The Preacher: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom Book 3)

by Scott Nicholson

  If those clothes move, I’m going to scream loud enough to blow the tin off the roof.

  She thought she saw movement at the top of the stairs, but it was difficult to tell with the swaying flashlight casting wild shadows against the rafters. She focused the beam on the loft door, which was open. For just a second, the black rectangle seemed to be filled by a man in black. But it dissolved, or stepped back, or was never there, because when she twirled Mom around and pointed, it was just dark, open space, yellow dust motes spinning in the light.

  “We have to look,” Katy said. “Somebody is trying to scare us.”

  “Well, they don’t have to try real hard. It looked like the Scarecrow Man running down the stairs.” Pushed by the Horseback Preacher, she wanted to add, but most of this was probably just her imagination. Even though they both knew ghosts were real, it was another one of those things better off not talked about.

  As they crossed the gritty bottom floor of the barn and reached the foot of the stairs, Katy plucked a small pickax off the wall. It was unlikely to do any good against a sinister spirit, but Jett grabbed a hand trowel. Great. What am I going to do, ask Harmon if I can transplant his posies?

  They ascended to the landing side by side, elbows touching, Jett bouncing the flashlight beam back and forth between the clothes, the loft door, and the barn floor behind them.

  When they reached the clothes, Katy knelt and poked at them with her pickax. “Just rags.”

  “Same rags as Gordon’s old scarecrow wore,” Jett said. “The exact same rags. See that patch on the flannel shirt, and those filthy gloves, and the hole in the blue jeans? And I’d know that straw hat anywhere. I’ve seen it in my nightmares often enough.”

  “I burned those,” Katy said. “Along with all of Gordon’s books and religious artifacts.”

  “Then how do you explain how these got here? Somebody got a description off a ‘Mysterious Legends’ ghost-hunter website and assembled a matching outfit at the thrift shop?”

  “We’re on the Internet?” Katy asked.

  “Really, Mom. There’s a thing called Google. We’re not celebrities or anything, but any old freakazoid could research us if they put the pieces together.”

  Katy nodded. “It’s a prank, then. Might even be a hidden cam somewhere.”

  “You know you don’t believe that.”

  “Well, if somebody’s in the loft, we either go up there or we go back in the house and call the police.”

  Jett tugged at her mom’s arm. “Definitely Plan B.”

  “But most times, the simplest answer is the right one.”

  “You mean the Scarecrow Man’s back?”

  “No,” Katy said. “Come outside and see what I found.”

  Oh God. There’s more?

  In the barnyard, Jett kept checking the loft windows behind her, but they were dark and empty. The goats followed them, but stayed a dozen feet behind, curious but confused. The sun was nearly gone now, tugging the last of its light with it and letting the night take over. Jett wasn’t paying attention and bumped into Katy’s back when she abruptly stopped.

  “Here,” Katy said, taking the flashlight and shining it onto the dimpled, scuffed ground.

  The row of prints was plain: horseshoes. The depressions were about half an inch deep, suggesting great weight, and the tracks continued all the way into the barn. But what was really weird was the other side of the fence.

  “They start there at the edge of the pasture,” Katy said, tracing the path with the flashlight beam. “They’re a little harder to see now, but they come right up to the fence and continue on this side.”

  The horse and its rider could’ve jumped the fence, which was four feet high with an additional strand of barbed-wire above that. But then the prints would have been spaced farther apart, both before the leap—when the horse would’ve gathered speed—and inside the barnyard where the depressions would have been deeper from landing. Instead, it appeared as if the horse had simply trotted right through the fence.

  The simplest answer was the right one: the Horseback Preacher.

  “He’s here,” Jett said.

  “But if he wanted to kill us, why didn’t he just get it over with?”

  “Maybe those clothes are another sign,” Jett said. “Like he’s trying to tell us something.”

  “Like ‘Get out of here’?”

  They ran for the house, still gripping their silly weapons, the goats bleating after them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Odus regretted taking the three goats from Miss Katy, but it was the safest way to deliver on his debt to the reverend.

