Black Ceremonies Read online

  Harper shook his head. “You should save your breath.”

  “I’ll kill you! I swear it.” Somehow, Franklin managed to draw enough strength to utter his oath. “You hear me, Harper? I’ll have my vengeance. I’ll kill you!”

  “You know, it’s surprising how quickly you can grow tired of someone’s voice.” Harper calmly took aim, fired, and Brett Franklin slumped over, dead.

  Harper laughed. “Guess there were limits on his powers of perception after all.”

  He turned his attention to Glad. She was trembling in the corner of the room.

  “He paid you?”

  The girl nodded, too frightened to speak.

  Harper smiled. “Well, in that case …” He grabbed the whore by the wrist. “What’s paid for is paid for … And with my money, after all.” Harper thrust the girl onto the bed and began to unbutton his trousers.

  Harper crested the top of Ridge Hill, and whistled in response to what lay before him. Below was row after row of graves marked by wooden crosses. Even though he knew whose grave he was looking for, it would still take a long time to find. Hell, there could even be more than one Al Gibson buried here.

  Harper tethered his horse to a cross, unburdened it of the tools he had brought with him, and began his search.

  Harper paused to drink from his canteen. He kicked a stone in frustration. “Where the hell are you, Al Gibson?” he suddenly shouted. Eerily his voice echoed, repeating his question.

  Harper laughed. Hell was probably where Gibson was.

  Farther along the row, a crow alighted upon one of the crosses. “Get,” Harper shouted, throwing a stone at the bird. The black bird took off, and Harper resumed his search.

  Moments later Harper gave a whoop. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Remarkably, the wooden marker where the crow had landed was the grave of Al Gibson – died February 1862. With renewed enthusiasm, Harper began to dig.

  The coffin uncovered, Harper threw aside the spade. It had not been buried deep. Harper grinned, at last the gold would be his.

  Gathering some rope, he attached it to the coffin. Harper took a deep breath, then began to haul the oblong box from the hole in the ground.

  Breathing heavily from the effort, Harper found his crowbar. “Soon have you free.”

  Levering with the crowbar, the lid came off easily. To reveal a skeleton, the remnants of its uniform so faded as to be indiscernible as to which side Gibson had fought for in the war. There was no money.

  “You bastard, Franklin!” Harper yelled. Angrily he reached into the coffin and yanked free Gibson’s skull. “You dirty cheatin’ bastard!” Harper threw the skull aside. He began to beat the ground with his fist, ranting and raving.

  Abruptly a shadow fell across Harper. Eyes narrowing, he looked up.

  “Taken to grave robbery, have we, Harper?” The man who spoke was tall and lean, and his gun was pointed at the outlaw.

  “You’re the only jackal around these parts, bounty killer.”

  The bounty hunter rolled his cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other. “I can take you in dead or alive, Harper.”

  Harper sneered. “You think so?” he said, getting to his feet.

  “Choice is yours. Now either go for your gun, or take off that belt.”

  Harper scowled. “All right, all right. I ain’t gonna let you kill me now, am I?”

  “Take off that belt then. Slowly now.” The bounty hunter pointed. “Now, throw it over there, and then put your hands up in the air.”

  Harper unbuckled his belt, but instead of pitching it where instructed, he suddenly tossed it at the bounty hunter’s face.

  The gunman flinched aside, firing as he did so, but Harper had already hurled himself out of the way. Again the gunman fired, just missing the rolling Harper. Bowie knife in hand Harper rose. Recklessly he charged the bounty hunter.

  Gun blazing, the gunman could not understand how he had not hit his prey. Then Harper grimaced, as a bullet grazed his head. Blood ran down his cheek, and his charge slowed to a stagger. Abruptly he fell backwards.

  “Seems like I’ve got you now, Harper.” The bounty hunter approached warily, reloading his pistol as he did so.

  “Do you want me to put a bullet in you, just to make sure that you’re dead?” The bounty hunter kept his gun trained on the murderer.

  Harper groaned, his hand clawing desperately for his dropped knife. It lay just out of his reach.

