three tales of the inugami_tale one

“THREE TALES OF

THE INUGAMI”

“*Ŵævf of the Inugami”

A Novel

By P.A. Bright

P.A. Bright - ii

“Three Tales of The

Inugami”

“The Hangman’s Tree” by PAB © 2011 Parlequin Productions

A Novel By P.A. Bright(A Ðræméwöld Gaiden)

(All Illustrations except where otherwise noted, © 2011 by PAB, courtesy Parlequin Image Productions, Inc

P.A. Bright - iii

Peter A. Bright Approx 11,600 Words

email: [email protected]

A Novel By P.A. Bright

(*cover illustration “Ŵævf of the Inugami” portrays an Inugami, a demonic creature called up for the purposes of revenge. The ŵævf is the aural display of all

sentient beings. Ŵæft (From {A} { O.S. } root - Ŵaˇwæyhl - {Wahv-whay-el} translates as “Breathe of Life” or “Essence of Spirit” from root Ŵæft {vhafed}

[True] Essence). Ŵævf – n. singular {whāi-vfť} also spelled ŵævf or ŵǽvf. [v. plural possessive form – Ŵäeyven].

From: The Dictionary of Arcane Knowledge)

“Call to Me, and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know.”

Jeremiah 33:3 (NKJV)

mailto:[email protected]

P.A. Bright - 40 Inugami

Authors Note:

Some stories tumble laughing from sunlit memories well known and often

visited, or times of warm reflection and holiday spirit. Others tales ooze up

relentlessly from deep wounded memories, shadows forcing their darkness into

our everyday calm. Still others slash free from our toxic subconscious to wake us

in frightened screams, leaving wounds that haunt the daytime psyche.

This story is a touch of all of the above and more. It came from a seed

planted in a dark portion of my soul and was borne equally of a love of a good

roller coaster ride and a scary ghost story, (especially one that makes me squirm

in a dark theatre with my hands over my eyes like a five year old)! It owes much

to my fathers; Ray Bradbury, Edgar Allen Poe, Harlan Ellison and H.P. Lovecraft,

as much as it does to a dark whimsy, a malicious Shell Silverstein “what if”

earwig, that crawled into my ear late one night to lay its night gallery harvest.

Lastly, to the germinating seed planted by the wonderful “KaKu RenBo” and a

lifelong fascinations with the mysteries of Kabuki and a love for all things

Japanese.

This little morality play written on dark parchment, inked with plastic

blood, is penned with midnight hope that there really are no such things as those

that go ‘bump in the night’. But if there are, run for your life and never, ever look

back or it may be the last thing you see. Enjoy!

~~//~~

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An inugami as depicted in Sawaki Suushi's Hyakkai-Zukan. (Public Domain)

And so it begins...

In some Japanese mythology, an inugami (犬神) [literally "dog god”]; is actually a familiar spirit, but can also be a type of death god [shikigami] (式神) or demon, which in most cases resembles a dog or a dog headed man. An inugami originates from the spirit of a sacrificed dog or fox, and is most commonly called upon for acts of vengeance or as a personal guardian for the inugami-mochi, ("owner" of the demon spirit). Inugami are extremely powerful and capable of existing independently, as well as turning on their "owners" and even possessing humans causing grave misfortune.

However, in Japan, as in most cultures, the dog is known as a ferocious protector of its master and therefore also the embodiment of a kind, bold, and nimble companion. In Japanese folklore, dogs are themselves often highly regarded as benevolent, wondrous or even magical beings like the metamorphic fox [Kitsune] (狐 ) or Raccoon

[Tanuki].

One ancient legend relates how in the distant past, dogs could speak but lost this ability due to the trickery from foxes, who did not like the competition for the worship from men. Another tale states dogs lost their ability to speak by angering the Kami (神 ), [Shinto god/spirits], who cursed them for alerting men to the presence of all spirit beings, whether benign or evil.

However the indigenous Ainu people of Hokkaidō consider the dog to be a wily, dangerous and too human like animal which can be easily possessed by evil, and therefore dogs are not to be trusted and should never be allowed into ones house, for if you do you may be unwittingly inviting a demon into your home!