  If Miss Katy saw him, he could say he was just taking them for a check-up at Doc Sweeney’s, who worked out of her farm on Rush Branch. That would seem a little odd, but she’d likely believe him—although surely by now she’d learned of his arrest. Bad news traveled faster than a red-tailed hawk in Solom.

  He snuck down from the ridge where the Smith property bordered Betsy Ward’s land, then cut across the pasture and eased his way so that his approach couldn’t be seen from the house because of the barn. He figured nobody would be out because they usually fed the animals at night. But this plan also didn’t fit with his cover story, because if he was hauling goats, he would’ve driven his pick-up.

  He was in luck, though—they must’ve had company for dinner. He recognized David Tester’s truck in the driveway and wondered if the preacher was courting her. He was a bit too young for her, but the pickings were slim in these parts, as he well knew. The preacher might also be on the clock, giving a sales pitch to lure her to the Primitive Baptist church. Jett had mentioned her dad was attending it, so maybe that other truck belonged to him.

  Whatever the reason, their visit kept Katy and Jett occupied, and all Odus could say was “Halleleuah.” The goats made a little noise when he entered the rear of the barn, but he shut them up by sprinkling some hay around, then got three ropes and collected half the herd. They were a struggle to control, each of them wanting to go in a different direction once he got them through the gate and into the pasture. They wanted to browse the high wildflowers and weeds, and Odus tugged, cussed, and kicked until he got them back over the ridge to where he’d parked his own truck.

  Stealing a horse was a little harder. He’d “borrowed” a pinto mare he called Sister Mary a year ago when he’d tackled the Horseback Preacher, but the horse had been sold off this spring when the owner decided to move to California. But there was a farm on Holloway Road owned by a seasonal resident who was already in Florida for the winter. Odus knew the caretaker, Robbie Mains, and Robbie was a pretty careless fellow all the way around. He called Robbie and said he’d found a killer new fishing hole at the top of Rush Branch, where the rainbow trout practically jumped on the line and dressed for dinner. He invited Robbie to give it a try—as long as he didn’t spread the news around—and to come up and look for his truck. It was a twenty-minute drive, and no way could Robbie resist tossing in a hook or two when he got there and didn’t see Odus’s truck, so that meant Odus had a good hour to do the job.

  He couldn’t load the horse in the back of the pickup with the goats, so he’d saddled up a sturdy chestnut stallion, led it by its halter from its stall, and then mounted and rode it to a clearing off the road where he’d parked his truck. He tethered the horse to a tree, unloaded the goats and tied their ropes to the pummel of the saddle, and then headed through the woods like a livestock trader would make the journey more than a century ago—during Harmon Smith’s time.

  Odus hadn’t spent a whole lot of time in the saddle, being too poor to upkeep a horse himself, as well as having any patience for ownership of any kind. But he soon got back in the groove, and the easygoing stallion seemed to glad to have an adventure. The goats were a pain in the ass, but that was par for the course, and as long as Odus paused to let them nibble every hundred yards or so, they didn’t drop down to their knees and force Odus to drag them.

  When he clopp
ed out of the trees and through the True Light Tabernacle graveyard, he expected the Rev. Edmisten to be sitting there waiting, ready to ride. The Lexus was parked in the patch of asphalt behind the church, and there was no sign of life. The church sat on a hill just above the county road, so at least Odus didn’t have to worry about being spotted. If the police showed up, he’d have no choice but to ditch the goats and haul ass into the rural backwoods. If the district attorney thought she had a solid case on the vandalism felonies, then a few more animal thefts would just seal the deal.

  “Hey, Reverend!” Odus called, a little annoyed. The goats spread out behind him as far as the ropes would allow, grazing on the short grass in the graveyard and munching some fresh asters from a bouquet stuck in one of the graves. If any crime scene tape had been stretched around the graveyard after the mutilation, it was gone now.

