Harlan County Horrors Read online

  He reaches back into the icy water and turns another rock. Nothing. He thinks of the wives' saw that you can turn a horsehair into a snake by putting it under a creek rock.

  Just like his father turned when they put him under the earth.

  This is precisely what the boy is thinking about when Black Shepherd grabs him.

  6. Castitas

  Females were herded into the mine. Each woman and girl placed into two clumsily crafted pens there. Those who tried to flee were killed there in the dark.

  The others were not harmed and used only for procreation.

  It was, they thought, just as God intended.

  7. Humanitas

  Black Shepherd looks exactly like The Devil. Or what the boy imagines The Devil would be. The muleskinner's skin is truly grey. And his eyes glow like stars. He wears a frayed oilcloth slicker. His hair is black and long beneath a wide-brim hat, and it frames his rounded face, which has many scars.

  He feeds the boy, who sleeps for two days. When the boy wakes, Black Shepherd offers him a pone of cornbread and some coffee. Black Shepherd talks quietly to the boy. Men sometimes go where they should not, he says. Men sometimes go too deep. The boy is terrified of the man but eats all the same, and listens to every word.

  Hell is real. Its falsehoods creep slowly, eternally, from the darkness into light. The greatest deception ever played on man. That which makes man majestic somehow deemed sin. That which makes us loathsome becomes virtue. The seven deadly sins aren't. Imagine, he leads, The Prince of Lies imprisoned in the darkest pit of Earth. A hundred miles below the ground. A thousand. Frozen. Empty. Smiling. His great lie creeping slowly, eternally, from the absolute darkness into The Book, The World. And, just perhaps, that same lie is sometimes carried.

  He and the boy approach the mine at dawn.

  The entrance gapes. The timbers on either side are fangs. Hot cold breath rolls out the entrance like a fog. The blackness within runs straight down. The creatures milling about do not seem to notice their arrival or intentions. Their own preservation now lost to some icy notion of total humility. While the boy and Black Shepherd prepare, the creatures continue only to dig.

  The Percherons resist at first. They will not enter the tunnels. One horse rears, goes mad and is killed. But Black Shepherd is the best hauler in three counties and he Gees and Haws all damn day until the coal is slowly stuffed back into the earth. Carts and wagon and small gondolas fill the passageway, which now runs some five miles into the earth. The boy enters the darkness beside him to place dynamite and charges they've stolen from the mine supplies and from the company store in Rockport. Narrow tunnels and forty-foot rooms packed with explosives. The creatures move around him. Shrunken black things that ought never again to crawl aboveground. The boy does not look for his father. Strange sounds echo through every tunnel. Voices, maybe. Moaning and wails far below.

  Black Shepherd must kill his other horses. He and the boy are exhausted from the day's work, but there is still too much to be done. In October moonlight, they move slowly above the tipple where the last gondola waits empty. They fill it with the rest of the powder. The track runs toward the mine. Fire.

  The boy releases the brake.

  A hiss of air.

  8. Pychomachia

  Tall grey weeds grow between the railroad tracks and cross ties. The rotted remains of an old tipple loom over the place like a giant grey spider. The houses are empty and boarded over like its empty egg sacks. Years before, typhoid fever wiped out this camp. There was also a mine explosion and collapse that killed as many as thirty miners. Some say it was more than that. Some say the place is haunted.

  A girl and her grandmother enter the deserted camp. It is 1931. Hoover says we shall soon, with the help of God, banish poverty, and he has promised a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage. The old woman has seen a truck a few times. The girl has never. The girl is fighting a cold and is grumpy about having to accompany her grandmother on this errand. Her grandmother reminds her that sick persons should have sick persons' manners. The girl stays quiet and twirls the empty bucket at her side to pass the time.

  They have come for the strippings.

  A small gleaming black mountain of coal. The smaller portions of coal once deemed not good enough for shipment. Discarded. Forgotten. Perfect for nearby stoves. Many have taken from the pile already. For many years, it has, it will, cook meals and warm homes across the county. It always burns bright and long.

