Paranormal Short Stories

by Quincy J. Allen

Tate knuckled red-rimmed eyes. He hadn’t had more than a few hours sleep a night since the Halsey girl had turned up dead the week before. That’s when Tate had asked Bob to send a telegraph to Kansas City for help and put up a bounty of $200 for whoever could get rid of the demon or demons in St. Elmo. There’d been another kid, a fourteen-year-old boy, killed two nights after that, and then the town drunk had turned up mostly-eaten the night before last. The schoolmarm was the one who found what was left of him in a grove of aspens by the creek behind the school.

  According to Earl, the running theory was them demon sons-o-bitches had pretty much eaten down to the bone at the Crossing and were making their way into St. Elmo for more vittles. Folks were scared stiff and half of the forty families in St. Elmo were starting to pack up their belongings. The other half had gone to Tinker Flaherty and his witch wife looking for gadgets, spells, and sigils to protect themselves. The only one in town making any money these days was Tinker Flaherty and his missus, which irked Earl something fierce considering the tinker’s barn-door tab. Earl was fixing to trade the tinker’s debt for some sigils and spells himself.

  Tate had gotten a reply to his telegraph two days later saying that a padre of some sort, a dämonjünger, was on the way. It also said that if there were any fresh bodies of victims that he could inspect, to keep them on ice if it at all possible. He would arrive in Buena Vista on the zeppelin from Kansas City in five days and would be able to make it to St. Elmo by sundown that same day, which was today. They’d all wondered how in hell a padre was going to make it up the twenty-five miles of rough dirt road from Buena Vista in a couple of hours. Most of the road was steep, rough, and not for the faint of heart. That was one mystery they were all dying to see solved. He must have one hell of a horse, they’d kidded, and the padre himself must have a cast-iron butt.

  Jet kept hammering away at the Weber, and Earl patted the fiver in his pocket, deducting it from the Sheriff’s tab. He didn’t mention that Tate had just bought the round for the tinker and Bob. Jet finished the song with a flourish and reached for his beer without turning around to the applause. Everyone in the saloon clapped like crazy, and Maggie-Mae was inching her way up to Jet, sniffing around to see if she could make a few bits for a roll or two upstairs. Jet had apparently turned her down a few times in the two weeks he’d been there, but Maggie-Mae was not one to take ‘no’ lying down … well, come to think of it, she would take it lying down, but only if there was money in it.

  As the clapping died down, everyone heard it: a strange, high-pitch, heavy sound that pulsed ten times faster than a man’s beating heart. None of them had ever heard anything like it before. It got quiet as a church on Tuesday night, and every set of eyes, glasses or goggles, man or woman, was aimed at the swinging doors … except for Jet, of course, who had switched to a quiet nocturne by Chopin.

  After twenty heart-beats, Tate spoke up. “That sounds like a cross between a steam-engine and a Gatling gun.” Tate had actually served with the North and come up to St. Elmo to get away from “that world” he’d call it when he was drunk enough to talk about the war. The fast, rhythmic hammering of steam being released, beats coming down almost on top of each other, started echoing off the buildings at the far end of Main Street. The frightened whinnying of horses nearly drowned out the hammering, and a saddled horse went galloping down the street with the foot of its hollering rider caught in a stirrup. It looked and sounded a lot like Willie, the smithy’s eldest son, Earl thought. A second later, another saddled horse went racing by in the same direction … away from the road to Buena Vista. A dozen hands went to a dozen revolvers on a dozen hips, and Maggie-Mae was retreating from Jet, inching her way towards the dark oak stairs that led up to the whore-house above.

  As the noise got closer, the hammering slowed down and started to sound more like a small train coming up the street. The sound slowed even further, matching Earl’s racing heart and then cutting to half that. With a final loud hiss, it stopped just outside the saloon. Tate pulled his Colt, the brass scope Tinker Flaherty had made for him glinting in the lamplight. Earl could almost make out the runes and sigils Flaherty’s wife had put on it to increase the magnification. Tate walked up to the swinging doors, looked out into the street, and fixed his only slightly nervous gaze on the hitching post to the right. Not another soul moved in the saloon.

