Harlan County Horrors Part 18

Charlene's eyes widened. "You're right," she said. "What does that mean?"

"Looks like," Joe answered for Feral, "something broke its way out."

"Except," Feral jumped in, with a warning glance at Joe, "this hole doesn't go all the way down into the grave. Unless of course the zombie reburied it, tried to cover his tracks."

Joe nodded. "That's possible."

"I was joking, Joe."

"I know. So was I. Thing is, we don't really know how one of these creatures is going to behave. They might do anything."

"Which is just another way of saying they might do nothing. Of saying they don't exist." Feral stood up. "I say we consider this whole thing to be the work of a wild animal of some sort. Coyote, cat or something. That's the only logical explanation, the only one that fits the facts."

The others a.s.sented, relieved to have such a normal explanation.

Except, of course, for Joe. He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder as the group moved off toward the gate, staring at the hole as if he fully expected a demon to rip its way out of the remaining ground and come charging after him.

Feral rode with Joe back to his place. About halfway there, he felt a sudden kind of snap in his mind. He looked out of the car window, watching the pa.s.sing landscape as though he had never really seen it before. Joe gave him a sidelong look, relief was.h.i.+ng over his face. But that relief was immediately replaced by his earlier look of grim anxiety.

Arriving at Joe's house, they stood on the driveway for a few minutes, discussing the morning's events. As they talked, Feral gazed at the street. The gutter, he noticed, was empty. The dog was gone.

"Animal control must've come by," Feral said.

"How's that?"

Feral didn't answer. He stood staring at the gutter, a coldness rising in his chest. Something didn't seem right. Finally, it dawned on him.

"There's no bloodstain," he said.

"Bloodstain?" Joe said. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"Maybe animal control cleaned it up."

Joe studied his friend, a mixture of fear, sadness and sympathy on his face. At last, he said gently, "Prob'ly."

Feral nodded, deep in thought.

Feral tossed and turned that night for several hours. The day's venture had been a fizzle, of course, just as he had expected it to be. Expectations had a way of sneaking up on a man, revealing themselves at times when he wasn't looking for them. That was why he wasn't sleeping. Because he expected to have nightmares. Because what didn't show up in a man's life always showed up in his dreams.

In his dreams, he hung suspended over a deep mine shaft that dropped beneath him into the unimaginable depths of Earth. Gravity tugged at his body, pulling him on every side, so that he had no sense of up-and-down, left-and-right; there was only down, down in every direction. An infinite plunge opened before him, a horror-filled maw. And it was waiting for him.

That horror had driven him to the cemetery. A connection lay between them, the shaft and the grave, a connection of death he knew was bleeding him dry. No, it wasn't the dark he was afraid of. It was the night itself, the night that lay within him like a well in his soul, waiting to engulf him in its murky, watery depths, pressing the black air out of his lungs until he awoke screaming into the cold-soaked sheets, night after night after night.

Tonight he would not sleep. Tonight he would not scream. Tonight, he decided, it would all end.

The mine shaft gaped before him, a hole in the earth, a hole right through the earth, never ending, its emptiness textured, gritty with coal dust and dried blood and the cobwebs of terrified men's screams. Those screams echoed in his head, where they mingled internally with his own to stand as a warning, to keep him from entering. Yet somehow, though it took all of his courage to do so, enter he would. He had no choice.

This mine had not been worked for decades. It had been shut down shortly after Feral's injury. For some reason, though, it had never been shut up; its entrance lay open like a wounded mouth, at once repulsive and fascinating. Perhaps the company had been afraid to board it up, afraid to block it off. Afraid of angering whatever had scared them out of it.

The coal seam had run deep, so this shaft dropped into the earth at a steep angle, diving directly for the root of the ridge running off of Grays k.n.o.b. They'd dug only a quarter mile when they'd run into an obstacle, something they couldn't get through. The rock was no problem for the machines; the problem was no one wanted to operate them.

The men abandoned the borers and abandoned the shaft. Then the company abandoned the men.

Those men had poured forth from the maw of the shaft like living dead. Trembling with shock, gibbering and screaming, their faces chalk white under the black coal dust; they were taken for medical treatment to the nearby Appalachian Regional Hospital. All were admitted for psychiatric evaluation. Some never were released. Several of them died within a few years. Most of the released never worked a mine again. The company quietly issued them their pensions under the condition that they never speak of the incident to anyone. The men were only too happy to oblige, as none of them even wanted to think about it. Their names were taken off the rolls; the company denied to the outside public that they had ever even worked there. The names of those who died did not appear on the miners' memorial outside the courthouse.

Another mining company bought the operation shortly thereafter, and the shaft running under Grays k.n.o.b was closed, never to be mentioned again by anyone.