  The girl finds it cold to touch.

  "Yellow Warblers"

  Jason Sizemore

  Jason Sizemore is a Stoker Award-nominated editor and writer who has seen his work published in a number of science fiction and horror publications including Dark Discoveries, Shroud Magazine, and The Writers Workshop of Horror. His first collection, Irredeemable (a collection of Appalachian horror shorts), comes out in the spring of 2010 from Shroud Publications. Jason is originally from Southeast Kentucky, but currently lives in Lexington, KY, where he works as a software developer and book publisher. He maintains a web presence at jason-sizemore.com.

  Golden rays of morning sunlight filtered through the single-glass windowpane, illuminating an elderly man sitting quietly on a cushioned pew, head bent in prayer. His trembling hands held an ancient pair of reading glasses with lenses so marred and scratched it was a wonder he could see anything through them. Outside, a yellow Kentucky warbler sang joyfully, welcoming the warm spring breeze blowing in from the south and the pale green leaves covering the Appalachian countryside.

  "Amen," the old man said aloud, finishing his prayer. He stretched out his arthritic, tired legs. Both knees popped like the BB gun he had used in his younger days to shoo away the hungry crows from his garden. He grimaced at the sound---a constant reminder of his age---and at the pain that was his daily companion. Something told him, perhaps it was the Lord whispering to him, to enjoy the warm season. Come this time next year, his old legs wouldn't be much use to him anymore.

  A silence enveloped the church valley. The yellow warblers hushed. The blowing wind stopped and the air grew still. A chill spread across the old man's body. He'd lived long enough to know the way of the spirits, to listen when they shouted across the heavens to warn the other side of danger.

  Outside, a small alien paused at the foot of the steps. It glanced upward at the white-painted spire that held the brass bell used for calling the congregation on Sunday mornings. The broad leaves of a tall sycamore shadowed the church from the midday sun, giving protection and comfort. The alien climbed the nine wooden steps up to the doorway and entered through the ornate entrance. Angels and demons welcomed it inside.

  The alien moved with a grace befitting its slender build and smooth, alabaster skin. The old man had seen one of these before. A Shadow, they'd called it. It had been...what...twenty-three years since last he'd seen one? But there it was, no mistaking. Those large almond eyes in an oval, slightly humanoid face. No mouth. Skin that resembled the plastic of his sister's childhood dolls. Shadows wore no clothes, nor did they demonstrate modesty, avarice, or lust. The man wondered if the Shadows had succeeded in the Garden where man had failed.

  Many other thoughts crossed his mind as he watched the alien walk forward. He watched as it touched the back of each pew with padded white fingers. It made little noise, no perceptible sounds of breathing, and even the sound of its bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor was muted like feathers falling from the sky.

  The old man stood up. After all, this was the Lord's House and he had a duty to perform. "Hello," he said. "I'm Preacher Jeremiah Jones."

  The Shadow paused. Those big, strange eyes stared back at Jeremiah and then at the old wooden cross hanging from the stucco wall behind the pulpit. A moment of worry passed through the preacher's bones. Worry fueled by the deadly sin of pride. The cross had been in the church for 300 years; a true artifact, handmade to perfection and passed down through the protective custody of thirty-one preachers at Harlan Baptist
Church. He often considered it divine, almost in the same sense the Roman Church had once believed in miraculous power of objects such as grails and ancient shrouds. It didn't take the awestruck presence of a Shadow to convince him of the power of the cross that hung at his back each and every Sunday morning during his sermon.

  "I am...John."

  "Amen, praise Jesus!" The preacher skipped a holy dance unlike anything he'd done since his snake-handling days as a deacon back at the one room Pentecostal church down around Martin's Fork. The Shadow had touched a finger to a green box hanging around its neck by a piece of yellow string, activating some type of voice machine.