  Tate appeared to relax. “Boys,” Tate half-turned his head back into the bar, not taking his eyes off whatever it was that had made all the racket. “You ain’t never gonna believe this.” He lowered the thick glasses back down on a bulbous red nose. Everyone watched Tate’s head follow something moving from the street towards the door, and they all heard the boards outside creak as something large and booted stepped up onto the weathered wood. Tate put the Colt back in his holster, not wanting to appear rude, but he backed away from the door just the same to make room, and his right hand rested on the pistol grip almost casually. As the boots got closer, Tate backed up further.

  A stranger filled the doorway, pushed both swinging doors in, and ducked his leather-capped head to step into the saloon. He was more than tall, at least a hand over six-feet, and his broad shoulders looked like they could hold up an ox’s harness. He was covered head to toe in dark brown leather that was coated with trail-dust he’d kicked up between Buena Vista and St. Elmo. The dust had turned what Earl figured was a sandy-blond beard and handle-bar mustache into a dirt-caked brown one.

  The stranger pulled intricate, brass and silver goggles off his face and moved them up to rest on the front of the leather cap. The primary lenses were clear, but the outer edges were made of silver and had ridges that looked like they could rotate. For what purpose, Earl couldn’t begin to guess.

  There was a pair of dark lenses flipped up and to each side. Two smaller lenses were swung out on the left and one pivoted out to the right on small, rotating posts. Earl had never seen anything like them. The well-oiled cap was a darker brown than the long-tailed, thick leather jacket he wore, looking almost black. The cap had big ear-flaps that came down to his neck, and there was a strap on one flap and a buckle on the other. The jacket had an extremely high collar that looked like it could be wrapped around his face and buckled. The wide lapels were trimmed with silver plates covered in more runes. Like the cap, it was lined with what looked like cream-colored sheep’s wool. His tan leather pants, flared out at the thighs, were tucked into high, multi-buckled boots that were the same color as the cap. Where the goggles hadn’t been, a thick coating of dust from ear-to-ear coated his skin.

  The clean around his eyes was pale skin that surrounded bright, almost glowing blue eyes set under bushy eyebrows and a deeply furrowed forehead. A large pistol was holstered at each of his hips. The left one, worn mahogany grip exposed, had a silver scope attached to it that was covered with runes and a line of rubies making a ridge across the top. The one on the right was huge with impressively long cylinders for the shells. Knowing his firearms pretty well, Earl guessed that it was a forty-five or fifty caliber long, which meant it would hit like a freight-train. The whole thing, covered in more runes and sigils, was done in silver and glinted as the padre moved. There was a leather bandolier across his chest with a dozen protruding pouches. His leather gun belt was equally adorned with containers holding god-only-knew-what.

  The stranger spoke with a slight German accent. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but I am wondering if I am in the correct place. Is this the town of St. Elmo?” A gust of breeze flew through the door, swirled around, and then carried a fair amount of smoke out the door as it left. The stranger got a funny look on his face and sniffed a few times, moving his nose from left to right across the room.

  Sheriff Tate stepped up and held out his hand to the stranger. “It sure is. I’m Sheriff Tate. Are you the padre?”

  “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Father Wilhelm Gustav Buscher. At your service.” He bowed slightly, and with a partial turn of his head. “And you may call me padre if you like. I have
grown accustomed to it since leaving Chicago.” He sniffed again and he looked like he was trying to figure something out. Tate’s hand disappeared into the stranger’s massive brown glove as they shook. The moment they shook hands, everyone in the saloon relaxed, and Jet changed to a catchier tune on the Weber, playing The Yellow Rose of Texas.

  “Come on over to the bar and I’ll pour ya one,” Tate offered.

  “Danke.” The padre bowed again and followed Tate on over towards the Tinker, Bob, and Earl. “I normally try and avoid the spirits, especially whisky, but,” and the Padre sniffed again, his eyes scanning the room, “I believe I will unfortunately have to have more than one.”

  Tate gave him a funny look but didn’t ask. He was just happy to have someone in town to help, even if it was a giant padre with an iron butt. He didn’t know the first thing about sniffing out a demon, let alone what to do with one if he did.

