From The Journal Of

On some nights I dream about the War. The men who died under my command come one by one to accuse me then, as I lay huddled alone in the dark. They remind me of the terrible debt I owe them. Afterwards I wake in tears, the four windowless walls of my sleeping room cruelly reminding me how misspent their empty sacrifice has been. These dreams are terrible, but they are not what I fear most about the night. There is another dream that visits me from time to time, a memory from childhood. In the dream I can see my brother, lost and alone in the deep shadows of the pine forest that stands at the edge of the town of Wellsboro. He calls out my name, but I am paralyzed. I cannot help him...October 28th 1929I woke with the same feeling that day. My left hand was still numb, but my left foot was useful again. Though it still caused me a great deal of pain if I stood on it for more than a half hour or so. In spite of the doctor's advice, I had done away with my cane two weeks before. After all, the surgeons had also told me that my hand should have healed by now.Nine o'clock in the AM: I entered Wall Drug to receive my weekly allotment of laudanum. If I had not taken the scrip from my pocket to give to the pharmacist I might have forgotten. As I felt with the fingers and thumb of my right hand in the pocket of my coat, I produced not only the scrip, but also a letter from Theodore Worthington. Yes, the Theodore Worthington: industrialist, humanitarian, patron of the arts, Manhattan millionaire. I found myself wondering why such a man would send me a letter. What interest could such a man have in me?"That will be one dollar and seventeen cents, Mr. Peters."It was the young Chinaman under the employ of the elderly Irish owner who spoke to me. I admit to some embarrassment when I threw the letter on the counter while simultaneously taking a long drink from the bottle. He looked at me with a measure of uncertainty; sweat beading on his light brown forehead. It was the eye that did it, I knew. I had left home without covering the eye. I had forgotten myself. "Apologies, my boy," I said.I fumbled two paper dollars onto the counter then scooped up the letter. I examined it as the young man made change. There was to be a meeting today between Worthington and myself. I made a point of keeping my eyes on the letter as the boy counted back my change nervously. I felt an obligation to speak again as I scooped the money up and slid it into my pocket, but no words came to mind. There was something I should have said then, something that people say to one another. I looked up at the boy, my eyes searching his face for the expected phrase to find only his pale cheeks and trembling lower lip. I left the pharmacy in silence.Nine thirty in the AM: Before I sat out for the Piet Mondrian Building and my meeting with Mr. Worthington, I stopped at the small flat my military pension had grudgingly provided. I retrieved my rose tinted spectacles from their place on the wardrobe and slid them onto my face. I checked my appearance in the mirror. My hair was long and unkempt, and its familiar deep russet had recently become streaked with white. I smoothed it back against my scalp, and realized that it was thinning. That's when I took a longer look. My face seemed hollow; my eyes sunken beneath the dark lenses that covered them. I don't remember ever looking so thin, almost skeletal, or so pale... this was no way to look at such an important meeting. I reached into my small wardrobe and pulled out my service jacket to wear beneath my long coat, which had the desired effect of making me appear somewhat stout. My medals followed, and I drew blood from my index finger more than once as I pinned them on my jacket. I examined myself in the mirror again and felt a touch more satisfied. My meeting with Worthington was not until two in the afternoon. I sat down on my bed to wait and took another long drink from the bottle. I replaced the cap and slid it into my inner pocket.Two o'clock in the PM: My visit to Worthington's office was not quite what I imagined it would be. The twenty-first floor of the Piet Mondrian Building was a busy place, I learned. There was a receptionist behind a large oak desk to whom I spoke. The wall behind her was affixed with mirrors at two-foot intervals that ran from the floor to the ceiling. I watched my own reflection as I spoke with her. Rude, I know, but my tinted spectacles covered this impropriety. I gave her my name, then handed her the letter I had received. I felt nervous, out of place, there in that cold sterile light. Ozone filled the room, crammed into my nostrils and reeked, as there was so much electricity here. The girl checked her ledger, and then things began to move more quickly. I was ushered into a small cluttered office. There was a desk in the center of the room piled high with documents. Behind it sat a sweaty, rat-faced little man. This was not Worthington. Perhaps he was too important to meet with someone like myself. That would be perfectly understandable, if it were indeed the case. I nodded to the man