Feral stood at the entrance, staring into the abyss. The opening seemed to waver in the moonlight, a black ripple in the black night, a portal into another dimension. He checked the equipment he had brought with him: his lamped hardhat, a flashlight, a pickaxe. He had also brought along a small toolkit. Holding his breath, he took his first step into the source of his madness.

Only a few feet inside he encountered the rail tug once used to haul men and equipment up and down the shaft. The company had left everything behind, choosing to write off the cost of the lost equipment rather than attempt to salvage it. Maneuvering around the loose rocks to the front of the tug, he was pleased to confirm that what he had hoped to find was actually there: the flux magnetometer. The instrument was used to determine direction and depth in the complex set of shafts that made up most mines. He flipped the power switch and the small box-about the size of a large candy bar-lit up. He smiled through the grimness of his fear. He shut the machine off again and used the tools from the kit to disconnect it, along with its attached voltmeter, from the tug. He wouldn't need the gyroscope, so he left that. He carefully hung the devices on the utility belt at his waist and turned them on once again. The voltmeter immediately registered a nominal reading. He nodded to himself. He was ready.

As ready as he was going to get.

He entered the mine, the light from his hat bouncing in front of him, its movement p.r.o.nounced by his limp. The darkness closed in around him, but his determination kept it at bay. He walked as steadfastly as he could, trying not to go weak in the knees, glancing occasionally at the magnetometer to judge his progress. It was impossible to tell how far he had walked otherwise; it seemed as though he had been on this journey his entire life. The world quickly collapsed in his consciousness to the black shaft, the light piercing its depths in a tight beam, and the wooden posts along the walls holding it all together.

Holding the shadows close to him.

Those shadows held demons. Feral swore he could see red eyes glaring at him out of the niches in the rock, bared fangs glowing in the reflected light. He tried not to think of them, tried to will them out of his mind, out of existence. But they accosted him at every step, making him flinch and sometimes cry out. Still, they made no real move to stop him, so he made his way in, deeper and deeper, lower and lower.

The first wrenching of his gut corresponded with the first spike of the voltmeter. A wave of nausea washed over him, a gentle lapping that was more portent than malady. He pushed through it. But almost immediately another wave pushed up from the depths, from the belly of the k.n.o.b, to twist his own belly and constrict his throat. He wanted to turn and run, but he refused the urge, refused the demand of his mind that he escape while he could. He had to continue downward, and so he did. Another wave rushed over him, doubling him over and forcing his breath into tight gasps, his stomach cramping. The fear rose up within him with every such wave, but still he pushed onward. Reaching the end of the tunnel was the whole point of his being there.

The whole point, he now suspected, of his being at all.

The voltmeter spiked erratically. With every spike, the demons howled louder.

The fear and the nausea and the burden, the whole weight of the mountain pressing on his back, caused him to stoop; it was, he supposed, too much to ask that he might approach his end standing upright like a man. By the time he reached blank rock, he was virtually crawling.

The magnetometer needle was pegged.

He stood for a few minutes, leaning against the wall, struggling to calm himself. Moving quickly, before he lost his will altogether, he switched on the flashlight and wedged it into the rocks so it s.h.i.+ned on the end of the tunnel. The pickaxe was a dead weight in his trembling hands, but he managed to swing it, nonetheless. Its arc over his head was his flight to freedom. He was surprised at how easily it crumbled the rock, surprised at how much strength he still had. He swung with the determination of a desperate man, again and again and again. With each swing, the demons behind him yelled and mocked and laughed. And with each swing, the dull grey spike a blur in the focused light, the rock of the shaft gave way, until at last he broke through.

The sudden hole in the wall, with its gentle blast of cold air in his face, so astounded him that he stood for a moment, staring at it, unable to believe in its reality.

A soft bluish light emanated from it.

The demons fell silent.

He dropped the pick and stepped up to the hole. Drawing a deep breath, he put his face to the portal and looked through it.

The saucer filled most of the interior cavern. Dull grey-black, with no markings on it at all, it hummed with energy at a frequency just below audible range. A thin electric blue light danced along its perfectly smooth surface, oscillating with the beat of the hum. The craft glowed like the moon. Feral felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, and the dread dropped with it. A great laughter, hysterical and uncontrollable, engulfed him as his memories came flooding back. His memories of what had happened here, in this mineshaft, to those lost miners. To what had happened to him. He had always known he was not crazy, had always known this s.h.i.+p existed. Since that day, so many years ago, the day of his injury, the day the vampires had arrived in Harlan.

A movement caught his eye, a swift darkness against the grey of the s.h.i.+p. It moved about and around the craft, quickly scurrying up to the hole where Feral stood watching. He couldn't make out its shape or features in the backlit dark. It stepped up to the wall and pressed its face to the hole.

