Horror Library, Volume 4

by Bentley Little

  Evil was not in the blood, his mother used to tell him. It was passed through the tongue. It's what came out of a man's mouth that spread to others. White or black, evil was learned, and could be unlearned. She used to say that once it got in the blood, once it didn't need to be learned anymore, that's when mankind would feel God's wrath. At times, Ezekiel wasn't so sure it wasn't already in the blood of some, that maybe Him not doing anything about it was the wrath she meant.

  The tingling returned. The direction from which they rode was not good, and he was having a hard time not thinking about it.

  He said a small prayer beneath his breath to bless the soul of Mr. Lincoln once more as the horsemen crested the nearest ridge and came within shouting distance. He was determined to maintain some dignity, what his mother used to call a free man's bearing, weighing in his mind that he had every reason to think these men were here to kill him, yet no reason in particular. But something told him he was not going to be killed, a sensation creeping around his gut. It told him the danger wasn't to him. Not at this moment. Try as he might, he could find no relief in the feeling.

  The riders came to a stop a dozen yards before they reached him, forming a tight uneven line. They stood that way for an uncomfortable series of moments, appraising him through tiny rips in the black cloths covering their faces, the heads of their horses bobbing and snorting intermittently, before each abruptly reined their animal, half of them to the left, half to the right, as if acting on a silent command. It was then that Ezekiel saw, with a more subdued but still tangible flush of pride, that he had been right. A fifth rider strode through the gap on a black quarter horse, his right hand behind him, leading a fully saddled appaloosa. Once clear of the others, the rider made a tight arc with his horse, moving his trailing arm out wide around him, bringing the appaloosa to a stop between himself and Ezekiel.

  Ezekiel reached up and snagged the reins out of the air as the rider tossed them toward him.

  The rider had his mount continue circling until he was facing Ezekiel again. He said nothing. The only sounds were the huffs of the horses, the occasional clop of a hoof. Even the birds grew quiet. The relative silence seemed unnatural. It hung around Ezekiel's ears like a weight.

  "This here's Mr. Campbell's horse," Ezekiel said, pretending suddenly to notice the brand. The tingling grew to where he felt a trembling in his limbs. He laid his shovel down across the post he was planning to reset and pointed back in the direction they had come. "If you were looking to return it, his spread is over yonder."

  None of them replied. Ezekiel knew what he had said was pointless, knew the men understood exactly whose horse they had just passed off, just like he'd known whose horse it was as soon as he'd laid eyes on it. And since there was nothing else in that direction for too many miles to count, he even knew they had just come from Bill Campbell's ranch. But he preferred not to acknowledge any of those things. Knowing wasn't always a good thing. Problem was, not knowing always seemed to be worse. And what he didn't know was exactly what it was these men wanted of him.

  Fixing a length of fence was not a crime. The law had been supporting fencers for years now. He couldn't remember the last time he heard of violence breaking out over such a thing, even if every week it seemed another section of his was being torn down. Surely no one, not even that mean and greedy Bill Campbell, was going to send men in masks to stop a man from repairing his own fence on his own land, even a black man. It had to be something else.

  The rumors stirred in his thoughts, demanding to be acknowledged, and he did his best to push them aside. Not thinking of something wasn't so hard, you just had to think of something else. But the cold tickle in his neck and spine that accompanied some thoughts wouldn't go away so easily.

  He took in a breath. The breeze had died down, and he inhaled the gritty scents of upturned earth and wet horseflesh.

  "Were you men lookin' for water?" he asked, because he felt he needed to ask something. "A place to water your horses, maybe?"

  The men said nothing. Ezekiel passed his eyes over each of them, looking for a clue to what they wanted. They were all dressed more or less identically. Each wore a long tan coat and a blue shirt. Each wore brown cotton trousers and brown boots. Each wore a holster on his belt with a sidearm, the leather tied securely to his thigh, protruding along his bent leg through the gap of his open coat. Each wore similar black gloves. And, of course, each wore the black hood beneath an immaculate white hat. The only point of deviation in their uniform seemed to be their bandanas. Each had a different color. The one who had approached him boasted a white one, folded over and forming a curved, sagging triangle around his neck.