behind the desk, who held up his index finger in response as he wrote quickly in a small business ledger. After a moment he seemed to finish, closing the book and setting it on top of the pile of documents where it teetered precariously. Then the rat-faced man spoke."Hello sir, you must be Captain Peters," he said."I am. You are?""Wellford Cummings, I'm one of Robert Blakely's assistants. I'm sorry sir, but Mr. Worthington and most of our executives are in a meeting right now. There've been some major swings in the market today, I'm sure you've heard.""Robert Blakely? Lt. Robert Blakely, from Virginia?" I hadn't heard that name in over three years. My interest was piqued. "Yes sir. He's the one who recommended you. He said he had served under you in the war.""That is correct. I, look, recommended... what is this about? Why have I been asked to come here?""Well sir, as you may or may not know, Mr. Worthington's nephew Vincent was the senior investigator for the Knights of Labor Trade Assembly based here in New York. They represent many of the union miners throughout the southeast.""I've heard of them," I lied."I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Captain, but there have been quite a few union strikes in the state of West Virginia recently. The wires are down all throughout the southern border. Last week, Mr. Worthington received this."The little man handed me a letter. My head still swam from the opium I had taken earlier, and the words came together slowly. After a moment, I realized that the letter was a correspondence from a Margaret Worthington. Her husband Vincent had been killed, the letter said. The pieces began to find order in my fuzzy mind. This woman was apparently the widow of Theodore Worthington's nephew. The murderer was named in the letter as a Mr. Jackson Poole, an agent of the Denton-Paisley detective agency. I looked up from the letter to the small man who sat behind the desk. "What does this have to do with me?" I asked."Well, sir, Mr. Blakely has spoken very highly of you, and he has informed Mr. Worthington that you once worked in the Pennsylvania coalfields. You know these kinds of men. Mr. Worthington thought you might sort this matter out for him: make sure that justice is seen to and that no harm should come to his poor niece." I had only one question: "What does it pay?"Five o'clock in the PM:After making a few hasty preparations, I left my home to catch the train for Blair, West Virginia. I wondered briefly as I stepped out into the street if the city had gone mad. As I made my way across Times Square several of the buildings around me opened their windows and cast their tenants out to the hard gray concrete below. Bodies littered the sidewalks and passersby panicked, throngs of idiots in suits rushing to and fro. I was glad that I carried my service revolver. I kept my hands in my pockets, the one that worked on my service pistol, the dead one on the bottle. I didn't stop to speak to anyone. I remember thinking that the whole scene may have been induced by the medicine. Whatever the case, I had little time to waste, and so I hurried through the crowds to catch my train.October 29th, 1929Four o'clock in the AM:I had apparently fallen asleep on the train before it left the Eastern Seaboard. I awoke to find myself sharing the small passenger compartment I traveled in with a thin, professional looking young man. I was still for a time, watching him as he stared out into the racing dark with his forehead resting against the glass pane. Perhaps there was some actual visible clue, or perhaps it was simply my time in the war that made something about the image of him strike me. He was afraid. I could feel it, actually smell it on him. After a moment, I leaned forward and straightened the spectacles that had slid down to the bridge of my nose. This startled him from his reverie and he nodded to me. "I must have fallen asleep," I said, extending my hand, "Jason Peters.""George Macey," he replied, grasping my hand firmly. "Military man?"As we shook hands he had noticed the cufflink the army had given me on my shirtsleeve. "Good eye, there. Are you a policeman, then, George?""Not a bit of it, sir. A reporter. I work for the Arkham Star." "Arkham? Are we already... what time is it? Where are we now?""Four in the morning, I'd reckon we're in southern Ohio by now. You've been out since I boarded."It was the medicine that made me sleep so long. That was one of its side affects. Still, eleven hours at least, and on a moving train. I sat upright and gave a stretch and a yawn. It wouldn't do to be so lazy. Soon I was going to be working. I checked my pocket watch, which showed half past two. I began to wind it as I spoke again. "So, where are you coming from?" He asked."New York. Manhattan, to be precise."His face seemed to register that this was significant, and his tone changed immediately from one guarded by the inherent apprehension of polite conversation to one of intense interest."Really? I heard some crazy things over the wire just before I left the office.""Such as?" I asked."Well, you know that