  Earl brought down a fourth glass and topped it off with whisky. Tate, Flaherty, Bob, and the Padre picked up their shot glasses. The Padre sniffed his glass then looked at Earl with a knowing smile crimping the corners of his mouth. The four men saluted one another and downed them fast. All four empty glasses hit the bar at the same time. Flaherty never took his eyes off the padre’s goggles—professional interest, no doubt, Earl thought.

  “Forgive the impertinence, heir barkeep …”

  “You can call me Earl.”

  “Earl. Forgive me, but would you happen to have anything back there that has a bit less water in it and a bit more whisky?” Earl’s eyes got a millimeter wider, embarrassed at getting found out. The padre reached into a pocket, pulled out a $20 gold piece and set it on the bar. Earl’s eyes widened even more, and then he smiled like a whore on payday.

  “You bet’cher. I’ll go get me something I been savin’ for a special occasion.” Tate, Flaherty, and Bob looked down at their glasses, at each other and then at the retreating back of Earl as he disappeared through a door behind the bar. They were all thinking ill thoughts about the cheating bar-keep.

  “That’s quite a rig you have out there?” Tate said casually to the padre. “What in the hell do you call it?” Flaherty’s eyebrow peaked, intensely interested in the answer.

  “I call it Rocinante,” the padre said, “but that is not what it is. The great tinker Patrick O’Leary built it for me in Chicago.” Flaherty’s face lit up with recognition at the name. “He called it a bilomotive, because of the two wheels I suspect. It operates on the basic principles of the steam-powered locomotive, but on a much smaller scale and without the rails. It has a very different heating mechanism as well.” Buscher smiled at the last, enjoying a private joke.

  Flaherty’s goggle-lenses dilated automatically, bringing the padre’s face into closer focus. “You know Patrick O’Leary?” There wasn’t a tinker in any state or territory that didn’t know about O’Leary. He was one of the biggest names in the business, and his wife was a renowned witch and witch-hunter.

  “Indeed. His sister Catherine and I were involved with some difficulties in Chicago back in ’71.”

  Earl returned with a dusty bottle, popped the cork, and started pouring another round. He pulled a shot-glass out from behind the bar for himself and filled that as well.

  “Mind if I take a look at his handiwork?” Flaherty asked, referring to the bilomotive.

  “By all means,” the padre replied. He sniffed once more. The padre was used to tinkers wanting to examine at his transportation. To his knowledge, it was the only one of its kind as a result of its unique heating source. “When you return, would you be so kind as to bring me the long, black velvet bag you will find in the side-car?” The padre grabbed the newly-filled shot glass, sniffed it, nodded to Earl, and then tipped his head back, downing it fast.

  “My pleasure.” Flaherty nodded to the padre and the other men, and then he scooted out of the bar, almost running to the swinging doors. There was a group of about six men and Maggie-Mae standing in the doorway looking at what was outside. Flaherty pried his way through the gawkers and went outside, lowering a set of lenses on his goggles as he went.

  The padre gently put the glass down on the bar and motioned for Earl to fill it again, and Earl obliged. The padre then turned to Tate. “So, you say you have a demon problem, and it started a week ago?” He downed the shot, motioned for another, and was quickly obliged once again. Earl was racking up the tab in his head. At this rate, he figured that neither the bottle nor the $20 would last long.

  Tate cleared his throat and put on his official Sheriff face, steely and as dignified as an alcoholic can get between binges. “That’s right. Three local folks have been killed. And a town on the other side of the pass, a place called Buckeye Crossing, has pretty near been wiped out because of demons.”

  “One can assume they have come here for better feeding, yes?”

  “That’s what we figure. I asked for help ‘cause I wouldn’t know the first thing about finding, let alone getting rid of a demon. Huntin’ rebs, sure. But demons. They scare the pants off me like everyone else, I reckon.”

  “I believe I should be able to help you here. I have some experience with demons.” He sniffed some more and shook his head slightly. “And you indicated the bounty was $200?”