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http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E7%A5%9E


Vol. 6, Pg 1439 The Encyclopedia of Arcane Knowledge

6


October 1869, San Monrovia California

A soft knock came to the railroad tycoon’s cold mahogany door. The

foreman stood awaiting nervous audience with the brutish man inside.

“Come in, it’s open.”

Slowly Preston Gage opened the door and cautiously peering into the

darkened study. The drapes were drawn tight, as usual. Although it was a bright

noon outside, it was always overcast and gloomy inside. The Plutonian occupant

liked it that way. The only source of illumination came from a green glass

kerosene lamp on the table. The lamp cast long distorted shadows on the wall

behind the man quietly working at his desk. The room smelled of stale cigars and

mummy dust.

The old “Colonel”, Samuel Scranton Bledwrite, sat at his desk as if

planning his next troop movements. He had never seen an actual day of military

action in the Great Conflict between the States, which had just come to a bloody

conclusion four years earlier. However, the honorary moniker was bestowed

upon him by a grateful Governor at the beginning of the “the great

transcontinental race”. Bledwrite had stayed safely behind the battle lines running

supplies. He was skilled at the logistics of things and materials, but with people

well, they baffled and frustrated him. They did not fit into the nice neat columns

that figures and facts did. But he was an organized man in a disorganized time and

he loved being on the cusp of a new world order

7


Bledwrite was a cold man, in a cold world, lacking the human spark of

warmth. The foreman nervously held his hat in his hands and looked about

waiting for a chance to break the news.

“Sir, ah, we ah, I mean to say, some of the workers in the Dells came

upon…well they found….”

“Spit it out son, I’m no fortune teller.”

“Well some of the workers found your dog Sir, and it sickened them.

Hardened men getting sick at the sight…I never….”

“What about Rusty?” The businessman scowled at his stammering

foreman like an angry Saint Peter ready to condemn another man to hell.

“Near the collapsed tunnel there’s a hollow in the woods and well we

found your dawg… buried in’na dirt up to his neck ….Sir…his head was

missin’...sawed off in a mos’grisly manner.” The Colonel put down his pen,

poured a glass of gin, and drank deeply.

“Mighty strange place too—little strips of paper with funny china man

writin’ on sticks and trees round the clearing. There was strange incense and

plates ‘a rotting food in a circle, just outta’ the dogs reach. Poor old dog was

pro’bly half’ mad with starving when it, er… he I mean... Rusty … killed...

Sir...who’d go do something so wicked to a helpless dawg? ”

The Colonel turned in his leather chair and stared off into a corner of the

room. He saw cobwebs and anger in the shadows. Looking down, his gaze fell

upon the empty depression in the specially constructed dog bed and pillows

8


beside his desk. Closing his eyes as if replaying fond memories of undeserved

kindness and unquenchable love, he spoke with a trembling voice.

“That animal was the only true friend I had in this retched place. The only

one who really understood me….” The Colonels thoughts died painfully with the

realization that his only source of unconditional love had been heinously

murdered and was gone forever. He sat back heavily in his chair as it squeaked

under the weight of his self-important. A deep shawl of shadows wrapped his

face, only his eyes were clearly visible which flashed with anger and set the

foreman to trembling. The fat man leaned forward into the pool of light from the

tiffany lamp on the corner of his desk, his face grew red and spittle flew from his

mouth as his voice rose to a scream; “Find whoever did this! I want him to pay

with skin.... I think a good horsewhipping will do—for a start! Then bring him to

me! I want to look in his eyes before we hang him!”

The foremen stood in stunned silence as the echoes of the Colonels voice

died down. When the Colonel had composed himself, he turned his attention back

to his papers. “That’s all, you can go.”

The hired hand turned and stumbled out of the room like a schoolboy

running from an undeserved paddling.

~~//~~

Three hours later with a hard swift knock upon the door, Preston Gage

entered followed by four workers dragging an old Asian man bound hand and foot

9


with rope. He was bloodied and beaten and fell immediately to his knees when

the men let go of him.

“We found who done it,” said the foreman.

“Looks like you boys started the fun without me.” The men laughed

nervously at the Colonel’s comment as he sized-up the culprit kneeling before

him.