the market crashed. They're saying it's the worst one ever. Reports were coming in that investment bankers and stockbrokers were tossing themselves out of building windows. Over a billion dollars lost in a day. Crazy, man, crazy.""Oh, I... I didn't know.""Yeah, it's bad, they say. I mean, when the swells start doing themselves in, well, you know us little people are in for a rough time of it."I tried to let this sink in. The stock market had crashed while I slept. No, it must have happened before I left. That's why people had been panicking when I was on my way to the station. I thought about Theodore Worthington. Would he still be in such a lucrative position when I returned to New York? Had he, too, thrown himself from the window of his twenty first floor office; was he now lying dead on the cold pavement of Ann Street's broad sidewalk?"So, you were in the war?""Yes," I answered absently, "I was a captain in the army.""So, what's your business in West Virginia?""I was hired to… investigate a crime in the town of Weston. Striking coal miners, company thugs, I'm sure you've read about it.""Weston?" He asked, surprised. "I'm heading to Lewis County, myself. Not Weston, exactly, but nearby.""Really? On what sort of business?""Well... something similar, I suppose."It was plain that neither of us wished to speak further on our motives for going to Weston; and so, aside from civil pleasantries, we sat in silence for the rest of the trip. With occasional glances each of us took the measure of the other. He looked like an educated man: slick hair, fine suit. He was accustomed to city life. You could see it in his posture and hear it in his voice. But there was something else about him that gave me a wholly different impression. There were dark circles under his eyes. He obviously hadn't slept for some time, but there was more too. To put a word to it, he looked... haunted. I found myself wondering what shadow followed this young man, driving him from the bustling city of Arkham to the dreary backwoods of the West Virginia coalfields. Apparently, I would never know. When the whistle blew and the train arrived in the Lewis County station I offered him a word in way of parting. "I certainly hope you find what you’re looking for, George." "You as well, Captain. You as well."October 29th, 1929Evening:I arrived by coach to the town of Weston late in the evening. My pocket watch seemed to have busted a spring at some point during the journey, and I had no proper way of telling the time. The coach dropped me in front of Ole’s hardware just as the sun was sinking over the mountains, and the entire town seemed suspended in that dim orange mist that comes just before twilight in the hilly lands of the mid-east. It was so much like the small Pennsylvania town I grew up in that I felt for a moment as if I had journeyed back to my father's home in Wellsboro. I fished the bottle of laudanum from my pocket and took a long drink. Calming warmth washed over me as I walked down the town's main street. Light spilled from the open doorway of a nearby eatery onto a large whitewashed front porch. Men gathered there, mostly miners from the look of them. Next door was a small pharmacy, in front of which sat a plain looking fellow in a wicker chair while an older man trimmed his hair neatly. I felt the stir of ritual in me as I stopped to watch the old man's bony fingers work. On the third Sunday evening of each month my mother would take each of us children to just such a pharmacy where we would be rewarded with our choice of one piece of candy. Out front the old town doctor would pass the time talking current events with the town's sheriff while giving him a trim. As I grew older and my mother passed on I would come to sit on the old doctor's porch and have my own hair cut while talking about the town. It was in just such a place that I first heard of the Army, the Kaiser, and the War. It was so much like home. Then I felt the other memories begin to stir in me, the memories of a small boy running through a dark wood. I swept them away. I was here to end someone else's nightmare, not to relive my own.I wasted little time booking a room at the town's only hotel. It was a simple affair: a squat two-story building made up mostly of colored brick with a dozen or so rooms for rent. There was a young black porter who offered to carry my bags to my room. I declined, as I had only one small leather satchel containing a change of clothes. I spoke to the young man about the town and the mining operation, though. His name was Samuel. He knew the Worthington's, "good folks" he called them. I gave him a dollar to wake me in the morning and to take me to where the widow was staying.October 30th, 1929Morning:Miners live on company land. They shop at company stores, eat at company cafeterias, and work in company mines. Each and everyone of them knows that at any moment the company could come and take it all away. The miner's cabins sat a few hundred yards above the mining camp. The camp was constructed poorly, and quickly by the look of it; but then, most of the homes located on the hillside above town were. They were meant to be temporary.