  Odus dismounted, tied the horse to a concrete crosspiece bearing the words “Arvel James Ward, Loving Husband,” and tried the church door. It was locked. In his youth, none of the local churches locked their doors, and a fellow could slip in and sleep off a drunk, or play the piano if the congregation could afford one, and even kneel down and pray if desired. But now everybody locked their churches tight, and most of them maintained electronic security systems.

  Odus didn’t wear a watch and didn’t carry a cell phone, but with the sun sinking fast, he figured it was seven o’clock. If he left the horse here for the reverend, that meant a long walk back through the woods in the dark. The church wasn’t very large, maybe a thousand square feet, with a narrow steeple that held no bell and with a vestry abutted to the rear of the sanctuary. Odus walked around and tried the back door. Finding it locked as well, he knocked. “Reverend!”

  After a moment, the bolt clicked and the door opened.

  Odus barely recognized the man. “Uh…I brought your horse and goats.”

  “I’m ready, as you can see.” The reverend nodded and tried to tug his little black jacket over his belly. The jacket sported long tails and the trousers matched in fabric and style. The collar of the white cotton shirt was held tight by a black western bow tie, with folds of the preacher’s chin bulging over it. The outfit was topped by a rounded black hat with a brim that would throw a decent amount of shade on a sunny trail. The clothes were shopworn, the cuffs frayed, and the whole ensemble seemed a good two sizes too small. But all in all, Odus had to admit it was a right fair imitation of the Horseback Preacher.

  “You’ll know him by his fruits, all right,” Odus said.

  The reverend thumped the brim of the hat with a pudgy finger. “Yes indeedy.”

  Odus didn’t want to be involved in any of the preacher’s plans. But he was motivated by more than just paying back the preacher for the bail money. He suspected that Harmon Smith wouldn’t accept such a disturbed man as a replacement, but would instead haul him off to whatever hell lay on the far side of the circuit. If Odus could help speed things along—even if it cost a few goats and the risk of jail time—then that was the best way to restore peace and quiet in Solom while protecting Katy and Jett.

  “Your horse is tied in the graveyard, along with your goats. I can’t stick around any longer. I need to get back to my truck before Robbie Mains reports a stolen horse.”

  “You’re not going to help me dig up Harmon’s grave?”

  Odus shook his head and licked his lips. What he wouldn’t give for a pint—hell, a quart—of Old Crow, but he was broke and no way did he want to ask the reverend for any more money. He couldn’t even hock his fishing pole, because the pawn shop in Titusville closed early on Saturday nights. “It’s getting late and I don’t want to be out when Harmon comes around.”

  The reverend laughed, causing his belly to strain against the jacket. “That wasn’t what you were saying last night.”

  “That was before I got in trouble with the law. And it looks like you’ve got things taken of.”

  “Yes indeedy. Well, let’s see this horse of yours. I suppose I can do the digging tomorrow. That is, if tonight isn’t the night.

  Odus walked with the preacher to the horse. The reverend was stiff-legged in his tight pants, rocking from side to side with each step. But he was pleased when he saw the animal. “He’s not as big as Old Saint, but the profile’s similar.”

  The reverend awkwardly patted the horse’s nose. The stallion seemed indifferent, sensing this man wasn’t an experienced equestrian. But the animal endured and stayed steady when Odus boosted the reverend into the saddle and released the tether.

  It was nearly dark when the preacher wheeled the horse and pointed it toward the woods, the goats tied behind him.

  “What about me?” Odus said. “How do I get back to my truck?”

  The reverend fished in his pocket and came out with his key ring. He tossed it to Odus, who caught it with a jangle. “Take my Lexus. I won’t be needing it anymore.”

  And with that, the reverend twitched the reins and the stallion headed across the graveyard toward the woods, the goats trailing stubbornly behind. The big hooves clanked over the stones of Harmon Smith’s grave as the Rev. Edmisten guided the animal over it.

  It seemed the good reverend already considered himself a peg above the Horseback Preacher.

  Odus jangled the keys, wondering what else he now owned besides a late-model Lexus.

  Odus just hoped the reverend wouldn’t get killed in a way that would draw suspicion to him.