  “My, my, that is a vicious looking blade. Wouldn’t do for a mean, low-down dog like you to get his hands on it.” Grinning, the bounty hunter bent to pick up the weapon.

  Harper began to mutter and moan. “Gold … coffin full of gold …”

  “Eh? What’s that you say?” The bounty hunter’s curiosity was piqued, and he leaned closer. “What are you on about?”

  “Buried gold … I’ll share it with you.”

  The bounty hunter holstered his pistol, grabbed Harper by his shirt, and yanked him up. “What gold?” He pressed the knife to Harper’s throat.

  “The gold in the grave.”

  “What grave?” The bounty hunter laughed. “You don’t know which grave it’s in, do you?”

  “Sure I do.” Harper pointed. “That one.”

  “Harper, you just made a very stupid mistake.” The bounty hunter was unable to resist glancing in the direction Harper had indicated. It was all the opening Harper needed.

  Whilst the bounty hunter’s attention had been focused on the hand reaching for the bowie knife, Harper’s other hand had grabbed Al Gibson’s discarded skull. Now he took the opportunity to whack him with it.

  The blow to the head caused the bounty hunter to sway, and his hold on Harper loosened. Harper got a cut to the throat, but it was not deep, and in his fury he did not even notice it. Another ferocious blow from the skull sent the bounty hunter sprawling. In an instant, Harper was on the dazed bounty hunter, pounding him with Gibson’s skull.

  When Gibson’s skull finally broke, the red mist cleared from in front of Harper’s eyes. The bounty hunter was out cold, his face a bloody pulp. “Told you, I wasn’t gonna let you kill me, now, didn’t I?”

  Harper felt his throat. “You cut me, you bastard!” he declared, in some surprise. “Head hurts as well. Leastways, not as much as yours though, huh?” he said, fashioning bandages for his wounds from the bounty hunter’s shirt.

  “Now, what am I gonna do with you?” As he went through the bounty hunter’s pockets, Harper pondered what to do with the insensible man. He found a cheroot. “Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

  Harper lit up, then rolled the unconscious bounty hunter into Gibson’s grave.

  As he filled in the grave, Harper considered his situation. Franklin had cheated him, and now he would never know where the money was buried. Perhaps Franklin had even lied about it being buried in the cemetery. He wondered how long it would take to dig up every grave. “Too long,” he said aloud, looking around him. “Lot of dead men.”

  His gaze alighted on the grave he had randomly pointed out to the bounty hunter. It looked no different to any of the others, apart from the name on the wooden cross.

  Harper began to laugh wildly.

  The name on this marker read: Cal Harper.

  Was it possible?

  “Only one way to find out.” He gathered up his tools, and once again set to digging up a coffin.

  Harper grunted in exertion, as he pulled on the rope that he’d fastened around the coffin. “Damn heavy.” He almost laughed – heavy, that was a good sign.

  Straining, he finally pulled the wooden box free of its burial pit.

  Harper felt sure he had the right grave this time. “Thought you were being smart, hey, Franklin? Thought you could cheat me, huh?”

  A sudden moaning disturbed Harper and he cast around looking for the source, his hand pulling his gun free. “Who’s there?”

  But there was no further sound, and he could see no one. Harper holstered his pistol, picked up the crowbar
and returned his attention to the coffin.

  “Oh, Jeezus!” Harper reeled back from the charnel stench that was released as he forced off the coffin lid.

  Holding his nose against the smell, Harper stepped closer to the oblong box. He had not expected the coffin to be occupied by a body. Only the gold. The gold was there all right; still in the cloth bags it had been in when they had stolen it. The bags were packed tightly around a body.

  Harper grunted. The corpse was naked and teeming with maggots. He felt sick but steeled himself for a closer look.

  Despite the ruined and decayed flesh, the corpse was still recognisable. Harper staggered away and vomited. He had recognised the decomposing body of Brett Franklin.

  Harper wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “How in the hell could that be possible?” He shook his head, bringing a burst of pain that made him wince. It couldn’t be possible. It wasn’t possible, he told himself.

  Again, Harper heard that eerie moaning, and he span round, drawing his gun. No more bounty hunters were going to take him by surprise. But again there was no one there.

