Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (27 page)

Kick was disappointed. He returned to the totem and was about to stick a finger into one of the channels when a drop of water struck his arm.

“I think it’s leaking.”

“What?”

Kick showed Maddie the spot on his sleeve where a droplet of water had struck.

Maddie glanced back at the totem. “Where? I don’t see any—” was all she got out before a large droplet hit her on the cheek.

“Told you,” Kick said.

Maddie wiped the water from her cheek and was about to do the same to the smirk on her brother’s face when another drop of water hit her. And then another. And another. She and Kick looked up at the same time.

A cloud had condensed inside the storeroom, filling the space from a few feet above the totem all the way to the ceiling. The tops of the bookshelves disappeared into the fog, which seemed to pulse and billow slightly.

Kick moved closer to his sister. “Maddie, what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Maddie said, wiping off a few more drops that had hit home.

And then they got very wet.

19

Walter Peterson grimaced as he tossed another shovelful of dirt into A. P. Bott’s open grave. A week’s worth of digging—or, more accurately, filling—had turned his spine into a twisted rack of stiffness and ache. Each night was a little worse, and tonight, having already reburied three of the dearly departed, Walter found himself rethinking his position on cemetery security.

“Shoot on sight,” he mumbled to himself. “That’d put an end to it, right quick.”

In the wake of the marshal’s misadventure, a series of disturbances had plagued the cemetery as rumor spread that there were riches buried among the permanent residents. There was no treasure. Walter put up a sign on the front gate proclaiming this fact, but his troubles had continued. One upturned grave had become two, then three, then six.

“And I’m the only one has to fill the holes? Ain’t right.”

Walter raised another shovelful of dirt, but a horse whinny stopped him cold. He drew a pistol from his coat, raising it to the darkness.

“Who’s there?”

No answer came.

“Cemetery’s closed. And there ain’t no g’damn treasure!”

Walter grabbed the oil lamp at his feet and made a full sweep of the yard, revealing nothing. Sensing a presence behind him, he spun quickly—too quickly—and toppled into the open grave. The coffin broke his fall and the lantern with it.

Opening his eyes, Walter found little to focus on. The hole was barely five feet deep, but dirt piled around the edges made it impossible to see beyond them without the lantern. Exposed, he frantically searched the soil for his weapon, finding only a shard of broken glass.

“Damn this night!”

After wrapping a snot rag around his throbbing palm, Walter made several one-handed attempts to escape, failing each time. A final try left him on his back, a chunk of metal digging into his spine. At least he’d found the gun.

“If anyone’s out there, I could use some help,” he said, trying not to sound afraid and nearly succeeding.

Walter waited for a response, but none came. He was alone. He’d be stuck in the hole until someone came looking for him tomorrow or possibly the next day. Surely they’d miss him by then.

That’s when he saw the light.

*   *   *

Henry walked to within ten feet of the open grave and stopped. He’d seen the caretaker digging, but, like the light, the man was now gone. Or hiding.

Henry took a step toward the hole.

“Don’t come any closer,” a voice said from inside the grave. “I’ve got a gun.”

Henry stopped. “Walter?”

“Who’s that?”

“It’s Henry Macke.”

“Henry?”

Henry strode to the edge of the hole. The caretaker was indeed standing in the middle of the open grave, holding a pistol in one hand, a bloody rag in the other.

“What are you doing down there?”

Walter stared at the man for a beat, then looked around at his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time.

“I fell.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder and then offered a hand. Walter took it gladly.

“Now, go,” Henry said, once the caretaker was out of the hole. “Get out of here.”

Walter brushed some of the dirt from his jacket and stared at Henry. The man was scared, more scared than the caretaker had been a few minutes earlier.

“There’s no treasure here, Henry.”

Henry looked over his shoulder and then snatched the pistol jutting out of Walter’s pocket. He pointed it at the man’s face.

“Just go, Walter!”

Walter took several steps back, mindful of the open grave.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Henry?”

A voice from the darkness explained everything:

“Kill him.”