  That would not do.

  No indeedy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sunday morning was crisp and cool, a thin layer of frost on the ground sparkling silver in the dawn.

  Jett smiled nervously at Kelvin, who was the only other person in the assembly with open eyes. The other nearly two dozen people, including Mom and Dad, were bowed in prayer. Kelvin pointed at the crystal-clear water that churned over a stack of stones and dropped two feet into a deep, swirling pool. Kelvin mouthed something that looked like “That water’s going to be cold as hell.”

  Jett had to bite back a giggle. Joining Dad’s church hadn’t seemed like a big deal until now. This was getting serious.

  Elder David Tester finished up his sermon, raising his voice over the roar of the creek: “I ask that you bless this water, Lord, as we bring this sister and daughter into the church, and please lead us, guide us, and direct us in your name, and deliver us from evil.”

  Many of the parishioners echoed “Amen” along with him, and Elder Tester said, “Are you ready to be washed clean, Jessica Draper?”

  “I guess so,” she said, wishing she could summon the same kind of fervency that shone in the eyes of the adults around her. Dad clutched his hands together in a bizarre eagerness, while Mom glanced around at all the strange faces as if she’d woken up in Oz after a tornado. Kelvin was the only more-or-less normal person there, and she was glad she had a connection with the real world—her world, not the one of family—because she was afraid to become a part of this new community.

  Elder David held out a hand to her. Jett swallowed hard and took four steps as the crowd parted to let her pass. She’d worn a nylon sweater and had a pair of thick leggings on under her long dress to help fight off the chill. But the clothing would do no good once she was wet. And that pool looked pretty deep to be fed by such a narrow creek.

  “This is an outward expression of an inner working,” Elder Tester said as he took Jett’s hand. “We know what the Lord can do, because He’s done it in all our lives.”

  The crowd murmured agreement and Dad came forward to help lead her into the water. Jett had removed her shoes, and the stones along the creek bank were slick and mossy. The fully dressed men entered the water up to their ankles and turned. Elder David broke out in song: “Salvation O the name I love.”

  As soon as he finished the line, the congregation repeated it in a sweet a capella harmony that was somehow mournful instead of uplifting. Mom looked around, bewildered, and Kelvin looked like he wanted to break into a run and get t
he heck out of there. But he pulled his phone out of his pocket and pointed the back of it at them, likely recording video of the service without asking if that was appropriate.

  Elder David sang the second line and pulled Jett two steps into the water. The icy chill instantly numbed her feet, but neither Dad nor the lay preacher seemed to feel it.

  They kept easing into the pool until the water was knee deep. Jett hadn’t been paying attention to the song, but Elder tester’s first line of the second verse was louder than her chattering teeth and the rushing current:

  When I was sinking in despair.

  Filled with an awful gloomy fear…

  The crowd repeated the line, the women shrill and clear, the men full-voiced and warbling, the song becoming more of a dirge than a hymn. Mom came to the water’s edge and looked down as if mulling whether to follow them in. The preacher finished the second verse and the crowd repeated the line, and Jett was now in cold water up to her waist.

  My savior came to my relief,

  He eased my pain and bore my grief.

  Jett looked to the opposite side of the creek, which was mostly rhododendron tangles, boulders, and ferns giving way to forest. And there he sat in the saddle—the Horseback preacher glared from beneath the brim of his hat, although Jett couldn’t make out any features. Old Saint seemed eight feet tall, even dipping his big brown head to sip at the fresh water.

  Jett tried to scream but the preacher was already dipping her backward, Dad holding her by the elbow. The shock of cold took her breath, and it seemed she was under for minutes, her nose flushed and her lungs burning, but it must have only been seconds. She was disoriented, and one of her feet slipped out from under her. She went deeper into the pool, flailing a little even though the men fiercely gripped her.

  When she came up, water sluiced from her hair, and she found herself in the arms of the Horseback Preacher, and his skin seemed to be made of waxy cheese, his eyes dark and empty graves, his teeth gray stumps behind cracked and swollen lips.