  Last time the preacher had seen one of these creatures, they didn't have such vocal contraptions. But that was twenty-three years ago. Right before his last trip down the Cumberland River to Nashville as the town's supply runner. Now Larson and Cullen handled the duties, two buck-toothed lads, both crazy on the shine and the women. They'd landed in jail a number of times at lift outpost while waiting for the teams of men to carry their raft around Cumberland Falls and delayed the town's supplies, but for the most part, they got the job done.

  "I come from the University of Kentucky," John said through his green box. "I am an anthropologist."

  That caught Jeremiah's attention. An anthropologist? This did not bode well. The fair folks of Harlan had been living in their utopia of isolation for over forty years. Due to the inaccessibility of the countryside and the fright caused by the Collapse, the only people who had visited the world outside these mountains were the raft captains looking to sell timber for supplies. That meant Larson and Cullen, him, and his dead buddy Maxie Henson. Many of the folks around these parts had never seen a Shadow, let alone such fancy things as newspapers, bathrooms, or people not born and bred in Harlan.

  "Your church is wonderful," John said. "We do not have these back at the University, or anywhere else."

  A world without the Word of God? No wonder He sent the Collapse on us, foreseeing our heathen ways. "Praise Jesus," was all Jeremiah could muster in response. The typically loquacious man found himself silenced by the visitor.

  The Shadow stepped up to the pew and looked out over the church. "I would like to hear you sermonize."

  "Yes...yes, I mean, of course. Tomorrow morning, 10 a.m. sharp. The bell can be heard for three miles off on a clear day, I reckon."

  John nodded and continued on to the front of the little church until it reached the holy cross hanging from the wall. "This is a lovely religious artifact. How wonderful it is," it said.

  "Praise Jesus," Jeremiah said again.

  A child ran into the church, breaking up the shared moment of reverie. It was little Mikey Smith from down Baxter. Mikey usually helped clean the building before services. "Hey Preacher, momma's made a blackberry pie and...." He'd spotted the Shadow behind the pulpit, watched as it lovingly stroked the cross. The boy's face turned white.

  "It's okay, Mikey. We have a visitor from Lexington," Jeremiah said. "This is John."

  Like a frightened squirrel, the kid made a skidding turn in his sandals and sprinted back out of the church, hollering for his momma.

  Jeremiah felt a twinge of worry tickle his nerves. He remembered the calling of the spirits. "Now I don't want to be unseemly in God's house, John, but I think you best be heading back down the river. Nothing but trouble to be found here for your kind."

  John turned around and looked at the preacher. Those eyes, so beautiful. Jeremiah recalled a snippet of a fairytale he'd once heard...My, what big eyes you have....

  "You ask that I leave? But there is so much to see and document. You know that I bring no harm to you."

  "But it's not safe."

  "Preacher Jeremiah. I want to worship with you."

  Jeremiah swallowed hard as he heard the sudden commotion build outside the church. That didn't take long. Larson and Cullen, the town's raft captains---and the town's de facto leaders---came stomping up the wooden steps. Once inside, they slammed the door shut behind them hard enough to rattle the church bell. Both carried shotguns.

  "I'll be goddamn, Cullen, it's one of those little grey freaks."

  "Mr. Larson," Jeremiah admonished, "you know better than to take the name of the Lord in vain!"

  Larson leveled his shotgun at Jeremiah. "Shut your mouth, old man. You know how I feel about you and your church. Scaring people with your talk of hell and damnation, but you know what, I've seen hell and damnation, I see it every six weeks when me and Cullen go up the river, so I don't want to hear a goddamn word out of you." Larson's stone-cold gaze froze Jeremiah's tongue.

  Cullen carried a ridiculously large double-barreled shotgun. At present, it was pointed at John's head.

  "Why you here, Grey?" Larson asked.

  "To study," John answered.

  Cullen and Larson laughed. "We don't want no studying. Why you think we're stuck ass-deep in these here hills?" Larson said.

  "I do not know," John said. "Appalachian cultural history shows a tendency toward xenophobia."