“Naw, just took a little ‘convincing’. Once he knew we was serious, he

opened up and told all.”

“What – is – your – name?” The Colonel asked deliberately and slowly as

though speaking with an imbecile. The old Asian ignored the corpulent man and

studied the design in the paisley carpet. The Colonel grabbed the man’s chin,

pulled his head up and looked him in the eye. “I asked you a civil question,—

you’re an employee of mine? Yes? Tell me, what is your name?” Again, the

Asian man remained quiet as the Colonel leaned back against the front of his

desk, opened a cigar box, and retrieved an expensive panatela. He reached over

and picked up a miniature model of a French Guillotine, and for a moment looked

down at the Asian man and studied his callused and bent fingers. Then he slipped

the cigar under the tiny lunette and released the weighted Mouton & Blade. The

beheaded end of the cigar fell casually to the floor. As Bledwrite lit-up the cigar,

he nodded at one of the men holding the Asian’s shoulders.

The cowhand gave a swift kick to the old man’s ribs; there was a sharp

snapping sound of a rib breaking. Immediately the Asian doubled over, grabbed

his side, and groaned as one of the other men grabbed his long ponytail, pulling

10


his head back so the Colonel could look him directly in the face. “He asked you

nicely—don’t make this hard on yourself, just answer the question.”

After a moment, the old man obviously in great pain, cursed the Colonel

through clenched teeth. “I, am...inugami mochi...and you will pay fat man for my

son....”

The foreman slapped him in the face. “That’s not his name Sir; he’s

‘Tommy’ Hit-su-koda, lives here in the Chinatown. This old chink is the

troublemaker that gone killed Rusty. He even boasted ‘bout it in the Dells

saloon…he was proud of what he done! Said it was ta’ rise up a, a…“shinku-

goomi” or something like that, supposedly for revenge over the tunnel collapse.

When we found him he was praying to one a’ his heathen gods....asking help from

this “shinku-goblin” to come and smite us…such nonsense!”

Cigar smoke demonically curled in a ring around the fat man’s face and

his eyes glowed red in the reflected light of the cigar tip. There was an

uncomfortable moment of silence as he mopped his head with a handkerchief.

“Hand him over to the boys for some…uh, well deserved retribution. I’ll

be down in a minute to give him a few licks myself, after he has been,

ah…“softened up”. I wanna hear from his own lips why he did what he done.”

The Colonels eyes seemed to glow with a dark malevolent light even as a cloak of

blackness entered his soul. He got his wish without trying.

“Nothing save you now Boss man…shikigami make you pay and all help

kill my son.” The Asian man spat out some blood from his cut lip as he spit out

his words.

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“Your son? Was he one of the poor workers who died in the tunnel

collapse? Tragic, regrettable, a…most unfortunate accident. Cost me a bundle to

have to start another tunnel…” The Colonel walked muttering under his breath,

“...and silence some political lip-wagers.” He peaked out of the curtains through a

narrow slit at the sunlit world he despised. “I lost some good men in that

misfortune too. Many were like sons to me. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“Liar! You knew, not to dig there! You knew, it hallowed ground to

people live here …now you make it Cursed Land! Railroad survey man, tell you,

not to make tunnel there. He say, “No, bad soil,” but you no care and dig! I hear

when foreman say not enough wood to make safe. My son just turn thirteen! He

pay with his life for you shaking fist in face of Mountain Spirits. Now gods mad

at you. You put not wanted bodies in sacred soil. Bad price to pay now.”

“Mountain Spirits?” The Colonel resumed his perch on the front of his

desk. “You mean that Indian flap-trap about the haunted mountain? That’s just

old wives tales, legends, nothing but superstitious mumbo-jumbo to keep the

white man off that mountain. I will drill a hole right through the heart of the

Sasquamah Mountain, and I will do it on time to link up with the Southern

Sacramento spur.”

“You still not see! This land alive! You…make it much angry. I talk to

land, I Kenja, my father yamabushi. He teach me...I make bargain for spirits. I

raise for them, shikigami—it make justice good for my son.”

