by Rob DeBorde
As the dead man leaned in, Henry felt his breath on his cheek. Only it wasn’t breathing but merely the stale air that moved out of his mouth when he spoke. Dead men didn’t breathe.
“Do what I tell you.”
Henry nodded.
The Hanged Man withdrew the weapon and tucked it behind his belt.
“Bring the shovel.”
* * *
The Hanged Man’s grave was easier to dig the second time, although Henry wasn’t sure what value there was in the chore. The grave would be empty, assuming one of the other bodies hadn’t been put in the Hanged Man’s place by mistake. Henry told the dead man as much, but he insisted on seeing for himself. Why? Was there some power to be found within?
(you have power)
Henry touched the small bulge in his coat pocked, pressing it against his chest. There was warmth there, quieter than before, but still there.
He was too close.
The Hanged Man stood ten feet from the hole, watching the cemetery. He hadn’t moved from the spot in the last half hour, and although Henry wasn’t sure, it appeared the dead man was listening. To what, Henry was afraid to ask.
They weren’t alone, of course. Like the preceding nights, there were eyes glowing in the forest beyond the lantern light. Most were those of small rodents, although Henry had also seen a deer and what he thought was a wolf. They came and watched—silently, for the most part. The night before, Henry had heard squealing, although it hadn’t lasted long. The noises that had followed sounded like tiny mouths feeding. Henry had not slept well.
The ride from Tillamook had been difficult. The Hanged Man pushed the horses hard, leading them from beach to bluff and into the hills in some places. If he was following a trail, Henry couldn’t see it. Throughout the ride, the dead man barely said a word, which was fine with Henry. The silence kept him from screaming—that and the thought of reading.
It was well after dark when they’d stopped the first night. Henry was exhausted, but that didn’t keep him from slipping the book from his pocket as he curled up, his back to the Hanged Man. Henry waited until the fire died back and then let the notebook flutter open in his hand. A warm feeling spread across his face. He’d barely read a sentence before he remembered.
He wants me to read it.
A slight breeze caught the pages lifting one over another until they all rolled over and the book snapped closed. The air was warm but left Henry cold just the same. He wouldn’t read another word that night.
Henry stopped digging long enough to check on the horses, both of whom were tied to small trees at the edge of the cemetery. Henry’s had actually drifted as far into the light as it could, enough to bend the young fir practically horizontal. It stared intently at the woods—watching the eyes, Henry thought. The other horse’s head drooped toward the ground, its eyes surrounded by yellow puss. Henry knew very little about equine matters, but even he could see the animal wouldn’t last another day under its current rider.
“I can hear them.”
Henry nearly jumped, the voice was so close. The Hanged Man stood at the edge of the open grave, close enough for Henry to touch. He hadn’t heard the dead man approach, but now understood why there was bile building up in the back of his throat.
“Hear who?”
The Hanged Man grinned and walked away.
Henry spit into the dirt and resumed digging.
* * *
The dead man’s horse died twenty minutes later, slumping to the ground in a heap, its last breath a long, slow gurgle. Henry’s horse broke its tether and strode to the opposite side of the grave, well away from the dead animal. It stared at Henry, afraid to leave the light, but suggesting that perhaps together they could make it. Henry knew better.
Henry struck wood a few minutes later. The coffin was half filled with dirt but otherwise unoccupied. Henry removed enough of the soil to reach inside the box but not so much as to make room for another body.
The fear that Henry had felt inside the coffin returned. He was alone again, in the dark, only this time there was no book to discover. The Hanged Man would take it and force him into the box. That had been his plan all along. Before he knew what he was doing, Henry pulled the book from his coat pocket, flipped to a random page, and began reading aloud.
“‘I am the judgment of him and his hand is mine, intertwined.’”
Henry felt a surge of power pass through him—real power, not just confidence or warmth. He stared at the words he’d read, realizing he’d once again translated the text from multiple languages. He scanned the rest of the page, seeing all the words in English, instantly understanding them, and then … and then not. The words lost their meaning just as quickly and his understanding was gone. He was not alone.
Henry slipped the book back into this pocket and turned to face the dead man, totally unprepared for the other dead man, whose body landed on top of Henry, knocking him to the ground.
“Bury him.”
Henry sat up, shoving the corpse into the opposite corner of the grave. This dead man wore a frayed black suit, which appeared to be the only thing holding the body together. The flesh about the neck and face was brittle and papery, revealing more skull than skin. Despite the decrepit state, Henry thought there was something familiar about the man, perhaps even familial. He looked away, not wanting to see more.
“Bury him,” Henry said. “In your grave.”
The Hanged Man nodded.
“Hurry up, Henry. He’s a biter.”
Henry hesitated at the odd instruction before deciding he didn’t care. He grabbed the dead man’s feet, promptly snapping them off at the ankles. He tossed both into the open coffin and then began to stuff the rest of the corpse inside, breaking more than a few bones in the process. When the rib cage caught on the splintered lid, Henry used both hands to crush the dead man’s chest, flattening it. It was then that the jaw fell open.
And closed.