Samuel pointed out the widow's cabin from the foot of the hill as we walked, but the young man left me to my own devices at the entrance of the camp. He said things had "gone bad" around the area. Denton-Paisley detectives had been removing families from their homes, by force if necessary. It is important to note that calling such men detectives is preposterous. The Denton-Paisley Detective Agency operates out of Virginia. For the right price they offer the services of men who act as strike busters. They were hired muscle for the company, and for what they did they were the best. As I climbed the hillside I saw the evidence of their work on every third home. Those cabins were now piles of charred wood and ash, serving as a reminder to others what would happen to them if they were to continue the strike. I reached the Widow Worthington's home after some bit of climbing up the hillside. I was beginning to feel an intense pain in my left leg. The doctors had said that exertion was not good for me in my condition. I rested my back against the dry timber wall of the cabin. I needed a moment before entering, a respite... a drink. I pulled the laudanum from my coat pocket and took a tiny sip. Best to conserve, I was unsure as to what the town doctor might be carrying in stock. I felt a little better by and by, the pain receding to the usual feeling of pins and needles. I repositioned my tinted spectacles, which had slid down the bridge of my nose as it became slick with sweat. I didn't wish to frighten her. The poor woman had been through enough already. Then I slid the bottle back into my pocket and knocked softly on the door."Who is it?" Called a small voice from behind the door."Captain Jason Peters," I answered. "I was sent by your husband's uncle after he received your letter, Mrs. Worthington."The door opened slowly then, but just a hair's breadth. A single blue eye peered out at me, red-rimmed and bloodshot. I stood at attention for several long moments, allowing her time to weigh me as she would. Then I produced Theodore Worthington's return correspondence from the interior pocket of my vest. "This is for you, Mrs. Worthington."She took the letter from me with a small trembling hand, fumbling with it for a moment before tearing it open. The widow began to read the letter, stepping back away from the door, which gave a long, low creak, as it slowly swung open behind her. I watched her from behind red lenses as she studied the letter, her back to me. She was a wisp of a girl, young and thin with disheveled blond hair. She would have been considered an attractive woman a mere week ago, but I could see it had been a long week for Margaret Worthington. As her sunken eyes roamed over the letter held in her trembling fingers, I couldn't help but think to myself that it would not be long before she followed her husband to the grave. I had seen the symptoms before, in the war. She had already begun to waste away. "Come in, sir," she said to me.I nodded in reply. At first, I couldn't find the words to express my sympathy for her state. I entered the cabin, closing the door softly behind me. The front room of the cabin was a bit of a surprise to me. It was small, but well furnished, with a large throw rug covering much of the floor. There was a sturdy oak table, where the widow and her late husband must have taken their meals, a sofa sat against the wall beside the door, and across from it was an antique hand crafted rocking chair. Between the sofa and the chair was a large coal-burning furnace. Its stovepipe ran up and through the roof of the wooden cabin next to a small curtained window. In the back of the room was a doorway, most likely leading to the bedroom. A thin blue sheet hung over the opening, serving as best it could to divide the two rooms. After a moment, the widow slowly took a seat in the rocking chair. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Worthington," I finally managed. "I have heard that your husband was a good man.""He... he was," she replied. "He spent his whole life helping others. But in the end, how did they repay him? They killed him in cold blood. They did it right in front of me. They wanted him to know... they wanted him to know that I was watching."The poor girl began to weep. The sound was unnerving to me, though it is hard to explain why. I had heard many men cry, even wail, during the war. But there was something far worse in this, to see this woman, to hear her sorrow. "Who was it that shot your husband, Mrs. Worthington? Tell me their names, and I promise each man will pay in kind." "He wasn't shot," she replied shakily, "he was stabbed, a-again and again. It happened in front of the Number Thirteen. They were all Denton-Paisley men. Their leader was a man named Jackson Poole.""Do you know where these men are now, Mrs. Worthington?""They have a lodge that the company built for them on the eastern side of the mining camp, past where they make the colored miners live."I nodded, and placed my hand on the widow's shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, though I was not hired to bring comfort. He was stabbed, then? Why would they not simply shoot him? I pondered this for a moment, and then spoke the only words I knew that might offer that poor woman some measure of peace."You will have your revenge. I swear it."Nightfall:I picked my way through the thick tree line that bordered the black miners' camp. Fat pines and the autumn twilight served to provide me the cover I needed. I spotted the lodge after a few moments. It was a large two-story timber building. I circled it quietly, keeping out of sight. There were three doors, only one of which was under guard, and four small windows. There was another building as well, a large cabin that stood behind the lodge. It was smaller, but more sturdily constructed. As a soldier, I had learned to recognize an officer's barrack when I saw one, and that was what the building was. I was sure of it. At the single door to that cabin was a Denton-Paisley thug. He was a tall, thick man, and he had a mean look to him: flat nose, rough face. But he didn't seem to be armed. I watched him for a time as he paced back and forth in front of the building. After a moment he lit a cigarette. Then something happened that gave me pause. At first, I didn't understand what I was hearing. The sound was eerie, creeping through the trees toward me. Then I placed it, it was the sound of a dobro, followed shortly by the thrum of a banjo. The music rose up softly from the mining camp below to fill the forest around me. I looked up to see that the guard at the door had noticed it as well. He slowly walked to the edge of the small clearing around the lodge, trying to see where the music originated. A single haunting voice sang out above the music:The man who stole the waterMay swim forevermore,But he’ll never reach the landOn that golden shore.A faint, white lightWill haunt his heart,‘Til he’s only a memoryLost in the darkThen a chorus of voices joined the first, adding weight to the words:Dig a hole in the groundStraight down to Hell‘Til there ain’t no more waterIn the well, well, well.I shut the music out. It was time to go to work. I crept slowly from the woods behind the large man, nearly reaching the door of the cabin before he turned to face me. I could see the surprise on his face, his eyes widening as they fell on me. The thug quickly covered the distance from the edge of the clearing to me, drawing himself up to his full height, which put him at eye level with me."Hello," I said. "You wouldn’t happen to have a spare cigarette?""Nuh uh," he replied. "Look, you need to be on your way old timer. This here is private property."I drew my service pistol fast from my coat pocket, whipping it upward hard to strike the butt flat against his temple. A gash appeared in the side of his head, blood streaming down his face as his eyes lost focus. I lowered the pistol and watched him stumble drunkenly, first backward a few steps, then forward, before falling to a heap in the dirt."I'm not that old, boy."I grabbed the collar of the big man's jacket and drug him into the woods. Briefly, I entertained the notion of killing him, as I didn't want him waking and raising an alarm. But there were rules of conduct here. This wasn't the war. So I stowed him beneath a pine, hoping that he would be out long enough for me to take care of my business. Before making my way back toward the cabin, I briefly searched through the man's pockets. I took his cigarettes and matches, lit one, and then crept back through the woods. The window of the cabin was shielded from the inside by a heavy set of red drapes. I could see shadows against them, moving about, and from inside the small building came voices. I slowed my breathing and closed my good eye, trying to concentrate, to make out what it was they were saying. What I heard raised the hair on the back of my neck. The men inside were all speaking in unison, their voices rising and falling together... almost as if they were chanting. I could not place the language. It was low, guttural, sounding almost like German. But I learned a fair bit of German in the war against the Kaiser, and the language they spoke... it was not German.I crept to the door, exposing myself somewhat as I knelt to risk a brief look through the keyhole. I was disoriented for a moment as I scanned the room. A haze of smoke filled the air inside, reflecting a red light in its thick clouds. Past the smoke was a group of men. There was no opportunity to count their number with my limited field of vision, but there were no more than five, I was sure. The men I could see were well dressed in dark gray suits and black bowler hats. They held hands in a circle as they chanted. What had I stumbled onto? Was this some sort of black mass? Was that why they stabbed rather than shot poor Vincent Worthington, as some sort of ritualistic slaying? I stood from the door and pulled the tinted spectacles from my face. I slipped them into my pocket then drew my service pistol, pulling back the hammer slowly. Then I took two long strides back away from the door