“That’s why you killed my dog, because of local superstitions? There are

no “gods”, Indian or otherwise, no more than there is a man-in-the-moon.” The

12


Colonel picked up the model of the diamond stacked locomotive engine from his

desk with the reverence of a sacred artifact. “Any rational mind knows that. It is a

different world today. Steam powered by our dreams, Science is the only god

modern man knows. Man now has no limits. Moreover, Great Men have made

this dream come true. Why even President Abraham Lincoln himself signed the

Pacific Railroad Act authorizing the Central Pacific Railroad to build east from

Sacramento and the Union Pacific Railroad to build west from Omaha…”

However, the Colonels speech was cut short when the Asian man

screamed and wriggled as if he was burning alive. He tumbled to the floor and lay

in a disheveled heap. Then slowly, awkwardly, like a deformed man in a wrong

suit drunkenly stood up. It was as if some dark alien creature had slipped into the

old man’s skin, wearing him like tattered overalls. An ominous dark light shone in

the Asian’s eyes as a different spirit now resided within his body.

Moreover, his manner and voice was different too when he spoke; it was

not trembling, unsure as before, but forceful, full of strength and filled with dark

deadly venom. It began to grow cold in the room but the Colonel and his men did

not notice this change. They did take one-step back from the bound Asian man,

who somehow seemed larger than before. In a deeper, clearer tone, the Asian man

spoke in a dark timbre painted with mocking laughter, “I will see you all die and

any who insulted this sacred mountain.”

“Tell me friend, who set you up to be my judge and jury? It was an

accident, plain and simple… at the Inquest I was cleared of any and all charges in

that regard. So, what is this uh, “Shicki-guhmi” supposed do for you?”

13


“You are already judged and found wanting; the shikigami will carry out

justice…. I see through eyes of dirt, as little hands covered their head when

mountain crushed down, as soil filled his throat and silenced his screams...as men

were torn apart and prayed for fast death.” The Asian man looked around the

room, pointed his finger at his captors, and marked death in all their faces. “All of

you pay for your crimes. No escape for blood you shed!”

The old man’s head dropped backward and he opened his mouth wide,

wider than it seemed humanly possible, and out of the black hole of his soul came

a strained, almost hysterical demonic laugh. It felt as if Beelzebub’s flies had

escaped to fill the room with the fresh scent of corruption and decay. The hairs

went up on the necks of all the men standing in the room, even the Colonel felt

the tingle of the supernatural upon his skin. The men became still as funerary

statues, as if the angel of death had slipped into the room and drawn his bloody

vengeful sword holding it to their necks to strike. Then the old man’s head

snapped forward and he grinned demonically. His eyes were a raging fire of hate,

lit by the very fires of hell.

“Life for life,” the old man said in a strange child’s singsong voice, “Li—

ife, for li—ife.” Then he laughed once more, but this hideous laugh was not

human, nor was it animal but something betwixt. It sent a cold shiver through the

room, blanketing their minds with a bitter blackness and feral fear, and set them to

tremble like frightened children afraid of the dark. Puffing himself up with

bravado, the Colonel snapped to the offense, “Really, a life for life? I suppose you

14


mean this “Shicki-goohmi” will kill one of my men for each of the fourteen

unfortunate chinks who died in the accident?”

The Asian man only nodded his head solemnly and glared at the Colonel

with a wickedly twisted and decidedly unnatural grin. There was no fear in his

eyes, only a smoldering dark anger as deep as the pits of hell, then like an

invisible wave, once more a rotting nauseating hatred swept through all the men

in the room. It was so strong it tasted like black bile in the back of their throats.

The Asian man bent over, wracked by deep convulsive coughs, as if, by great

vomitive force, trying to expel the entity from his body. The Colonel and his men

paid no mind; they saw only signs of “Consumptioni” which was common in

these backwards immigrants.

“One last question Chinaman….why the plates of food circling the dog, an

offering to your gods?” When the old man stood up, he no longer seemed sinister,

dark or imposing, but small, pathetic and frail as aged parchment. When he spoke

again, it was the reedy deteriorating voice of age and passivity.

“Ihōjin, I am not Chinese, I am Japanese,” he said proudly as he

straightened up.