  “All right.” Harper took a step closer to the open coffin. Half expecting Brett Franklin to rise up, he kept his pistol aimed at the corpse.

  But apart from the writhing of the maggots, there was no movement within the wooden box. He fired anyway, three bullets into the putrid remains of a man he had killed back in Youngerville.

  “It ain’t possible.” Harper spat. “I don’t know how you got here, Franklin, but one thing I do know is that you’re dead.” And just to make sure, he fired again, two more bullets into the corpse. “There, that should keep you resting in peace.”

  Hunkering down beside the coffin, Harper pulled out one of the cloth bags.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me, Franklin, if you tried to trick me and replace the gold with rocks.” He hefted the bag in his hand, reassuringly it felt and weighed like gold coins. He shook it, and smiled, pleased by the sound of the coins jingling.

  Harper opened the bag – it was full of gold coins. “Seems like I’ve done you an injustice, Franklin, old friend.”

  He retied the bag and began to remove the rest. “No use to a dead man, now, is it?”

  With one bag remaining, a shadow fell across Harper, and he looked up. But once again there was no one to be seen. “Damn graveyard, getting’ to me.” Scanning the cemetery, he reached for the last bag, and felt a hand close on his wrist.

  “What the …?” Harper’s face contorted in an expression of horror and disgust. The putrescent hand of the late Brett Franklin was gripping his wrist.

  “Let go of me, dammit!” Harper tried to pull free, but the hold was firm. He tried to pry the corpse’s fingers loose to no avail.

  “How on earth?” On one of the fingers that grasped Harper’s wrist was a gold ring – the ring that Franklin always wore. The ring that Harper had taken from Franklin’s finger after he had killed him. Harper had not noticed it before, now he fumbled in his pockets with his free hand. And found that the ring had disappeared.

  Harper drew his revolver, and aimed it at the corpse’s head. “Damn you, Franklin, if you don’t let go of me, I’ll blast you to hell,” Harper snarled.

  The corpse remained impassive, and Harper began to laugh. “I already done that, ain’t I?”

  Suddenly Harper changed his hold on his gun, and furiously struck the cadaver’s hand with the butt of the weapon. Again and again he rained blows upon it, and just as suddenly he stopped again. His wrist still imprisoned in the grasp of the corpse’s hand.

  “You think you’ve got me beat, don’t you, you bastard?”

  Looking around for some means of freeing himself, Harper spotted the shovel. He had cast it aside after uncovering the coffin. It was beyond the reach of his hand. So he lay flat on the ground and manoeuvred himself around trying to reach the tool by hooking it with his foot. Still it remained out of reach.

  “The cemetery lies on the other side of that hill.” Jeb Shelton pointed ahead.

  “You think we’ll—” The sound of a single shot interrupted Marshall Wes Procter’s reply. “Come on,” he yelled, spurring his horse forward.

  “It’s him all right.” Procter confirmed.

  The man in the grave still lived. But only just.

  “Harper, can you hear me?” Procter leaned closer to the dying man.

  Harper gasped for breath. “Franklin wouldn’t let me go.” Blood spluttered from his mouth. “Bastard had hold of me … wouldn’t let me go … held my wrist tight … couldn’t break his hold.” Harper’s words were growing fainter now. “Bastard said he’d kill me … couldn’t escape … but I cheated him of his vengeance …” Procter thought Harper was trying to laugh. “Used a bullet on myself …” With a bloody gurgle, Harper fell finally silent.

  “What do you suppose happened, Marshall?” asked a puzzled Shelton.

  Procter surveyed the scene. An open coffin with its dead occupant. Several bags of gold coins. A freshly dug grave, with a wooden marker that already bore the name of its just-dead occupant – Cal Harper.

  “He said that Franklin had a hold of him, wouldn’t let loose, and he couldn’t break that hold.” Procter shook his head.

  “Hell!” Shelton looked in the coffin, and turned pale.

  “Take a good look.” Procter spat on the cemetery dirt. “That’s the fate that awaits all of us.”

  Shelton had seen enough and stepped away. “But is that really Brett Franklin?”