Walter spun to find himself face-to-chest with the Hanged Man. Terror filled his heart. It was tactile, heavy, and it rooted him to the ground. He would never move but rather die on the spot, scared to death.

And then his heart beat again, and again, and a dozen times more in a second.

The Hanged Man drew his revolver, but Walter was already running, darting between headstones, leaping over an open grave, and generally trying to wish himself a smaller target. He didn’t hear the gunshot but felt the bullet strike his left forearm just below the elbow. It hurt like hell, but Walter never stopped running.

The Hanged Man watched the caretaker disappear through the front gate of the cemetery, stumble to the ground, and then continue down the hill and out of sight. He could have shot him again, several times, in fact, but that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. One shot—that was all he’d ever needed. Things were different now.

He didn’t like it.

“I couldn’t shoot him,” Henry said. “I know the man.”

The Hanged Man holstered his weapon and stared at Henry.

“Good reason to kill him.”

Henry met the Hanged Man’s gaze. “You didn’t.”

Henry was as surprised by his words as the Hanged Man. The surge of confidence that had prompted them was already gone, but Henry knew where to find more.

The Hanged Man walked around the grave to stand before Henry. Whenever the dead man was close, Henry felt ill. The putrid stench that clung to his body got inside a man, made his guts feel twisted and his heart pound faster. Henry tried to keep his distance, but the Hanged Man rarely let him out of his sight.

The Hanged Man eyed the gun in Henry’s hand. Henry tightened his grip. It would be a useless gesture, but the thought of it—

The weapon was out of his hand and pressed to the bottom of his chin before Henry could react. The speed was shocking, unnatural even.

As the dead man leaned in, Henry felt his breath on his cheek. Only it wasn’t breathing but merely the stale air that moved out of his mouth when he spoke. Dead men didn’t breathe.

“Do what I tell you.”

Henry nodded.

The Hanged Man withdrew the weapon and tucked it behind his belt.

“Bring the shovel.”

*   *   *

The Hanged Man’s grave was easier to dig the second time, although Henry wasn’t sure what value there was in the chore. The grave would be empty, assuming one of the other bodies hadn’t been put in the Hanged Man’s place by mistake. Henry told the dead man as much, but he insisted on seeing for himself. Why? Was there some power to be found within?

(
you have power
)

Henry touched the small bulge in his coat pocked, pressing it against his chest. There was warmth there, quieter than before, but still there.

He
was too close.

The Hanged Man stood ten feet from the hole, watching the cemetery. He hadn’t moved from the spot in the last half hour, and although Henry wasn’t sure, it appeared the dead man was listening. To what, Henry was afraid to ask.

They weren’t alone, of course. Like the preceding nights, there were eyes glowing in the forest beyond the lantern light. Most were those of small rodents, although Henry had also seen a deer and what he thought was a wolf. They came and watched—silently, for the most part. The night before, Henry had heard squealing, although it hadn’t lasted long. The noises that had followed sounded like tiny mouths feeding. Henry had not slept well.

The ride from Tillamook had been difficult. The Hanged Man pushed the horses hard, leading them from beach to bluff and into the hills in some places. If he was following a trail, Henry couldn’t see it. Throughout the ride, the dead man barely said a word, which was fine with Henry. The silence kept him from screaming—that and the thought of reading.

It was well after dark when they’d stopped the first night. Henry was exhausted, but that didn’t keep him from slipping the book from his pocket as he curled up, his back to the Hanged Man. Henry waited until the fire died back and then let the notebook flutter open in his hand. A warm feeling spread across his face. He’d barely read a sentence before he remembered.

He wants me to read it.

A slight breeze caught the pages lifting one over another until they all rolled over and the book snapped closed. The air was warm but left Henry cold just the same. He wouldn’t read another word that night.

Henry stopped digging long enough to check on the horses, both of whom were tied to small trees at the edge of the cemetery. Henry’s had actually drifted as far into the light as it could, enough to bend the young fir practically horizontal. It stared intently at the woods—
watching the eyes,
Henry thought. The other horse’s head drooped toward the ground, its eyes surrounded by yellow puss. Henry knew very little about equine matters, but even he could see the animal wouldn’t last another day under its current rider.