“All you slant eyes are the same,” the Colonel said as he turned his back

on the old man and traced his finger around the paperweights and neatly stacked

papers on his desk.

“To call shikigami, you need spirit of fox or dog. For ten days, I do this

morning and evening—I tell dog, “Your pain—nothing—compared to my pain.

The ‘Colonel’, he make my pain, so now you feel my pain. If Colonel not hurt me

15


—I not hurt you. The Colonel is our enemy, not me”. Then, on fifteenth day of

seventh moon month when it Ghost Dayii, and dog starving, when it mad with

hunger, I kill dog, it become Inugami. Your dog, gone now, forever. I now,

inugami-mochi. I take something special to you; I make turn it on you and your

family. There now no hope for you Boss-man, you dead; and all your family

forever!”

The Colonel rose from his desk and grabbed a statue, simply meaning to

hit the man across the face and break a few teeth. Instead, his aim was a bit too

high and rage put more strength into the swing than intended. There was a

sickening crunch of bone, and then blood spurted out like exploding red flower

petals, painting the men on either side of the old man as the he slumped lifeless to

the floor.

“Boss, you killed him!” The colonel stared at the bloodied statue and then

dropped it as a profane thing onto the carpet.

“Get him out of here—throw him down an air shaft into the collapsed

tunnel. He wants to be with his boy so bad, let him. Then dynamite it shut. So

much for his Shicki-guhmi nonsense.”

~~//~~

16


A few days after the affair with the old Asian man, Eldon Striker, one of

the Colonel’s key men who had worked on the design and construction of the

failed tunnel, disappeared while on a survey of the mountain. His badly mauled

body was discovered the next day, the apparent victim of a grisly attack by a wolf

or other large predatory animal. The Colonel hired Joseph Whitecrow, a local

Indian tracker, to find and kill the feral creature responsible.

At the base of the Sasquamah Mountain, the Tracker carefully examined

Striker’s body and the surrounding environment for clues. He looked for tracks

and closely examined the crushed and bent mustard, lilacs and Juneberry on the

riverbank, pinched soil to his nose, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes as if

meditating. He listened to the voice of the trees as they creaked and tall

whispering grass at the rivers edge as it danced in the gentle afternoon breeze.

Slowly he became aware in his spirit that something was off, unbalanced; he felt

the odd disturbance but was unable to focus on the anomaly. There was a vague

ominous presence that didn’t belong. Reaching deeper within, he relaxed his mind

i Consumption was a slang term for tuberculosis. TB was contracted from the close confines and unsanitary conditions of working in the dank mines and dirty environment of the train gangs and shantytowns.ii Ghost Day is celebrated on the fifteenth day of the Ghost Month (鬼月), (the seventh lunar month). This Taoists and Buddhist festival is similar to the Spanish “Dias de Murtes”, (the Day of the Dead celebration), when Ancestors are honored and angry spirits appeased by gifts of food, burning of incense and other offerings. Many Asian Cultures share the Chinese belief that on Ghost Day, doorways open uniting the three realms of Heaven, Hell and the world of the living. During this time, it is believed the deceased visit the living. Therefore, at family or community shrines, prayers are made to and for the dead and special rites are performed to transmute and absolve the sufferings of the deceased. In Japan Obon (お盆) or just Bon (盆), [or simply the "Day of the Dead,"] is called the Feast of Lanterns and celebrated with the traditional Bon-Odori dance. This Buddhist custom has evolved into a family reunion holiday during which people return to ancestral family places and visit and clean their ancestors' graves, and when the spirits of ancestors are supposed to revisit the household altars.

17


further and touched the trees, tasted the air and the sought out the dark crevices of

the quiet mountain.

A short stocky man with beady eyes that peeked out from beneath a

frayed gray Stetson, motioned toward the Indian tracker and whispered to his

friend in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, “What’s he doin now?”

His companion shrugged,

“Who knows? Communicating with heathen gods—everything is

strange with them Orientals….”

“Don’t you know nothing? He ain’t Oriental fool; he’s a Ingun.”

“Oriental, Injun, don’t matter, they’re all Godless foreigners.”