  The Marshall shrugged. “Hard to tell, body’s too far gone to say for sure.” Procter paused to light his pipe. “But hell,” he continued, “I can’t see how it can be. Brett Franklin’s only been dead two weeks. Harper killed him in Youngerville, and he was buried there too.”

  Shelton frowned. “What I don’t understand—”

  Marshall Procter cut him off. “Best not to try. Reckon he was raving at the end there. And besides, they always called him Crazy Cal. I guess he really was.”

  TO SUMMON A FLESH-EATING DEMON

  “The Book of Setopholes? Pah!” Professor Ernest Mellman snorted in derision. The archaeologist leaned back in his armchair. “Next you will be telling me, you believe in Lovecraft’s Necronomicon!”

  Professor Julius Greydin glared at his seated guest. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mellman. Lovecraft’s book is a mere fiction.”

  Mellman chuckled. “Oh, and The Book of Setopholes isn’t?”

  “Of course not,” snapped Greydin.

  Although the academics were aged similarly – in their fifties – they were quite different in appearance.

  Professor Greydin stood by the fireplace smoking his pipe. He was a tall, slim, and rather handsome man, with sleek dark hair. His colleague was shorter and broader. He wore a large pair of glasses, and what little remained of his hair was white.

  One other man was present – although he was many years their junior – one of their students named Tony Danziger. He was quietly examining some of the curious tribal masks that adorned one wall of Professor Greydin’s study.

  “Really, Julius, you know as well as I do that that book does not exist.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mellman, The Book of Setopholes does exist,” insisted Greydin.

  Professor Mellman glanced at Tony Danziger, and winked. “Have you tried Arkham’s Miskatonic University, Julius?”

  Greydin did not bother to respond to his flippant comment.

  “No, I’m sorry, Julius, but the only place it exists is in the minds of a few poor deluded souls.” Professor Mellman chuckled again. “You’re not one of those are you, Julius?”

  “You’ll eat those words before the week is out, Mellman.”

  “Well, I know I have a healthy appetite,” Mellman slapped his ample belly, “and I’ll try almost anything when it comes to food, but I doubt I’ll find a few words very filling.”

  Greydin muttered, “Oh, you’ll taste humble pie.”

  Tony Danziger – a fine example of youthf
ul vitality – had been listening with interest. His curiosity in need of satisfying, and fearing that the professors would come to blows, the tall and broad-shouldered student decided that now was a good time to interrupt. He sat in one of the leather armchairs and asked, “Excuse my ignorance, but just what is this Book of Setopholes?”

  Professor Mellman answered, “It’s a fantasy. Haven’t you been listening, Tony?”

  “Pay no attention to him, Danziger. You are aware of course, that Plato tells us Solon learnt of Atlantis from an Egyptian priest.” Greydin held up a decanter. “More brandy?”

  “Of course.” Mellman held out his glass.

  Danziger nodded in response to both statement and question.

  Greydin refilled their glasses, then began to pace the room. “The Book of Setopholes is a legendary book of knowledge written by an Egyptian priest. Among the wisdom it contains, is an account of Atlantis and its fate.”

  “You mean of its drowning?” Not surprisingly, the student was familiar with the story of the legendary island.

  “Yes, but Setopholes tells us that the Atlanteans worshipped dark and evil gods, with unholy rites and human sacrifices. But then – for some unknown reason – they gave up their bloody worship of these foul beings. It was then that Atlantis was drowned by the waves of the sea, as a punishment for turning away from their evil gods,” explained Professor Greydin.

  “Hmm,” Danziger considered this. “A slight difference from Plato’s account then.”

  Professor Mellman poured himself another glass of brandy, and said, “Ah, but that’s not all is it, Julius?”

  “You’ve probably assumed that Setopholes was the name of the Egyptian priest, but you would be wrong. His name is lost to us,” continued the anthropology professor.

  The student asked, “Then who, or what, was Setopholes?”

  Professor Greydin went on, “He was the man who told the nameless priest all of the arcane knowledge contained in the book.”

  “Come on man; get to the best bit,” Mellman urged.