  Cullen looked at Larson. "Xeno-what?"

  "You got two choices, Grey. Tell us why you're here and die quickly. Or don't tell us and die a slow, agonizing, painful death."

  "I am an anthropologist," John said. If the alien showed fear through its voice, the box didn't register it.

  "A what?" Larson asked Cullen. "I got to tell ya, it might be fun to set this one loose in the woods. Ol' Blue hasn't had a good hunt all year."

  The pair laughed and poked each other in the ribs.

  Larson nodded at Cullen. "Cover me while I tie this ol' boy up." The husky riverboat captain grabbed the alien and forced its arms behind its back. He drew out two feet of hemp cord from a baggy pocket and tied John's arms together.

  "Is that necessary," Jeremiah objected. "He's not here to harm nobody. He came to worship."

  Larson pushed John forward until all three stood in front of the preacher. "You old fool, when was the last time you been up the river? Twenty years? You have no idea what's changed in that time, what the Greys do. You haven't seen the rows of crucified children along the crumbling highways. You haven't witnessed the execution of women by flogging in the public squares. Next time you get to thinking this Grey isn't here to harm nobody, you think about that, will you?" To accentuate his point, Larson lifted the nearest of the pews and knocked it over. Hymnals and Bibles clattered across the floor. "Come on, Cullen."

  They left, pushing the tiny alien in front of them.

  Preacher Jeremiah climbed the rocky steps leading to his grandson's hovel. Like most of the community's dwellings, Jake's home was built into the side of a steep, forested hill---the ground flattened with only the strength and will of men, women, and tools. The mud-hut wasn't much to look at, but all the same, Jeremiah felt that old vice of pride reach into his heart and swell. The boy had done well with his life.

  Jeremiah, paused, caught his breath and rattled the straw curtain that served as the door during the spring season. He wanted to kneel over, put his hands on his knees and gasp, but it wouldn't do for them to see him like that.

  Jake's wife came to the door. She pushed the curtain back and invited the preacher inside.

  "Howdy, Jeanette. How's the family?" The mundane was a great stress reliever in times of crisis.

  "Oh, you know how they are. Momma's down in her back, does nothing but sits in that old rocker of hers and cusses at the flies and wasps. She just ain't been the same since Daddy died."

  Jeremiah nodded, sadly. "I reckon not, Jeanette. Not many of us are when we lose someone close."

  "Jake is down at the creek gathering water," she said, getting to the crux of the visit and away from the depressing talk.

  Jeremiah liked the young woman. Strong at heart, not one to dwell on past sadness. "I need to see him, it's kind of urgent. Think you can give him a holler?"

  Jeanette smiled. "Of course, just a second." She disappeared behind the curtain and went outside. A few seconds later her de
ep voice rolled out across the hillside.

  "Thanks," he said, as Jeanette came back inside. She poured him a cup of ginseng tea and took a seat at the table with him. Jeremiah played with the cross he wore on a leather strap tied around his neck, a nervous habit he had picked up during his many trips...and prayers...while managing the boat upriver during the harsh winter seasons.

  As he finished the last of the tea, a strapping young man appeared with two aluminum pails filled with water. "Care for a drink, Granddad?"

  "No thanks. I need to ask a favor."

  "What's that?"

  "I need you and Jeanette to ride downriver with me."

  Jeanette let out a noise that sounded like a bark. Jake set the buckets down and frowned.

  "Only Larson and Cullen are allowed downriver. You know the rules. You used to be a captain."

  "Of course I know the rules," Jeremiah said. He slapped his hand against the table in frustration. "A Shadow came into the church this morning and they took him."

  Jeanette gasped. "One came into the church? I thought nobody knew we existed."

  "I guess they do now. It said it wanted to worship with me."

  "You think Larson and Cullen are going to hurt the Grey?" Jake asked.

  "John, its name is John, and I think they plan on killing it."

  "We can't go downriver. If they're going to kill...John, they'll do it before we even reach the mouth."