The Preacher: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom Book 3)

by Scott Nicholson

  “I don’t think so.”

  Ray nodded. “Oh. His farm.”

  “He didn’t have a face, Ray. He…God help me, I let Harmon save me.”

  “The path has been marked,” Ray said, patting David on the shoulder to comfort him. “Narrow is the gate and hard is the road that leadeth to life, and few there be to find it.”

  He’d mangled the Bible verse all to hell, but he’d soon have time to get it right. David was in no shape to correct him for a change.

  He led his brother to the truck.

  Harmon wouldn’t be the only one paying a visit to the Smith farm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Odus wished the cops hadn’t seized his rifle.

  Bullets were useless against the Horseback Preacher, but maybe he could’ve tricked out some silver crosses on them or some such. But would that even work against a man of the cloth? Harmon was cut from a different cloth, to be sure, but wouldn’t that be like pouring water to stop a flood?

  Damn. All this figuring hurts a man’s head, especially when there’s no Old Crow to dull it down a little. No wonder Gordon Smith went bat-shit crazy, as much learning and studying as he done.

  Odus wondered how much the farm had affected him during all his time spent working the pastures, the barn, and the garden. Maybe he was a little crazy, too, or haunted in ways he’d never realized. What if his thirst for drink had been a gift of this place? Like Katy, he’d never been able to leave Solom, either.

  But after a couple of hours, during which time Katy served them up some pretty tasty leftover spaghetti and some pole beans, he realized maybe the house wasn’t the best place to have a showdown. The original Smith homestead, a small cabin where Harmon sheltered his family, had actually been located on the site where the barn now stood, a good, level piece of ground with easy water access. That fact, and Harmon’s mystical connection to the goats of Solom, made the barn seem like the more likely place for his return.

  Katy agreed, noting that Harmon Smith never entered the house. “But it’s safer here, right?” she said.

  “What good is ‘safe’?” Jett said. “What, are you going to just hole up in the house for the rest of your life and never see the sun again? Nail plywood over the windows?”

  “We need to finish this tonight,” Odus said. “Letting the storm pass will only make it worse. That’s what Solom’s done for a century now, and all it’s done is fatten up the body count. We beat Harmon Smith last year, but that was on Lost Ridge. It won’t be for keeps until we do it right here on his home turf.”

  “But you said the preachers were part of it,” Katy protested. “And none of them are here.”

  “Oh, I suspect Harmon will deal with them on his own terms, before he shows up here to put the final nail in the coffin.”

  Katy served up some blackberry cobbler topped with homemade goat yogurt. Kelvin sat beside Jett at the table, occasionally sneaking a handhold or making some other flirty move under the table. Odus and Katy both pretended not to notice, but once in a while Jett would up and giggle for no good reason. Kelvin had secured permission to stay late because apparently his parents thought Jett, as a newly minted Baptist, would be a good influence on him.

  Odus almost giggled himself when he’d heard that. But the mood soon turned serious as dusk sent its ebony fingers into the furrowed slopes around them and mist seeped into the valley. When they finally left the house, with all its lights blazing, the sound of the front door closing was like the slamming of a funeral crypt.

  He made Miss Katy, Jett, and that curly-headed Kelvin boy round up weapons from the barn, figuring if nothing else, they’d all be busy for half an hour. To his amusement, Katy instantly selected a baling hook and gave it a few test swings in the air.

  “You act like you’ve had some practice,” Odus said.

  “Let’s just say this ain’t my first rodeo,” she answered.

  Jett went with a sickle that looked a lot like the one Gordon had tried to chop them up with. “Matches my earrings,” she said proudly.

  Odus, who never paid attention to jewelry, make-up, and other such fashion showiness, peered at her ears. Little crescent moons hung from each lobe, glinting in the dim light of the barn. “That they do,” he agreed.

  After trying several long-handled farm implements, Kelvin settled on a heavy-headed potato rake. He swung it like a baseball bat a few times, then clawed at the air as if plucking a chicken from a tree. “Versatile,” he said.