“I can hear them.”

Henry nearly jumped, the voice was so close. The Hanged Man stood at the edge of the open grave, close enough for Henry to touch. He hadn’t heard the dead man approach, but now understood why there was bile building up in the back of his throat.

“Hear who?”

The Hanged Man grinned and walked away.

Henry spit into the dirt and resumed digging.

*   *   *

The dead man’s horse died twenty minutes later, slumping to the ground in a heap, its last breath a long, slow gurgle. Henry’s horse broke its tether and strode to the opposite side of the grave, well away from the dead animal. It stared at Henry, afraid to leave the light, but suggesting that perhaps together they could make it. Henry knew better.

Henry struck wood a few minutes later. The coffin was half filled with dirt but otherwise unoccupied. Henry removed enough of the soil to reach inside the box but not so much as to make room for another body.

The fear that Henry had felt inside the coffin returned. He was alone again, in the dark, only this time there was no book to discover. The Hanged Man would take it and force him into the box. That had been his plan all along. Before he knew what he was doing, Henry pulled the book from his coat pocket, flipped to a random page, and began reading aloud.

“‘I am the judgment of him and his hand is mine, intertwined.’”

Henry felt a surge of power pass through him—real power, not just confidence or warmth. He stared at the words he’d read, realizing he’d once again translated the text from multiple languages. He scanned the rest of the page, seeing all the words in English, instantly understanding them, and then … and then not. The words lost their meaning just as quickly and his understanding was gone. He was not alone.

Henry slipped the book back into this pocket and turned to face the dead man, totally unprepared for the
other
dead man, whose body landed on top of Henry, knocking him to the ground.

“Bury him.”

Henry sat up, shoving the corpse into the opposite corner of the grave. This dead man wore a frayed black suit, which appeared to be the only thing holding the body together. The flesh about the neck and face was brittle and papery, revealing more skull than skin. Despite the decrepit state, Henry thought there was something familiar about the man, perhaps even
familial
. He looked away, not wanting to see more.

“Bury him,” Henry said. “In your grave.”

The Hanged Man nodded.

“Hurry up, Henry. He’s a biter.”

Henry hesitated at the odd instruction before deciding he didn’t care. He grabbed the dead man’s feet, promptly snapping them off at the ankles. He tossed both into the open coffin and then began to stuff the rest of the corpse inside, breaking more than a few bones in the process. When the rib cage caught on the splintered lid, Henry used both hands to crush the dead man’s chest, flattening it. It was then that the jaw fell open.

And closed.

Henry scrambled back as the jaw snapped open and closed twice more. It wasn’t fast, but powerful … and hungry. One of the dead man’s arms reached out, clawing at Henry’s leg. Henry swatted it away, breaking off several fingers. Undeterred, the remaining digits reached out again. Henry grabbed the hand, yanking the entire arm free of its socket. It ceased moving.

The jaw continued to snap at Henry.

“Finish it,” said the Hanged Man.

Henry tentatively crawled forward again. He tried pushing the shoulders into the box, but the skull continued to snap at him. Finally, he shoved the loose arm into its mouth, giving the not-so-dead man something to chew on. He quickly jammed the rest of the corpse into the box, pushing the top of the skull in last, cracking the dead man’s arm.

Had Walter been in attendance, he would have appreciated the ease with which Henry got himself out of the grave. For his part, Henry suspected any slower and he’d never have made it.

“What was that?”

“An actor.”

Henry shook his head.

The Hanged Man stared at Henry, his intentions obvious before he gave voice to them.

“I would kill again.”

Henry slowly put it together. “You think if you put a body in the ground in place of your own you’ll be able to kill again? You think God won’t notice?”

The Hanged Man didn’t answer but rather picked up the shovel and began refilling the hole. Henry saw something move in the box just before being covered with dirt.