and, with a lunge, kicked it hard enough to splinter the wood, firing the bolt across the room.The chanting stopped. The men were paralyzed, staring at me in shock. They sat in a circle about a lit brazier covered with red glass. It cast its wicked crimson light across the room, almost tangible as it hung in the thick patches of smoke that filled the air. "You!" I shouted, pointing my pistol at one of the men. "Which one of you is Jackson Poole?""Your... your eye...""Answer me!""Mr. Poole isn't here. He- he went down to the mine! The... the Number Thirteen!"The other men stared with wide eyes, standing slowly from their chairs and raising their hands. Good, I thought, allowing myself a grin. They were terrified. That would make this much easier. Then I saw something that made the blood freeze in my veins and it was my turn to be shocked into silence. The brazier around which they sat stood upright on a coiled metal frame. My eyes followed those slender brass lines through loops and half-moons to its base, already aware of what they would find there, but unable to comprehend it initially. The frame ended in sharpened metal prongs that had been driven into the eyes and mouth of a human head that lay face up on the table. Time seemed to stop, and for an instant I could hear only the rush of blood in my ears, my eyes locked on that horrific artifact.It is to his credit that one of the men noticed my distraction. He stood on my left hand side, and was easily the largest of them, but his speed belied his bulk. He drew an oddly curved dagger from the folds of his coat. I was lucky to catch the reflected flash of candlelight on the metal blade, throwing up my left hand just in time. The point struck hard, its wavy length piercing skin. The force of the villain's overhand lunge buried the dagger to its hilt but my arm held steady, preventing the blade from sinking into my chest, his intended target. Pain shot up my arm and through my shoulder as I felt the bones of my forearm crack beneath the impact. The other suits tensed to act, but I was faster, the thunderous report of my revolver sounding as my assailant was blasted across the room.Then the others rushed me.Perhaps they thought their superior number would win the day, but these men were unfamiliar with the art of murder, an art that I had practiced for nearly a decade. It was as simple as pointing a finger. Quickly but calmly, I leveled the barrel of the pistol at one man, then another, squeezing off round after round. Their charge broke almost instantly, the men turning to scramble for cover, too slowly though as I dropped each in turn. Each shot I fired in that nightmarish place was lethal. The men fell as quickly as the hammer. Then there was only one left, huddled in a corner, his hands over his ears. I stood over him, placing the smoking end of the barrel against the side of his skull. He let out a terrible moan then began to weep as I pulled back the hammer. I had never killed men so defenseless. But then, I had never seen men so deserving of death. I pulled the trigger, painting the walls around the man as well as myself a deep shade of red.I winced as I tore the dagger from my dead forearm. The argument could be made that I should have thought things through, not acted so rashly. It was the opium, I think; it clouded my judgment. The thing was done, though, and I knew that I would have to hurry if I were to make my escape. I kicked over the table on which the brazier sat then smashed one of the hanging oil lamps onto the floor. The room erupted into a blazing pyre by the time I swung the door open again and stepped out of the cabin. The men in the lodge across the way were finally rousing. A rifle fired from one of the building's open windows. Bullets splintered the wood of the open doorframe behind me, ricocheting into the cabin to shatter the window. I turned and dashed away from the cabin toward the trees, fanning the hammer of my pistol and sending a return volley at the lodge. They were pinned for a moment by the barrage and I reached the trees, tearing through the dark toward the mining camp. Above all the rest, one thought stood out in my mind: I had to get the widow to safety, and soon, before word of my deeds reached the ears of those who might do her harm.All Hallows Eve, 1929Past Midnight:I lost my pursuers in the woods, though it took some time, doubling about to make my way back to the hotel. Slipping into my room through the window, I changed clothes and bandaged my arm as best I could. The wound was deep, but the lack of feeling in my left arm kept the pain at bay. Then I sent for Samuel and gave him enough money to hire a coach to take Mrs. Worthington from the town that very night. The young black man left me with his assurance that a coach would be waiting at the far edge of the northern forest. I left to retrieve the widow then. My charge had been not only to slay Jackson Poole but to protect Margaret Worthington as well, and I felt that she would be safer out of Weston until matters were properly sorted.Staying close to the trees, I made my way up the steep