  To his credit, he never once acted like arming themselves against a century-old dead man was peculiar. Odus admired how the boy fell right in with the general craziness of it all. Of course, most folks in Solom had sense enough to lay low and let Harmon ride on to the next house, but the boy was plain smitten with Jett.

  Oh well, he wouldn’t be the first fool that love put under the ground.

  For himself, Odus took a curved hoof knife and a farrier’s hammer, just in case somebody needed to deal with Old Saint. He couldn’t picture taking on a horse that weighed six times more than he did, and was dead and ornery to boot, but it was best to be prepared.

  When he saw the scarecrow outfit nailed to the wall, hanging much in the position Jesus might have sagged on the cross, he said, “Where did that come from, Miss Katy? I thought you burned that?”

  “It, uh…walked down the stairs last night,” Katy said.

  “With a helpful shove from the Horseback Preacher,” Jett added.

  The frayed cheesecloth mask with the stitched lips seemed to grin down at Odus, and the straw hat didn’t quite hide those horrible dark holes for eyes. If the Horseback Preacher was able to bring even clothes back from beyond, then what hope did they have of warding him off? Maybe Katy’s idea of having David Tester perform some religious mumbo jumbo was a good one. Meanwhile, the Rev. Edmisten was probably clopping around up on Lost Ridge in his old Methodist outfit, tossing goat carcasses on a wood fire and whining for Harmon Smith to come out an play. If he hadn’t been thrown out of the saddle and broken his neck already.

  It would be fine for everybody if Harmon took the worthless True Lighter, although Odus might wind up as a suspect if the death looked suspicious. And he’d probably have to give back the Lexus if any heirs showed up. Plus, for all he knew, Harmon was ready to just hand over the reins and take a long sleep.

  “So it wasn’t really a ghost, then,” Odus said. “At least we don’t have to worry about the Scarecrow Man on top of everything else.”

  Using his rake, Kelvin poked the cracked and curling leather boot that dangled four feet in the air, suspended by one leg of the jeans. The boot swung back and forth, the heel knocking lightly against the rough planks.

  “The clothes just ended up in a pile there on the landing,” Jett said.

  “Where was the preacher when that happened?” Odus asked.

  Jett pointed to the loft door. “Up there.”

  “Did either of you take a look?”

  Katy and Jett shared a glance, and then both shook their heads in unison.

  “All right.” Odus twisted his sweating palm around the hammer. “I’ll go. We don’t need any more surprises.”

  “It’s dark up there,” Katy said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Kelvin volunteered. “I can stand behind you and use my phone as a light. But you have to tell me what we’re looking for. And if something comes at us, I’m going to be out of there so fast you might be picking my clothes up off the floor.” At this he looked at Jett and gave a grin that didn’t mask his anxiety.

  “You sure it’s a good idea for us to split up?” Katy said.

  “You got the goats to protect you,” Odus said, waving his hoof knife at the three animals in the pen. He hated having to cull their herd in half, but the theft was for a greater good.

  “Great,” Jett said. “Little Rascal, Greta, and Side Effects. We’re really in good hands now. Uh, I mean hooves.”

  “Come on, kid,” Odus said to Kelvin. He was pretty sure
the Scarecrow Man was gone for good, but a lot of folks had died from “pretty sures” in Solom. But if Harmon was hiding up there, then Odus would need the help. He’d defeated Harmon up on Lost Ridge last year, but he hadn’t done it alone.

  And it turned out that Harmon hadn’t stayed down for long. Not that Odus really expected any different. This final showdown was long overdue.

  He didn’t like the way the loft door creaked open like a mummy’s coffin. And the loft was dim and shadowy even in full daylight, but with the sun sinking, darkness had seized the corners and was pushing its way toward a complete takeover. He could only see fifteen feet in front of him, and Kelvin’s little battery-powered light did little more than illuminate the chaff that choked the air. Yellow-green bales of hay were stacked along the walls, still moist and sweet from the second cutting done in September.