  Ezekiel didn't know what they wanted, but he did have an idea of what they wanted him to do. A saddled horse with no rider, reins thrown to him—it didn't take an educated mind to figure it out.

  But that didn't mean he was eager to do it.

  As if sensing his reliance on the ambiguity, the rider with the white bandana abruptly turned his horse and paced it away. The others fell in line next to him. They stopped after a few yards and looked back, one by one, black hoods peering over broad shoulders.

  His ability to feign ignorance washed away, Ezekiel mounted the appaloosa and followed as the men spurred their animals to a gallop.

  They rode for a good spell before he saw anything. Ezekiel guessed fifteen minutes, but he was never much for measuring time. They crossed the open fields and passed between the thickets of oak and pine and sweet gum, over a gully and through a pasture. He did not know where they were going, but he feared he could guess. What he did know is they were on William Campbell's land, passing William Campbell's cattle as they grazed, and that made him extremely uncomfortable. William Campbell would probably shoot him if he caught Ezekiel trespassing like this, especially if he was caught riding Campbell's horse. But he knew that if there was any shooting to be done today, these men around him would likely be the ones doing it, so that was not his concern.

  It was the stories he'd been hearing about Campbell the past few months, how the man had gone mad as a hatter after losing his wife and child to yellow fever. Crazy stories, stories that made no sense. Stories he wanted to dismiss as bosh.

  Stories about a woman with skin darker than the bottom of his well, and eyes darker still. A woman who was brought to do the work of the devil.

  He stopped pretending there was any doubt as to the destination when he saw Campbell's house. There were three figures near a large oak tree out in front of it, and another standing closer to the porch. One of them near the tree was on horseback. The others were standing beneath its canopy, one on each side of the trunk. Standing on something, it seemed. The one on the horse and the one near the porch each had a white hat and a shadow for a face, though Ezekiel allowed that he might be assuming that last part. Five other horses, saddled and bridled, looked hitched to a rail of fence as they grazed.

  They halved the distance before Ezekiel saw the noose, halved it again before he saw that the man whose neck was in it was Bill Campbell. He was blindfolded, rocking stiff-legged on a section of log that was too thin to hold its balance. By the angle of his arms, curving at the elbows and disappearing behind his back, Ezekiel assumed Campbell's wrists were bound to the rear. Then he realized there were two nooses, the other on the far side of the tree around the neck of a tall, skinny negress in a ratty prairie dress and white pinafore. Her skin was blacker than charred wood. Ezekiel wanted badly to turn back, to burst off and keep riding, to be anywhere else but in this field with these men approaching that tree. But he knew that was like wishing a pair of deuces were a pair of queens. 'Wish in one hand, crap in the other' he remembered hearing a man who'd lost his legs in the war once say. 'See which one fills up first.'

  The tree was drawing close now, and he began to worry about what plans— what difficulties—these men had in store for him. A lynching of a white man, that was not something a black man wanted to be around, not in Alabama or Texas or anywhere h
e could imagine. Ezekiel studied Campbell's face as its details came into view. The man's expression, jowly and ruddy, was pulled as tight in a grimace as the folds of flesh would allow. He was nervous, too. His face was slick, his hair shiny, and his shirt soaked, even in the cool breeze on such a mild day. For that, Ezekiel couldn't blame him.

  The woman looked worried, but defiant. They hadn't blindfolded her, and her saucery eyes, white loops around black centers, darted from hat to hat like she was taking names. She held her chin up, full pale lips puffed out, almost pursed. He could tell more than one tear had cut a trail down her face, because her dried ebony skin was a bit white and flaky in spots, except for where the long tails of moisture left their marks. She was sweating, too, like Campbell, her dress pressed flat from the dampness. But she seemed determined to keep herself proper. Dignified.

  Damn fool, Ezekiel thought. Even a colored woman dark as her stood a chance of escaping the rope if she just blubbered and begged and did things a woman was expected to do.

