspaper and or magazine clippings relating to the actual stories at hand.
And now I shall begin to put the story together in as readable and linear fashion as possible. I will interject some footnoted report of items and articles I found to substantiate the unfolding chronicle.
The stone toad now sits upon my desk staring blankly as I type and I wonder to myself, “Does it approve?”
“Good countries are not for us…”
— George Q. Cannon
In January of 1865 Mormon pioneers struggled into the Moapa Valley and created the first settlement of our age there in St. Thomas. As they set to making the land blossom as the desert rose for themselves they did on occasion discover some strange relics of a bygone era.
The valley, of course, had been inhabited for some time previously by the Paiutes and the Anasazi before them, but with no known written record from them, our story begins with the savage tale left by the first deranged Europeans to have visited the valley. Rather than bog this narrative down anymore I leave you with the curious find of one Elias McGinnies.
The original blue bottle containing the words of Diego Matamoros
“Granted that they did not find the riches of which they had been told; they did find the next best thing—a place in which to search for them.”
— Pedro de Castenada[2]
Jornada del Muerte
Statement of Elias McGinnies: January 1865
Prior to finding the blue bottle, I drew lots with the other settlers for my demarcation of property and they were indeed fair with me despite not being of their faith[3]. I did receive a substantial amount of acreage on the western edge of the settlements and will gain an agreed allotment of water once the canal is finished.
As I was clearing my fields of stone, I did speed the plow over a particularly large gathering of loose rock. It seemed out of place and purposeful in its placement. As I carried the stones out to the edge of my field I found broken human bones and deteriorating rags beneath them. I soon found two full skeletons and could tell that they were not Indian remains but Spaniards. They had no wealth, weapons or tools to speak of, though piles of rust did permeate the dig. The one artifact I could find among them was a small rotting wooden chest that contained only a small blue bottle corked with some few fragile papers rolled up inside. The following account was written by a lost conquistador name of Diego Matamoros. I imagine he would appreciate that his story was found though I am not. Translating it to the best of my ability is a hair raising episode indeed. I do have some questions in places I did not understand, perhaps someday I will get the answer to these terrible mysteries. Until then I sleep with my hand on my gun and my door locked. I have urged my neighbors to do the same so long as we remain in this valley.
From the pen of Diego de la Vega Matamoros: 1540
I have but a few scraps of paper with which to record my last days. To whomever finds this record, caution, these are dangerous lands and perilous times. Keep wary for both they that cry out in the sky and also the whisperers in the dark that each lie in wait upon this Journey of Death.
I have done many bloody things in my life. I did the savage work of the Inquisition serving faithfully under Diego Deza carrying on in the footsteps of Torquemada. The atrocities at my hand were unnumbered in Spain alone. And then I did come to the New World and did serve another madman Hernan Cortez who rewarded my service of blood for it was I who slew the Aztec giant Tzilacatzin[4]! Me, Diego Matamoros! And though I am older yet I volunteered to go with Coronado and conquer new lands by the strength of my sword arm. And thus do I come to my end, reaping what horror I have always sown.
This is how I met my death.
Having escaped from the murderous tribe of Indians that enslaved us for the last three months, my companions, Francisco de la Vaca, Juan Castillo, Don Hernandez and myself were forced to flee up the El Rio de Buena Guia[5]? We managed to take back the most meager of supplies in our flight including our boots, blankets, several saddle bags, these few papers, a canteen, a single blue bottle from Cordoba but alas no weapons. We were cut off in our escape at every turn and found it impossible to return to our comrades downriver who must surely believe that we are dead by now and as I write this, I am sure that our end will soon come to pass.
I have not slept in many days and grow weary as my eyes see things that my mind says cannot exist. I have heard naked drums in the forbidden empty desert and seen caravans of ghosts on some grand precession into the next world, only casually strutting through ours for a short time before disappearing back into the void of sand.
It is troubling as we have experienced these things that cannot be and yet oft times one will see or hear what the others cannot.
We had plenty of water as we moved upstream but when the Indians flanked and cut us off we had to head into the Empty Quarter to evade them.
Our salvation was a double-edged sword in that the treacherous Indians would not follow us to that cursed realm. They ceased to pursue us beyond the river’s edge and we wondered if it was but a ruse, then as we attained some higher ground we could see that they would not go any farther after us and I swear upon my mother’s grave, that at one point they even called out and seemed to beg us to return to them. As if what they did offer was a better proposition than what did await us and now as I lie in the sands of this muddy valley I wonder if they were not right.
Whispers Out Of The Dust: A Haunted Journey Through The Lost American West (Dark Trails Saga) Page 1