  Something fluttered in the rafters and Kelvin gasped, flicking the light toward the tin roof. A swallow veered out of the darkness and fluttered past them, winging toward a big opening at the rear of the barn, where dusk filled a gray square. Odus lowered his hammer and took a breath.

  “Heh,” Kelvin whispered. “Thought it was a bat.”

  “Quit lying, son. You thought it was your death.”

  They eased a dozen steps into the loft. Katy called from downstairs: “See anything?”

  Neither of them answered, afraid calling back would hide the noise of a surprise attack. As it was, the old boards groaned and squeaked beneath them like the howls of lost ghosts. Even though Odus had spent plenty enough time in the barn, including hauling and stacking these very bales, the loft was now like walking through a cow pasture blindfolded, only each step might bring a nightmare instead of a slick, stinky mess.

  “What’s that?” Kelvin said, casting his weak glow to the left.

  A shadow came out of the darkness and grew, just as the loft door slammed shut with a rafter-rattling bang and Kelvin’s light blinked out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “What the hell’s that?”

  Ray slammed on the brakes, the truck skidding on the gravel and the headlights slashing across the wall of sundown. David grabbed for the dashboard to keep from bumping his head. David had been so despondent over his failure that he hadn’t been paying attention. The last thing he remembered was turning off the highway near the Ward farm. “I didn’t see anything.”

  As Ray downshifted the truck to a stop, he said, “That was Harmon Smith. He beat us out here.”

  David looked around. He could see the Ward house a hundred yards behind them, just a couple of lights showing. The Widow Ward was likely already asleep, or at least shut in and locked away until Harmon was gone. The Smith farm was just over the hill. But he didn’t see any horse and rider.

  Ray jumped out of the truck, carrying the pipe wrench that had been lying between them on the seat. “Harmon! Come out. It’s me, Ray Tester.”

  David stumbled out of the passenger door, wobbling and weary. He leaned against the truck, still ill from his earlier encounter with the Horseback Preacher. The mist wreathed the surrounding ridges as if the rest of the universe had slid beneath a great gray sea. “I thought we were going to the farm,” he croaked.

  “Not if we can beat him right here and right now.”

  David looked up, wiping his damp hair from his eyes. The headlights caught a bulky shape moving away just at the edge of the headlight beams: a horse and rider. “Up yonder,” he said.

  Ray took off at a run, limping a little from a fall off a ladder some ten years ago. The pipe wrench clanked lightly in his hand. “I brought David in case you changed your mind!”

  The horse reared, whinnied, and turned, galloping toward Ray.

  Ray stopped twenty yards in front of the truck, his shadow stretched long by the headlights. “Take David and go. Because he’s weak. Solom doesn’t need him anymore.”

  The horse didn’t slow down, and its fierce dark form became a silhouette, the rider hunched low over the horse’s neck. His hat flapped in the draft of his approach, jacket tails billowing out behind him.

  Harmon’s fury was evident in the way Old Saint’s nostrils flared and gravel flew from the pounding hooves. Harmon’s eyes seemed to soak up the headlights and spit them back out as hellfire. Harmon even seemed bigger than he had in the graveyard, as if he’d fattened up on souls during the trip over to the Smith farm.

  David tried to push away from the truck and help his brother, but his knees nearly buckled. “Ray, he’s coming.”

  Ray backed away, waving his arms at the approaching malevolence. “It’s me. Ray Tester! I was chosen.”

  But the horse didn’t slow, plowing full force into Ray and knocking him to the ground. The hooves kicked and stomped and rolled on through him. Ray’s screeches of pain were punctuated with Old Saint’s snorts and Harmon’s laughter. The horse and rider paused for just a moment in profile, a horrible silhouette that David would remember for as long as he lived, and probably carry to heaven with him as well. The Horseback Preacher somehow seemed less gaunt and knotty than before, almost toadish in aspect, pale face like a grub beneath the brim of the black hat.

  “Know him by his fruits, Brother David,” Harmon said in a hateful, slurring tone. Then he drove his boots into the horse’s flanks and thundered toward the broken Ray, who was attempting to stand with one leg kicked out at a crazy angle, blood pouring from a gouge on his scalp. The horse had nearly reached Ray when David saw the flash of silver in Harmon’s hand.