hill to the widow's tiny cabin. From a distance, I noticed light spilling from the small wooden structure's single window. All of the other cabins on the hillside were dark and silent. The single beacon of light seemed ominous. I crept to the door quietly and listened. I could hear the widow's voice inside. She was speaking to someone, but her voice had no edge of fear or anger. I knocked softly on the door. The widow fell silent inside. Then, after a moment, I heard the sound of the deadbolt, and the door slowly creaked open.Margaret stood in the open doorway, her face drawn tight and her eyes wide and staring. I scanned the main room of the cabin behind her. It was empty. Whomever she was speaking to had been ushered into the back room, perhaps for protection. Undoubtedly, the Denton-Paisley thugs had already paid a visit to many of the miners in this valley. The widow could not be sure who would come knocking on her door at such a late hour. "Captain Peters, why, hello," there was something in her voice that seemed odd to me as she invited me into her home. "Do come in, please.""I'm afraid we have little time for pleasantries, Mrs. Worthington. I have become aware of some strange goings on in Weston. I've been hired to protect you, and I think it would be best if you went to stay with your late husband's uncle until I've sorted matters..."She turned her back to me as I spoke, walking away from the open door to take a teapot from the furnace. She moved stiffly, in a way that seemed somehow unnatural. I stepped into the cabin behind her, placing a hand on the service pistol in my pocket. I made another quick scan of the cabin as I entered, spotting the brief movement of shadow on the thin blue sheet that separated the front room from the back."Mrs. Worthington, I've hired a coach," I began again. "It will be waiting for you in front of Ole’s hardware. From there you'll travel to Charleston, where a train can take you-""Don't be silly," she interrupted, her voice high but emotionless, "why would I wish to leave?""The men who killed your husband, ma'am. I don't think they're done with their business yet. It isn't safe for you to be here.""Oh!" She said, a wide smile appearing suddenly on her face. "That's right. You don't know yet. Something wonderful has happened. My Vincent, he's come back to me."As she spoke her smile broadened so as to show her teeth. I stared into her eyes in silence for a long moment. They seemed cold and distant, almost... lifeless. Then I heard a shuffling sound that came from behind the thin sheet that hung over the open doorway to the bedroom. A silhouette appeared against its surface, a dark shadow of a sickeningly thin man. I pulled the pistol from my pocket and aimed it at the figure behind the sheet. "Margaret, go outside," I said sternly, "that is not your husband.""Oh, but it is," she countered, giggling in near hysteria.I couldn't have her injured, but she seemed too far-gone at the moment to listen to reason. So, I slipped the pistol back into my coat pocket and grabbed her slender arm, dragging her across the room to the door. She began to protest as I pushed her outside, but her words were lost to me as I slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. Then I turned to face the shadow behind the thin sheet. "Who are you? Poole?" I asked. "Whatever you're planning ends now-""No," a voice answered, nearly paralyzing me. The only way I can describe it is to say that it was not a single voice. It sounded more as if it were dozens of voices, some so high as to cause searing pain in my ears and some so low they sounded like a wire recording played very slowly. I pulled my pistol with a trembling hand. "Not Poole.""Who are you?" I sputtered, raising my useless left hand to cover an ear as the alternating pitches of the voice left behind a painful whining noise that sliced through my skull like a knife. "Wh-what is it you want with the widow?" "She is ours now, Jason Peters. We have shown her things that she will carry with her always, even after we call her to come to us, deep beneath the black earth. You know us as well, Jason.""What... what are you talking about?" I wondered at the shadow's words, as the whine grew more intense. It rose to a singular, deafening pitch, buckling my knees. The pistol fell from my fingers and I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulling out the bottle of opium. My best hope was that it might dull the pain. But my fingers were going numb, and the bottle slipped through them as I tried to grasp it. Then, the noise suddenly stopped, and I raised my head to see the shadow against the curtain bend and shift until its shape became wholly different. It looked like the silhouette of a soldier now, in full combat dress. I could make out the pack on its back, the rifle in its hands, and the helmet atop its head. Then it spoke again."We're lost, sir. We could be miles from Passchendaele Ridge by now," the voice was different now, a man's voice. I knew the words it spoke. I could remember them."James? Is that you? What kind of trick is this?" "I'm going to check