Read Online Shadow Falls: Badlands by Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff
Tags: Death, Horror, Western, supernatural, demons, Ghost, spirits, Occult, mark yoshimoto nemcoff, shadow falls, cain and abel
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have to tell me!”
With a surprisingly firm hand, she pushed him out and tried to shut the door in his face.
Galen wedged his foot in the doorjamb before she could close it. “What is it? What did you see?”
The old Gypsy peered out past him, as if making sure nobody was around to see.
“You must go now!”
“Why?”
She pushed him from the entrance. “You watched them all die,” she said, shutting the door on him. “And now they’re hunting you.”
*****
CHAPTER 5
W ith a loud crash, wooden beams collapsed all around him as he fought through the smoke to find the door. Hands and flailing fingers grabbed at his sleeve. Coughing voices called to him to save them. Their screams pooled into a sea of sheer noise, enveloping him more with each step. He pushed them aside—those in his path, their plaintive wails ignored—as he made his way to the escape. For the first time, the door was still open, though clouded by the smoke choking the inside of the burning church. Stepping in front of his path was a woman—her hair and clothes engulfed in flame, her screaming mouth hanging wide open in anguish. He pushed her aside and as he looked back at the door, which was now swinging closed. The man behind it grinned in the way only Cyril could.
Galen woke in his bunk. The nightmare had come again—that he was sure of—though he could not remember the details. Unable to go back to sleep, he stared at the wooden ceiling and thought about what the Gypsy had told him.
“Hogwash,” his breath muttered, though he had a hard time convincing the rest of him. He tried to focus on something else, something distracting.
He thought of Daisy. He had lain with other women before—most times for money and hardly one who was any sight in the daytime. So his mind drifted to the hundred-dollar whore he’d seen at the bar. When it came to tail, he’d seen men throw money like that around. He’d seen prospectors pay an ounce of gold just for the pleasure of having a woman sit next to their stinking selves.
Through a window, he could see sunlight coming up over the city. Many of the other beds in the bunkhouse had been empty for hours. He’d probably missed breakfast while sleeping off last night’s binge.
Suddenly, he was struck with a twinge of panic. Reaching under the bed, he found his coat, his fingers pawing at the pockets until he felt it: the brown paper and twine securing the box that the rancher had given him to deliver. It was still there. Given all the detours he’d taken since arriving, Galen considered this a small miracle.
He held the box up and inspected it. The last thing he wanted was for it to seem like the packaging had been tampered with. And when he tilted the box to examine the underside, he heard it.
Something sliding.
A sound from inside, moving from one end of the box to the other.
He put the box down on the bed and looked around. Nearby a dough-faced farm boy slept soundly, sawing heavy wood with each deep breath of slumber.
Galen looked down. In the eight days the box had been in his possession, not once had he ever noticed it making a noise.
Let alone one that sounded so—
Alive , he thought.
He sat on the bed for minute, stared down at the brown paper and twine wrapped box, waited for it to make another sound. Finally, he caught hold of his senses, picked up the box, and stuffed it back into his coat pocket.
He made it to the corner of Walnut and Main through the thin blanket of freshly fallen snow. As he had guessed, the bank was now open and fairly busy with early morning customers. Galen entered. One teller sat behind a window and loudly counted out coins for an old man.
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—” she said in a clear voice.
Across the room, seated behind a large oak desk was a man with greased side locks who Galen immediately recognized as the person he’d come all this way to see.
The man caught Galen staring at him. “May I help you?” he asked. He rose
With a surprisingly firm hand, she pushed him out and tried to shut the door in his face.
Galen wedged his foot in the doorjamb before she could close it. “What is it? What did you see?”
The old Gypsy peered out past him, as if making sure nobody was around to see.
“You must go now!”
“Why?”
She pushed him from the entrance. “You watched them all die,” she said, shutting the door on him. “And now they’re hunting you.”
*****
CHAPTER 5
W ith a loud crash, wooden beams collapsed all around him as he fought through the smoke to find the door. Hands and flailing fingers grabbed at his sleeve. Coughing voices called to him to save them. Their screams pooled into a sea of sheer noise, enveloping him more with each step. He pushed them aside—those in his path, their plaintive wails ignored—as he made his way to the escape. For the first time, the door was still open, though clouded by the smoke choking the inside of the burning church. Stepping in front of his path was a woman—her hair and clothes engulfed in flame, her screaming mouth hanging wide open in anguish. He pushed her aside and as he looked back at the door, which was now swinging closed. The man behind it grinned in the way only Cyril could.
Galen woke in his bunk. The nightmare had come again—that he was sure of—though he could not remember the details. Unable to go back to sleep, he stared at the wooden ceiling and thought about what the Gypsy had told him.
“Hogwash,” his breath muttered, though he had a hard time convincing the rest of him. He tried to focus on something else, something distracting.
He thought of Daisy. He had lain with other women before—most times for money and hardly one who was any sight in the daytime. So his mind drifted to the hundred-dollar whore he’d seen at the bar. When it came to tail, he’d seen men throw money like that around. He’d seen prospectors pay an ounce of gold just for the pleasure of having a woman sit next to their stinking selves.
Through a window, he could see sunlight coming up over the city. Many of the other beds in the bunkhouse had been empty for hours. He’d probably missed breakfast while sleeping off last night’s binge.
Suddenly, he was struck with a twinge of panic. Reaching under the bed, he found his coat, his fingers pawing at the pockets until he felt it: the brown paper and twine securing the box that the rancher had given him to deliver. It was still there. Given all the detours he’d taken since arriving, Galen considered this a small miracle.
He held the box up and inspected it. The last thing he wanted was for it to seem like the packaging had been tampered with. And when he tilted the box to examine the underside, he heard it.
Something sliding.
A sound from inside, moving from one end of the box to the other.
He put the box down on the bed and looked around. Nearby a dough-faced farm boy slept soundly, sawing heavy wood with each deep breath of slumber.
Galen looked down. In the eight days the box had been in his possession, not once had he ever noticed it making a noise.
Let alone one that sounded so—
Alive , he thought.
He sat on the bed for minute, stared down at the brown paper and twine wrapped box, waited for it to make another sound. Finally, he caught hold of his senses, picked up the box, and stuffed it back into his coat pocket.
He made it to the corner of Walnut and Main through the thin blanket of freshly fallen snow. As he had guessed, the bank was now open and fairly busy with early morning customers. Galen entered. One teller sat behind a window and loudly counted out coins for an old man.
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—” she said in a clear voice.
Across the room, seated behind a large oak desk was a man with greased side locks who Galen immediately recognized as the person he’d come all this way to see.
The man caught Galen staring at him. “May I help you?” he asked. He rose
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