And Feral felt his mind melt.

"So how did you know where to find him, anyway?" Dr. Peterson asked.

"He said something about going back to the shaft," Joe said. "The shaft where he was injured."

Peterson looked up from the notebook where he had been writing. "He wasn't injured in the mine," he said. "He was evaluated here with the others and kept over for a few weeks. But he was eventually released pretty much with a clean bill of health."

"Yeah, I know. It's weird. He seemed pretty convinced he had hurt his knee somehow. Was even walking with a limp."

"Oh? How long had he been doing that?"

"Last couple of months, I guess. I once caught him limping on the other one." Joe paused, wondering how much he should say. But his friend was in trouble, and he was determined to help him if he could. "That's not the d.a.m.nedest part, though," he said at last. "Around the same time, he started talking about weird stuff. Vampires, and grave robbing, and mutilated animals. He even took some of us out to Resthaven one day, to show us."

"And?"

Joe swallowed hard. "There was nothing there, of course."

"Of course."

There was more to tell.

"He also," Joe started to say, then stopped. This will sound crazy, he thought. Like I'm crazy. But Peterson was looking at him, waiting, so he continued, "He also seemed to be always talking to a crowd. Like there was others around, even when there wasn't."

Peterson nodded. "Pretty cla.s.sic symptoms," he said.

"Of what, Doc?"

Peterson cleared his throat, studying Joe intently. "Paranoid schizophrenia," he said.

Joe dropped his gaze.

Peterson continued, "His is an interesting case. I don't think I've ever seen a patient before who fantasized a normal existence, while living in a fantasy. His inner story put him in the role of the skeptic, with youand apparently all of usas the lunatic. Whatever happened in that mine all those years ago, it certainly was traumatic."

Joe had no idea of what to make of this. He swallowed hard. His voice choked when he spoke.

"Can I see him?"

Peterson considered. "Maybe for a minute."

He led Joe to the ward where Feral was under observation. Joe had found him the previous week, collapsed at the mouth of the old Grays k.n.o.b mine, weeping and babbling something about demons, about the moon in the earth. He had quickly brought him here to Harlan ARH. The doctor stepped aside as they reached the room, and Joe, after a moment's hesitation, peered in through the laminated gla.s.s window.

Feral was sitting on the bed against the far wall. He seemed calm. Joe breathed a sigh of relief; he wasn't really sure what he had expected to find. He stood there for some time, his heart welling over for his friend, the broken man sitting there so forlornly.

At last he could bear no more. He started to turn from the door when a movement caught his eye, and he stepped back up to the window. For a moment-but only for a moment-he thought he saw two figures standing next to Feral. They were roughly humanoid in shape, with grey skin and bulbous heads. They had placed their long, insect-like fingers on Feral's forehead and seemed to be communicating with him. One of them turned to look at Joe with red, glaring eyes. It spread its lipless mouth into a grin, revealing glowing white fangs.

As Joe gasped in shock, Feral looked up and locked his gaze onto him. What Joe saw in those eyes caused his blood to run cold. Feral, sucking in Joe's fear, opened his mouth and laughed.

"The Witch of Black Mountain"

Alethea Kontis.

New York Times bestselling author Alethea Kontis is a princess, a G.o.ddess, a force of nature, and a mess. The sister of a famous jewelry designer and granddaughter of an infamous pirate, Alethea has profited from s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the alphabet, organizing Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark-Hunter universe, sharing all her family's deepest, darkest secrets, and making little girls cry. She makes the best baklava you've ever tasted and sleeps with a teddy bear named Charlie. Alethea has lived in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, for over ten years now, and is trying to adjust to her recent coronation as Queen of New Tornado Alley. Her web site can be found at aletheakontis.com.

Letting Anthony Gentry get her pregnant was the stupidest thing Ennica Jamison had ever done. Hiking to the summit of Black Mountain to see a witch was the second. It had been a warm November afternoon when she'd left her stolen horse on the path at the base of the mountain; now it was cold and dusk. She placed a foot on the first step of the abandoned lookout tower. She'd been walking for hours, slow but determined, sprinkling what sanity she had left behind her like breadcrumbs in the dirt. She grasped the rusted orange railing firmly with a gloved hand. One last thing left to climb. One last moment before she discovered just how stupid she really was.

She stomped her boots hard on the metal to make sure there was no ice; each step brought one more inescapable thought along with it. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw herself stabbing Anthony in the heart-the heart he didn't have-so she tried not to close her eyes, but her mind still raced against her will. How he and that b.i.t.c.h Tanya must have laughed at her; how they must be laughing at her still. Her father would be mad that she'd taken the horse out overnight, but he'd be furious when he found out he was going to be a grandfather.