  God, please be with him. Despite all his envy and hatred, he’s still my flesh and blood.

  But the prayer changed nothing. The silver swept in a blur as the horse sped past, sending Ray reeling like a crippled drunk at a circus hoedown. Ray wobbled for one horrible second, looking wide-eyed at David as if not understanding, even as the gash in his throat opened like a long sick smile and spewed its red laughter.

  And in that moment of realization, Ray’s eyes seemed to say, But I was the chosen.

  As Ray collapsed, the Horseback Preacher galloped on down the road, once again abandoning David and making him feel low and unworthy.

  David had it all wrong.

  He figured the Horseback Preacher would claim a victim and then drift on into the night, continuing his eternal rounds. It was one of life’s constants, and the people of Solom had adjusted to it over the years. People measured the course of their lives with his visits, along with the September frost and the May buttercups and the first cut of hay in June, the annual flock of tourists in their tinted-window sedans, and the final snow in early April that was often the largest of the year. The Horseback Preacher was evil, unholy, and murderous, but he was theirs.

  So Ray’s death should have ended it. Because Ray had died for the Horseback Preacher, accidentally or not. David had made the offering of his own life, which would have spared the others. But his own soul had been found wanting, his faith weak, his meat unworthy of the great banquet prepared by Harmon Smith.

  Ray was right. Ray was the chosen one after all.

  Except his death hadn’t satisfied Harmon Smith.

  So more of us must die. But it can’t be Jessica Draper.

  David clawed his way around the truck, giving one last look at his brother lying in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. He climbed behind the wheel with effort, praying for strength. The engine was still idling, and as he put the truck in gear, something hammered on the rear flank. David looked in the side mirror just as the second blow bent sheet metal and scraped paint away with a grating screech.

  A goat?

  Then the goats went wild, and two of them battered at the cab, taking turns launching their horns against the driver’s-side door. Ray’s truck bed had no tailgate, and a shaggy-faced billy climbed into the bed among the rusty chains, boards, and hand tools. One blow of those curving horns would shatter the rear windshield.

  But that was okay.

  David understood now.

  It wasn’t the Horseback Preach
er who was calling the shots. All actions had been set in motion long ago by that larger, unseen Hand that slept behind the stars.

  If David’s life and death were already predestined, then he decided:

  Full speed and fuck it.

  He jammed his foot onto the accelerator and popped the clutch, flinging gravel from the rear as he turned the wheel hard right. The billy tumbled out of the truck bed, front hooves flailing at the air as the animal fought for footing. David whipped the wheel the other way and brought the rear bumper against a second goat. One horn got tangled in the metal and as the truck sped up and David shifted into second, the goat bleated wildly as it was dragged along the dirt road. Soon it jerked free and somersaulted like a mangled kite into the darkness behind him. The third one was left in the mist and dust and darkness of the Ward farm.

  David crested the hill that led down into the Smith farm, where he was determined to live or die on his own terms, not those mapped out by the universe’s greatest murderer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Katy hammered at the loft door. “Odus! Kelvin!”

  No matter how hard she tugged, she couldn’t pull the door open. That was strange—the metal latch was free of the hasp, and the door, although sagging, was never a tight fit. The goats bleated in the chaos as Katy jammed the tip of her baling hook into the slim gap beside the door. She couldn’t get enough grip to pry the wood apart.

  “Come on, Mom,” Jett called from the bottom of the stairs.

  “I can’t leave them.”

  “We’re not leaving. They might even be safer there. Maybe they were locked in because they’re not part of this.”

  The loft had a number of exits—the two of them could climb through one of the windows and jump into darkness, slide through one of the feed chutes, or slide open the upper door that allowed for loading hay. But she heard no movement behind the door, no footsteps or words or shouts.

  She shook off a horrible image of Odus and Kelvin attacked by the Horseback Rider, and in her mind, the image shifted to Gordon Smith in his scarecrow mask, slashing with his sickle.