inside. Maybe they have an address book or something. I could see where we're at-”The memory enveloped me, clawing up from the depths of my mind and rendering the details of that day behind my clenched eyelids. I watched again as Sergeant James crossed the threshold of a ruined British hovel. I reached out to grab his arm. "James, wait!" I screamed. But it was too late. His foot kicked the tripwire and the mine exploded directly beneath him. I could feel the searing pain that erupted along my left side, leaving my eye and my hand useless. I cried out in agony then opened my eye, finding myself huddled on the floor of the small wood cabin in Weston again. The shape of the shadow swirled behind the sheet and the voice returned, bringing back the slicing pain in my head. "We took your hand then and your eye as well. You remember, don't you Jason. We gave you a new eye, one of ours, to call you back to us again. We were so upset the first time we lost you. Do you remember the first time Jason? It was so long ago, and you were so young."The whine fell again, and I quickly grabbed the bottle of laudanum, taking several long drinks. As I pulled the bottle from my lips I saw the shadow shift again, taking the shape of a small child."I found a cave, back behind Grandpa's house," my brother spoke excitedly. "Come on, don't be scared.""No." The word escaped my lips as a prayer, and I found myself a young boy again, stumbling through the dark woods around Wellsboro. I collapsed against a tall oak, hiding from the thing that followed me. Weeping, I pulled my hand away from my forehead and looked at the blood on my fingertips. My younger brother called out, somewhere in the dark wood. He screamed again and again. I wanted to go to him, but I was terrified of what was out there... out there in the dark. He was seven years old. I never saw him again."Why didn't you help me Jason?" The child behind the curtain sobbed in horror. "Now they have me and they won't let me go.""You are not my brother," I said, my voice trembling. I picked up the pistol again and the pain returned."This place is ours now, Jason Peters. We have shown things to the people here, and they have given this place to us. Some have come to us willingly, opening the black earth to allow us to roam free again. This land is ours and now you have come back to us. Soon we will have you as well. Oh yes, we have your brother," the voice whined higher, forcing me to clutch my ears. "We have your mother too, and your first love as well, let us show them to you Jason. You will see them as they truly are, beneath their useless skin."I grimaced with pain as the thing continued to speak, watching the form of my brother as it stepped toward the curtain. The silhouette of its arm reached out and tiny fingers closed on the outside edge of the sheet. The skin of the fingers had been stripped away, leaving only the glistening tissue beneath. The sheet turned dark where the fingers touched it, deep red blood staining its edge and dripping down to the floorboards below it. I aimed the pistol, fighting back the intense pain in my skull. I knew, for the sake of my sanity, that I could not allow myself to see the thing. I fired, five shots straight into the shadow behind the curtain. It screeched as the bullets found their mark. I screamed as well, the pitch of its shriek causing blood to stream from my ears and down the sides of my face. My heart seized suddenly, leaving me unable to breath.I could feel something inside my mind being strained to its limit, and if the cry had not stopped, I know it would have killed me. But finally the thing fell silent as it clutched at the curtain, stumbling backwards and ripping it from the open doorway. Thankfully, the sheet fell on top of its body, becoming soaked in crimson after a brief moment. I had no wish to see it. I left the widow's home, finding her lying against the outside wall of the cabin. She still breathed, but her pupils had grown strange, nearly eclipsing the whites of her eyes. I picked her up and managed to carry her to the far edge of the forest behind the cabin. In the dead of night, no soul saw me place her on the waiting carriage. I gave the driver instructions to place the widow on a train at Charleston bound for New York. Then I made my way back into the forest, intent on killing Poole. But that was not to be. I sit, now, my back to a large maple. My bandages must have come undone some time ago. I am losing blood quickly, replacing it with opium. My chest contracts when I breathe too deeply. I only wanted to be useful again. At least I got Margaret safe and away. I have to rest now.It is still night when I wake again. They are coming for me. Dogs bay somewhere deep in the woods. I try to rise, but my legs are too weak now. It’s so cold.The sky is beginning to lighten and I hear voices in the distance filtering through the pines. My brother Jason, James, and others fallen under my command. They’ll have me soon. If you find this journal, make sure it gets to Theodore Worthington. I want him to know that I tried.I will use my final bullet now.