  But then he remembered the stories, and thought, maybe not.

  All the riders except the one with the white bandana gathered near the tree, next to the other members of the group. The April breeze was pushing toward them, rippling through their coats like a series of tiny waves as they turned sideways to it. They lined their horses in a row, perpendicular, facing both Ezekiel and the tree. An audience.

  Ezekiel examined the rope around Campbell's neck. It was drawn tight up and over a branch, angling sharply to a stake in the ground near the foot of the horse closest to the tree. There was a squat mason jug next to it, like someone had been snorting homemade liquor. Or was planning to.

  The rider with the white bandana pulled a rolled-up piece of parchment from his saddlebag, maneuvered his horse near to hand it over. It was tied around the middle with a small piece of leather. Ezekiel reluctantly took it from him and the man stabbed a finger at it, as if to make sure Ezekiel couldn't play dumb. Ezekiel unfastened the tie and unrolled the sheet, holding it with one hand on top and the other on the bottom.

  There were words written on it. Big, blocky letters. Some of them he recognized. Others he had to sound out, mouthing them slowly, piecing out the pronunciation. He lifted his head as he realized what it said. He looked at the tall rider with the white bandana, then at the other men lined up near the tree, then at Campbell. The wind was coming from his back, flapping the parchment in his hands.

  He studied the rope again, told himself this had to be some elaborate joke. This was not a hanging. Ezekiel had seen several hangings in his day. It was not that easy to hang a man. The rope and the branch both needed to be strong. And the rope had to be secure. He'd seen several men hit the ground running as a rope came undone or a tree branch snapped. This rope didn't seem all that strong, and he doubted that stake in the ground would ever hold a grown man's weight, even if the branch would.

  Ezekiel started to say something to the man with the white bandana, but the man drew his pistol and pointed it at him. Ezekiel got the message. He took a breath and raised the parchment. A sharp fume irritated his nose as the breeze ebbed. He wondered if it was the stench of fear. Then he wondered if it was his or Campbell's.

  "William Campbell," he said, his voice shaky. As he spoke the words, one of the riders trotted forward, circling Campbell, and removed the blindfold.

  Campbell blinked, angling his head down and squinting into the light. "Adams? Adams, is that you? What do you think you're doing? Who the hell are these—"

  The rider with the white bandana turned the pistol toward Campbell and cocked it. Campbell's face flushed, but he held his tongue. Ezekiel wondered for a moment if it was a flush of rage, if maybe the mere presence of a Negro placed a heavy thumb on the scale for anger, balancing it out against fear.

  But then he saw how slack the man's jaw had become, how the red had turned pale. The man's heart was under a severe strain and was affecting the flow of his blood.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Campbell. . ."

  The door to the front of the house swung open, clattered against its stop. A man in another white hat, black hood and duster rumbled out. He was holding a long, hollow pole with a rope double-threaded through it into a loop. At the end of it flailed a boy in tattered trousers and a few strips of cloth hanging from his shoulders. The loop of the rope was around his neck. The boy hissed and snarled as he clutched at the pole.

  Right behind him, another hat and hood with a pole clomped out, this one leading a woman the same way. She made less noise than the boy, but her face, scratched and filthy, matched his ferocity, all bared teeth and wild eyes.

  Two other men followed, holstering their revolvers as they stepped onto the porch.

  Several of the horses nickered and backed away. Ezekiel felt himself almost slide off his saddle as one of his boots kicked out of a stirrup. His hand was trembling so badly, he found it difficult to grip the horn.

  He swallowed dry, unable to find any wetness in his mouth. The men with the poles led the thrashing boy and woman to a clearing next to the tree. Ezekiel knew these people, or knew them well enough. Seen them in town, the woman at the general store, the boy every spring at the fair. Before the fever. He felt himself sway, like he was trying to balance on water. Either the stories he'd heard weren't crazy, or he was.

