Joe Lansdale - Dead in the West

Next morning they found Hirem's body behind the saloon. His hand was clutched around a bowie knife. He'd used it to cut his own throat from ear to ear.

Next the stage came up missing. Then there was the man in the street today, falling apart like wet paper. And Nate, the banker. Found out back of Molly McGuire's with his throat torn and his neck broken. Nolan's body. His neck ripped the same way. Loss of blood, but neither of them having a lot of blood on them, or in Nate's case—only a bit was found where he died. I don't know about Nolan, but I'll bet the same. Or did you notice? No matter.

And there was a baby a few days back. I ruled it natural causes. There was a little wound in the small of its back, but it wasn't bad enough for the child to bleed to death-there was only a drop or two on its bedclothes. I figured it had rolled over on an open diaper pin or something.

It all fits the pattern that the books say the demon will follow—a vampiric existence till all his enemies are vanquished. As well as anyone that gets in its way. And even then—it may not be satisfied. The demon may decide to stay in the dead body and use it for as long as it pleases.

Now, before you go back on your word and tell me I'm crazy, let me add just one thing.

And I admit, I was sleepy at the time and had all this other stuff on my mind. And I’d been dreaming.

But the other night I was having the dream I told you about. Bedding the Negress until I died of a heart attack. Only it was strong this time. Different. So intense, I woke up sweating.

When I sat up—the window is at the foot of my bed— I saw through a slit in the curtains: a FACE looking in— nose pressed up to the glass. The light was so bad, and I couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like the Indian's face, and he had the same expression he wore that day I went over to talk to him and look at their wagon. A superior, knowing look. It was like he was saying with his eyes, "Do you like the dream I sent you?"

I reached for the lamp to light it, but by the time I did, the face was gone.

One last thing. The dream about the woman was the same—except for one major difference. It was her skinned corpse—the way she looked that night Hirem and I buried her—that I was making love to.

Now, tell me, am I crazy?

I don't think you're crazy, Doc," the Reverend said.

"But I'd be a liar if I said I swallow all of this whole. I think you believe what you're saying, but you just might be terribly mistaken."

"As for seeing the face at the window," Abby said, "I believe you, Dad. But it was part of your dream. You feel guilty for what happened to the Indian and the Negress-think maybe you could have stopped it. As for your sexual interest in the woman—that's only healthy.

But you feel you must be loyal to mother even in death, and the dreams make it seem you're defiling her memory, cheating on her. Your last dream, making love to the corpse, was a combination of both of those guilts."

Doc's face was slightly flushed. "Possible, I suppose."

"You may also feel guilty about your envy of the Indian's abilities," the Reverend said.

"Perhaps, deep down, a part of you feels he got what was coming to him. But all of us have those kind of feelings to one degree or another. You're torturing yourself for nothing, Doc "

And the Reverend thought to himself: I, on the other hand, have plenty to feel guilty for.

"It still doesn't explain the similar wounds on the necks of Foster and Nolan. The man in the street."

"All right, Doc. Let's say that all this is true. What do we do?"

"I'm not sure," Doc said. "But I've come to believe there is more at work here than my guilt or imagination. I believe there really is a curse, and if there's any way of finding out how to deal with it," Doc waved a hand, "it's in these books."

The trio sat silent for a while.

"Hell," Doc said finally. "I feel like an old fool. You're right, of course " He poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it. "It's in my head. All of it."

II

The Reverend and Abby walked outside along the alley that led to the street.

"You have to forgive Dad his mumbo jumbo" Abby said. "He's gotten fanatic about it since Mama died."

"No apology necessary. I think your dad's a fascinating man." What he was thinking and didn't add, lest Abby feel the need to apologize for him, was that he thought Doc might be onto something.

"Perhaps this is a little undignified, Jeb. But I'd like to see you again."

"You will."

She took his hand. The next moment she was in his arms and their lips pressed together.

It was even better than he thought it would be.

When they pulled apart, he looked a little flustered.

Confused even.

"Bad for your business, huh, Jeb?"

"A Reverend shouldn't be kissing beautiful women in an alley."

She smiled. "Remember, you promised to see me again." "Tomorrow." They kissed again, and the Reverend told her bye. Quickly.

III

Doc knew Abby and the Reverend were struck with each other, and it did not bother him.

He was actually pleased. The Reverend impressed him as a good man, though there was a personal streak of torment in him. About what, he did not know, but he understood. He bore a similar scar because of the Indian.

But he didn't think guilt was entirely the problem. He hadn't changed his mind completely. Mud Creek was cursed.

Doc did not go back to his office that afternoon. He had no patients and nothing pressing to do. He combed through his books and made notes. What he found was very disturbing.

IV

The Reverend went back to his room and opened his Bible to Revelations.

The blood drops were still there. They had not been a dream.

He walked over to the window and looked out. It was easing toward evening. Another hour maybe.

He sat on the bed and cleaned his revolver.

Then he loaded six and made sure his coat pockets were full of ammunition. He didn't know exactly why.

V

Joe Bob Rhine left the livery shortly before dark, leaving David a few chores to finish up, including carrying some old harness up to the loft for storage.

Usually, the loft was of no concern to David. But in the last few days, though he had not consciously thought about it until this moment, he found that the idea of going up there disturbed him.

He found himself even wishing his father were still in the livery, and that was most certainly not a common thought. Generally, anytime he was around his father, he felt ill at ease, never knowing when the man would be angered and fly off the handle—either verbally or physically.

If his father were in the shop, he thought, the idea of going up the ladder with the harness wouldn't be so bad. But being alone with darkness setting in, he felt most uncomfortable.

The horses weren't happy either. They hadn't been for days. They rolled their eyes and snorted and were hard to manage. His pa said it was the weather. That it made them skittish.

Maybe so. But David couldn't remember ever seeing them like this. They didn't seem so much skittish, as just outright scared.

Looking up at the loft, he felt as if eyes were on him, and he sensed something—the word came to him—EVIL.

It was dumb, but that's what came to him. Evil in the loft.

It made no sense. About the evilest thing in that loft were rats. Nothing else.

He told himself that twice, took a deep breath, took hold of the harness, and started up the ladder.

Closer he got to the top, the stranger he felt. As if he was certain something was lurking up there at the edge of the loft, waiting to reach out and clamp down on him. He had a vision of a great hand snatching him about the top of the head, lifting him from the ladder like a hound dog pup, and dashing him to the ground below.