Henry scrambled back as the jaw snapped open and closed twice more. It wasn’t fast, but powerful … and hungry. One of the dead man’s arms reached out, clawing at Henry’s leg. Henry swatted it away, breaking off several fingers. Undeterred, the remaining digits reached out again. Henry grabbed the hand, yanking the entire arm free of its socket. It ceased moving.
The jaw continued to snap at Henry.
“Finish it,” said the Hanged Man.
Henry tentatively crawled forward again. He tried pushing the shoulders into the box, but the skull continued to snap at him. Finally, he shoved the loose arm into its mouth, giving the not-so-dead man something to chew on. He quickly jammed the rest of the corpse into the box, pushing the top of the skull in last, cracking the dead man’s arm.
Had Walter been in attendance, he would have appreciated the ease with which Henry got himself out of the grave. For his part, Henry suspected any slower and he’d never have made it.
“What was that?”
“An actor.”
Henry shook his head.
The Hanged Man stared at Henry, his intentions obvious before he gave voice to them.
“I would kill again.”
Henry slowly put it together. “You think if you put a body in the ground in place of your own you’ll be able to kill again? You think God won’t notice?”
The Hanged Man didn’t answer but rather picked up the shovel and began refilling the hole. Henry saw something move in the box just before being covered with dirt.
“But why was it … alive?”
“Not alive. And not alone.”
Henry didn’t understand. And then he did. There were at least a hundred stones covering the gently sloping field atop the mountain. Many of the graves had been freshly dug (or dug up) and at least a few remained open. Henry found just such a plot thirty feet from where he stood. He could make out the mounds of dirt piled on either side of the marker and the dark hole in front of it. Something was in the hole, something moving—hands, digging at the soil, searching for a handhold, t
rying to find a way out. A pair of glowing eyes peered over the top edge of the hole.
Henry stumbled backward. “What did you do?”
The Hanged Man didn’t answer; he didn’t have one. He’d done nothing to disturb the eternal slumber of the local inhabitants, nothing intentional. It was possible he didn’t have a say in the matter. His presence alone might be enough to wake the dead. Either way, he didn’t know. Nor did he care.
The Hanged Man added one last shovelful of dirt and surveyed his work.
Henry stared at the hole. “It’s only half full.”
The Hanged Man tossed the shovel at Henry’s feet and walked away.
Henry stole a glance over his shoulder. The dead man was still struggling to escape the grave, but a second corpse, a woman in a tattered, light-colored dress, stumbled past on the right, arms dangling at her side, one leg dragging behind. Her head lolled forward, unable to stay upright. Henry watched the dead woman long enough to confirm that she was moving toward him.
Henry ran to his horse and pulled himself into the saddle. He half expected the Hanged Man to drag him down—or worse, to join him—but instead the dead man brought his own horse around. It was not dead, after all.
Except it was.
It was like him, or more accurately like the creatures in the forest, because that’s what they all were—dead. No living creature would have been drawn to the Hanged Man, but wherever he went the dead would rise and follow him, watch over him, protect him. Rodents, wolves, horses, people. They would rise from the ground, given new life as Henry had given the Hanged Man. His existence was a disease and it would spread wherever he trod. Henry knew this to be true because he had made it happen.
The living dead steed raised its head and spit out a red-and-black bundle of snot, which dangled from its nose briefly and then slipped to the ground. Its eyes glowed in the lantern light but there was no life in them.
Henry’s horse sidled away from its companion, sensing the creature was an abomination. Henry wished he could do the same.
The Hanged Man directed his horse through the cemetery. Henry followed.
* * *
The front door to the marshal’s house was locked, but the Hanged Man pushed it open without breaking stride.
Henry followed, bringing the lantern around to reveal a foyer devoid of furniture, wall hangings, or anything that might suggest a state of occupancy. The same was true for the front room, hall, and kitchen, save for a few mismatched plates stacked in an open cupboard alongside a single, cracked cup. The house was empty, abandoned.
“Not much left,” Henry said. “I guess the marshal ain’t coming back.”
The Hanged Man paused at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting for Henry and his light.
“He weren’t supposed to leave.”
The second floor was just as sparse, with only the back bedroom featuring more than a layer of dust. A short dresser, bureau, and bed frame made it seem lavish compared to the other rooms. The Hanged Man scanned the walls and was about to leave when something caught his eye. He held out his hand.
Henry handed over the lantern and watched the Hanged Man raise it above his head, illuminating a large brown stain on the ceiling. He studied it for a moment, then passed the light back to Henry and walked out of the room. Henry took one last look himself but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Unlike the rest of the house, the attic was flush with boxes and furniture. The Hanged Man pushed his way through the clutter, opening several of the cartons, more out of frustration than a desire to find what lay within. None of them would have what he was looking for and he knew it.
“He probably took it with him,” Henry said, immediately sorry he’d opened his mouth.
The Hanged Man said nothing.
Henry turned to the nearest box and began flipping through a collection of papers. Many were legal documents—remnants of Kleberg’s law enforcement days, no doubt. Mixed in with the pages were maps and a few random photographs. A formal portrait caught Henry’s eye. It showed a man with a patch over his left eye, a handsome woman, and two children, a boy and a girl, neither of whom appeared to be more than ten. The woman must be the marshal’s daughter, Henry thought. He had never been formally introduced, but he’d seen her around town with her husband.