  “That’s right. It arrived from the Governor’s office today.” Tate took a sip from his own whisky, noting the remarkable difference between it and what Earl had been serving them before. He shot Earl a look full of piss and mean, and Earl replied with an innocent shrug.

  “So, how’s a padre end up a deemunyunger anyway?” Earl asked, mispronouncing the word yet again. “Ain’t padres supposed to stay in church all meek like and pray up a storm?” The padre smiled at Earl. “Pardon my French, but you don’t look like no padre I ever seen.”

  “You have a keen intellect,” Buscher replied smoothly.

  “A whut?” Earl asked.

  “You are very observant,” the padre clarified. “I’m actually both an ordained Jesuit priest and a practicing witch of some ability.”

  Earl, Tate, and Bob—who had remained silent the whole time—stared at the padre in disbelief. “How the hell can you be both,” Bob asked incredulously. “Don’t you believe in God?”

  “Believe in God? Of course I believe in God.” There was a terseness in the padre’s voice that had its roots in Germany when he was a young Jesuit. “I know it personally. I don’t particularly like the son-of-a-bitch, but it does seem to have its uses for me. I am a dämonjünger because it wants me to be one.”

  Everyone was silent as Earl filled up all five shot glasses once again. None of them had ever heard a padre talk like that, and the thought of a padre who was a witch was downright crazy. The padre downed another shot and motioned for another. Earl raised his eyebrow, asking the question of whether the padre could hold his liquor or not. The padre simply stared at Earl who, after a few seconds, topped it off.

  Flaherty came back through the swinging front doors, easily working around the two cowboys who were still standing there staring at the bilomotive. He held a black velvet bag about two-and-a-half feet long and roughly five inches in diameter. There were bulges at either end. Jet missed a note as Flaherty came in, something Earl had never heard the piano player do before. Flaherty hollered across the saloon as he approached the men at the bar. “That’s one hell of a get-up you got there. I’ll be damned if I can figure out how you heat the water, though.” He stepped up to the bar, grabbed the now-full shot glass he’d left behind and downed it.

  “I will explain it to you later, if you like.” The padre, looking intently at Jet, held out his hand, and Flaherty handed over the bag. Earl noticed that the padre’s eyes were getting a little red and his cheeks were flushed from the whisky.

  The padre turned his back on the crowd and set the bag down on the bar. All four men were silent, curious to see what was inside. He untied one end, loosened the strings, and pulled out a two-foot-long black shaft. It was about an inch in diameter wit
h holes drilled in the ends lengthwise and a one-inch silver cap on each end. Both caps had runes and a pentagram running around their circumference. He pulled out another shaft. On one end was a cap identical to the others except that it had a two-inch long, threaded bolt sticking out the end the same size as the holes in the first shaft. The other end of the shaft had a sturdy-looking silver ring two inches in diameter, like the end of an anchor where you tied the rope. He took the two shafts and screwed them together, tightening them firmly with his massive, gloved hands. The last shaft came out of the bag. The end that came out first had the silver cap and the threaded bolt. The other end caused the four men standing around the padre to gasp. There was a foot of black shaft and then a long sash of red fabric tied around it. Past that, however, was a deadly-looking tri-bladed spear-tip. At the base of the three blades was a thick silver disk covered with runes forming what was basically a hilt or guard. The three straight blades came out from that, arranged with the edges pointing out from the center like spokes on a wheel. They looked razor-sharp on both sides of each blade, and they were all covered with runes. There was a sapphire set in the base of each blade about an inch up from the hilt. The padre screwed the last section on and tightened it. Flaherty was the only one to notice the recessed black button near the base of what was now, obviously, a spear.

  “Would you gentlemen excuse me for a moment. I need to attend to something.” At first, Earl though that the padre had to go out back and use the outhouse. But the padre picked up the spear and stepped away from the bar, heading deliberately for the swinging doors. As he approached, he whispered to the two men still standing at the door, and they quickly stepped outside with nervous faces. The padre reached into one of the pouches of his bandolier and pulled out a small cylinder with a steel cap and a button. Pressing the button, he up-ended the cylinder at one side of the doorway and poured out a red powder, making a thin line from one side of the doorway to the other.