  The man with the pole leading the boy stumbled as he reached the clearing, his boot heel catching something on the ground. He didn't let go of the pole, but did let the rope slip and that was all it took. The boy pulled free and scrabbled in a mad rush toward the man closest to him, the one leading the woman. The child uttered a high-pitched growl, reminding Ezekiel of a bobcat as he lunged and clamped his jaws on the man's arm. Ezekiel knew he'd never forget those eyes, burning with something unnatural, lit with the glow of a branding iron just removed from a flame.

  The horses reared and twisted. Ezekiel struggled not to be thrown. He heard a man's scream, then several shots. When the horses finally settled down and Ezekiel could see again, the boy and the woman lay motionless on the ground, soupy matter oozing from large holes in their skulls. Their faces were locked in feral expressions, animal ones, the likes of which Ezekiel had never seen, and prayed he'd never see again.

  Campbell was weeping now, and Ezekiel wondered if it was his scream he'd heard. The man mumbled through his sobs, just loud enough for Ezekiel to hear, saying, "It wasn't done yet. . . She just needed more time. . . They just needed more time. . ."

  Smoke rose from the barrel of the gun wielded by the man with the white bandana as the scene settled down. The man seemed to stare at the bodies for a long time, as if maybe he was trying to make a point, or possibly think of one, then he swung the gun toward Ezekiel and cocked it once more.

  Shaking as he was, Ezekiel cleared his throat and fumbled to open the writing again. He found the gun in that man's hand to have a remarkable way of aiding his understanding of what was expected of him.

  "William Campbell. You have been. . .found. . .guilty. . .of. . .the crime. . .of. . .nek. . . necro—mancy. . ."

  Ezekiel looked up again, catching a glimpse of the bodies, then back down before white bandana had a chance to react. The bore of that pistol looked huge when he stared into it.

  "You. . .and the n-n-neg-ress Obi have called upon. . .the p-p-prince of darkness to ease your suffering and vi-vi-" He stopped and coughed, wiping at his eyes. "Vi-olated the laws of Heaven.

  "For your crimes...against...nature...and nature's God...you... have been. . .sen . . . ten. . .ced. . .to burn. . .in. . .the. . .fl-fl-flames. . .of. . .hell.

  "May the Lord and S-S-Savior. . .have mer-mercy. . .on your soul. . . when He comes to judge the q-q-quick and the dead. . ."

  Ezekiel raised his eyes. He saw that Campbell's face had drained. There was only resignation there now. But Ezekiel knew there also had to be fear, hidden beneath the flesh. The smell of it, or something like it, seemed to be trying to reach Ezekiel against the breeze. It was then he realized why he'd been br
ought here, what his purpose was. He wanted to tell the man it would all be okay, that they were just trying to teach him a lesson, but he knew that wasn't true. He didn't know what was about to happen, and not knowing always seemed worse. Still, he clung to the hope they really weren't intent on hanging the man. But he also presumed they viewed killing as wrong, that they feared God's reckoning, and he had little reason to believe that. Not these men. Not the one with the white bandana who rode so tall in the saddle, who carried himself like a gospel sharp on Sunday morning.

  White bandana holstered his weapon and gestured with a tilt of his head toward the others. The rider who had taken the blindfold off Campbell held it up, then removed something from a pocket in his coat with his other hand. He'd struck it against his saddle before Ezekiel realized it was a match. Within a moment, fire was creeping up the dangling cloth, licking and clawing skyward.

  Campbell screamed. He started saying no over and over. His eyes grew impossibly wide. The look of someone suddenly realizing something. Seeing his reaction made Ezekiel realize it, too.

  The Obi woman started laughing, a loud, raucous laughter that reached into Ezekiel's body, transformed into icy claws, and squeezed his heart. Then the laughter stopped and she began to speak things he couldn't understand, chanting, almost singing words heavy and melodic with m's and b's.

  She twisted her head to see the man the boy had bit. He was favoring his arm, pressing it against his side. She turned back to Ezekiel. Through a wide smile she spoke again, loudly and clearly this time, eyes focused only on him.