An ancient memory surfaced that suggested this man and the Hanged Man knew each other. Henry had no idea where it had come from, but it felt true.
“I found something,” he said.
The Hanged Man took the photo from Henry. He held it under the lamp briefly before turning toward a small window. The moon had risen, but Henry couldn’t imagine it offered more light than the lantern.
The Hanged Man studied the photo intently. His lips barely moved, but Henry thought he heard him say, “He lives.” The Hanged Man then flipped the photo over and read the inscription loud enough for Henry to be sure what he heard.
“‘The Wyldes of Portland, 1885.’”
The Hanged Man stared for a moment longer, then crumpled the photo into a ball and let it fall to the floor, which is where he found the marshal’s words carved into the wood.
WHERE IS HE?
“He was supposed to keep watch,” Henry said. He was familiar with the concept of watching over the dead man. Hadn’t that always been his job?
“You only came to me after he left,” the Hanged Man said, reading Henry’s eyes if not his mind.
Henry shook his head but found the words were true. The memories of that day hadn’t always been with him. They had returned less than a week earlier. And hadn’t Asa told him of Kleberg’s departure around the same time? He’d gone to live with his family. That’s why the house was so empty. That’s why—
Henry felt his chest suddenly tighten as the Hanged Man put a hand on his shoulder.
“The day I died, did you see the dark giant?” he asked.
Henry searched for meaning in the words but found none.
“I didn’t see anyone but the marshal and you.” There wasn’t anyone else … was there?
The dead man opened his right hand.
“I can feel it,” he said, closing his eyes. “The grip in my hand, the weight of it, the heat … they took it from me.”
“No, I only saw the marshal.”
The Hanged Man opened his eyes, half expecting the red-handled gun to materialize in his hand. It did not.
“Joseph,” he said, his eyes finding Henry but for a moment seeing someone else.
A terrible wave of nausea enveloped Henry’s senses and for a moment he knew nothing but the dead man’s hate. And then it was gone.
“Stay here,” the Hanged Man said. “We ride for Portland before dawn.”
Henry never said a word as the Hanged Man disappeared down the stairs, leaving him alone in the attic. A minute later he saw him through the small window as he rode down the hill on a dead horse.
He was not alone.
Six men and two women in various states of decomposition slowly lurched after him. They appeared dazed, unable to control their movements, only their direction. These were not the same beings as the Hanged Man but rather mindless, animated corpses one step removed from death. Henry feared them just the same.
One of the dead men rolled his head across his shoulders until he appeared to meet Henry’s gaze. The man’s body jerked to the right, and soon he was staggering toward the house. Henry stepped back from the window and the dead man’s stride faltered. His head bobbled from side to side and then spun back in the direction of his companions. His body soon followed.
Unable to look away, Henry watched the group lurch toward town. Their spastic gait was both sickening and oddly hypnotic. When one of the dead shuffled through the gate of the nearest neighbor and then pitched forward onto the front steps, Henry finally turned his back on the scene. He made his way to the first floor, found a spot of moonlight beneath a window, and pulled the black book from his pocket.
All was quiet as he began to read.
> * * *
Early Tuesday morning, Marvin Daniels was shot in the back, just below the neck, as he walked from his home on Seventh Street to his job at the Astoria Cannery. Miraculously, the bullet struck no major organs or arteries, leaving Marvin bloodied but alive. He never saw his assailant.
The first person to arrive on the scene offered no assistance but rather only the observation that the victim would survive his wound. This, Marvin thought, seemed to displease the man who never descended from his horse.
Gunplay would normally have caused quite a stir in Astoria, which, other than one infamous shootout eleven years prior, rarely saw scenes of violence.
This day would prove very different.
20
“I want to see it.”
Kate sat down on the edge of the bed next to her father. He eyed her suspiciously.
“Sure ’bout that?”
Kate took a deep breath and slowly let it go. “Yes.”
The marshal held his gaze for a few seconds longer before unwrapping the cloth-bound object in his hands. Don’t let her touch it, he thought but did not say upon revealing the Hanged Man’s red-handled pistol.
Kate had hoped seeing the pistol would blunt the power it held in her memories. It was, as Joseph reminded her, just a gun. But, of course, it wasn’t. It was part of the man who had nearly destroyed her family. It had bruised the skin of her newborn daughter and brought her husband to within a whisper of death. It was an evil thing. Had it not been for the suspicion that the gun would make her sick should she touch it, Kate would have flung the thing out the window.
“How could you bring this into our house?”
The marshal tightened his grip on the handle.
“I’m sorry.”
Kate studied her father’s face. He was a stubborn man, but she’d never known him to lie, not to her.
“I believe you,” she said, softening, though only slightly. “But I have to understand why you brought this from Astoria. Why did you even kept it?”
The marshal didn’t have an answer, not a good one, even though he’d asked himself the same question numerous times. He gave the best he had.