It didn't have to be a knife. Maybe a spear, like in the ancient days of Spartans and honor. Anthony wouldn't have survived long in that world. The dream of his blood pooled in her hands, all his life and all his lies drained away. No. Concentrate on something else. One more step.

She was high enough now to see where the elevation benchmark disc lay, the official plaque set in stone by the Geodetic survey crew back in the fifties. She had pa.s.sed it fifty yards or so back and wondered if she'd been kin to anyone on that team. Probably. Over four thousand feet up...and two more steps.

Her panting breath froze her tongue, the fog before her reminding her of the surreally beautiful ice on the rock face a mile or so back. If she was ever crazy enough to come back this way, she'd have to bring a camera. If she survived. Three more steps. The tower creaked and s.h.i.+vered. It might have been her s.h.i.+vering.

It had been a girl in the schoolyard who had told Ennica about the lookout tower. "But built to look out for what?" she'd asked rhetorically, chewing on the end of one of her ribboned chestnut plaits. "I'll tell you what. My nanna says if you climb to the top of that tower, it'll show you where the witch lives." The Witch of Black Mountain, the dark fairy long ago cast out of the magic circle. The one who grants wishes and eats babies and who'll come and suck your soul if you don't put your toys away before supper.

Supper. Ennica couldn't remember if she had stopped for supper. It didn't matter. One final step, and she was at the top. She looked out over the clearing, scanned the treetops.

A lone crow drifted in and out of the mist on the early evening currents. Other than that, she saw nothing.

Ennica took a deep breath, sucking in more cold than oxygen, and blew out another cloud of fog. She wasn't surprised; deep down she'd known this was a one-way trip. Supplies would have just slowed her down. Her whole body was tired. She just didn't have the strength to walk anymore. They'd find her huddled at the base of the tower, peacefully frozen in her sleep. Or perhaps she'd just stay right here up at the top, the closest she'd ever be to the stars in this life. Spiritual, almost.

A sob escaped her; her chest felt like a mason jar about to explode. Her cry echoed over the quiescent landscape, unanswered by nightingale or Chuck Will's Widow or that ephemeral crow. Even the cicadas didn't dare infest this high. The night was a tomb. Fitting, really. She felt tears eke out and freeze on her lashes. She refused to be a wimp, especially if she was the only one around to witness it, so she blinked them away. Blink.

Anthony. Stabbed. Blood. Relief.

Ennica gasped and opened her eyes again. She wished she was brave enough to go through with something like that, brave enough to save the world from one more lying, cheating, thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.d. h.e.l.l, she couldn't even save herself. If she'd have lived through this, her kid would have been a b.a.s.t.a.r.d too. She didn't mind.

She put a hand on her still-flat belly. Hopefully it was warmer in there. Without closing her eyes, Ennica imagined she was sitting in front of a nice, warm fire. It smelled of cedar and coal and hand-me-down quilts. It blurred her vision and burned her eyes. She rubbed them, looking out over the mountaintop.

She wasn't dreaming.

Ennica followed the smoke trail back to its origin, and could just barely make out the silhouette of a rooftop among the trees. She memorized its location in relation to the tower before scrambling down, s.n.a.t.c.hing her pack up, and hightailing it to the front door. She pulled off her gloves; her skin was so dry when she rapped on the door that her knuckles bled.

"Yes?" the soft female voice was followed by the furious flapping of wings and the cackle of a crow.

"I'm looking for the w-" Ennica stopped herself. "Witch" didn't quite seem the polite term. "-the dark fairy," she finished.

"Fairies. Bah," said the woman. "Blanton Forest is about four leagues west. If you want romance, you're on the wrong mountain."

"Romance got me into this," Ennica called through the door. "Now all I want's revenge." There was no reply. Ennica counted her heartbeats: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. When she got to a hundred she'd...she'd what, leave? She had nowhere to be. Here on this porch seemed as good a place to freeze to death as any.

She heard rattling, and then the door opened a crack. "Come in."

The cabin was small-only one room-with no furniture to speak of apart from a simple table and two chairs beside a squat black stove. Ennica fell to her knees before it, suddenly aware of how cold she was and exactly how close to death she'd come already. The fire smelled of coal, wood smoke, apple pie, and lilacs. There. It was official; she'd lost her mind. But she'd suspected that the minute that low-down dirty rotten liar had kissed her.

Lord bless the genius who one day invented the soap that could wash memories like that out of her mind.

"Sit," said the witch. She had taken one of the chairs at the table, the crow perched on her shoulder. Before the other chair sat a plain white teacup filled with water. Ennica pulled herself up into the chair and cradled the cup in her icy fingers.