The Tracker ignored the ignorant comments, opened his eyes and his

attention was immediately drawn to one of the gashes on the side of Strikers

body. He saw something curious about the wound. It seemed to shimmer for a

moment like a heat mirage. The tracker carefully probed the mutilated slash with

the tip of his knife until it struck something hard in the wrong place. The Tracker

cautiously reached into the gash just below the left side of the ribcage and

retrieved a small pale splinter of wood from where it had broken off during the

attack.

Holding the splinter up to the light he looked at it carefully, sniffed it

once, and then sunk down into a squatting position as if bearing great weight. He

froze as if he was a radio receiver and a distorted message had just exploded

through from the other side. The blood drained from the Indians leathered face

and his eyes rolled back, and he opened blank eyes and saw the world as if

18


through a veil of gray mist. Slowly, like an angry birth from a foul grave, the

vision cleared and the Indian saw a black shapeless form clawing its way up out

of the ground. It was dark, evil and not native to this mountain, something filled

with an intense furious hatred at its forced existence. An old man stood in the

shadowy background holding a small wooden box under his arm. The wind

resentfully stirred the boughs above a small clearing circled with strips of dancing

paper inscribed with charmed fiery red words. As soon as the creature disinterred

itself from the earth, the man bowed his face to the ground with his head resting

upon the wooden box. The creature was dreadful to look upon, with vicious red

and yellow eyes, like a wicked feral cat, and cruel mouth filled with sharp fangs

and serrated teeth born for one purpose; the ripping and tearing of flesh from

bone.

Saliva dripped from the corners of its vicious mouth and its hateful eyes

flashed directly at the old man, then strangely, it seemed to nod towards him as if

begrudging the old Chinese man a crude measure of disingenuous respect. The

creature turned for a moment and stared off as if looking directly at the squatting

Indian, then lunged off on all fours into the darkness as the vision evaporated.

The Tracker reached out and steadied himself against a tree as a nervous ripple of

whispers shot through the watching assembled men who all sensed that something

strange had just happened.

Slowly the Indian stood up, reverently put the splinter in a vest pocket,

and quietly turned to leave. He spoke something under his breath in his native

tongue; then warned all the Colonel’s men to leave this place, this town, this state

19


if they could. Saying they were not safe, they must get far, far away from this

mountain at once! That something evil had been set loose. However, the ignorant

group of dust-hardened men only laughed with nescient scorn.

The old tracker would have immediately left, had not George Squire

stepped in front, blocking his path and cocking his Winchester rifle in a

threatening manner. Squires then pointed the gun squarely toward the chest of

the dark haired Indian and said,

“Where you goin’ In’gen? You gotta’ job to do. You was hired to track

and kill, what creature done this.” He said in his cold thick southern drawl.

The Native American stared into the face of the square-shouldered man,

as if searching for something. Evidently, the tracker did not like what he saw; he

turned and faced the five men standing behind Striker. Some mark in their eyes,

some shadow upon their faces unnerved the Indian, and he was not easily

spooked.

“Have any of you ever seen living animal can do this? ...strange claws

— Not wolf—not bear make these slashes...this is from spirit world. ” Squires had

begun to feel uneasy as the old tracker talked now laughed at him when he

mentioned the supernatural,

“Spirit world? Bah! You think a ghost done this? Next you’ll be telling

me Ichabod Crane moved to Calvert County and brung the headless horseman

who done this!” Squires laughed nervously but no one else joined in.

The Indian walked up to Squires and pointed back towards pointed

towards the dead man. “…those bites are not from hungry animal, that rage! It

20


make man suffer. Maybe wicked skin-walker…. This is powerful medicine...and

it is bad, very bad medicine.” The men were as silent as tombstones in a

graveyard while the trackers words finally penetrated. One fellow let out a

nervous cough. No one knew what to say.

Jeremiah Allsworth broke the silence. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re

trying to make a fool of us and scare us with Ingun fairy tales!”

Joseph Whitecrow looked at the men and said, “Have you not noticed?

How strange it is…? It had to be large, the creature kill that man. Look at earth,

where are the paw prints? Do you see any tracks?” The Indian said pointing to

the sandy soil where the mutilated remains of Striker lay covered by a bloody

tarp. The footprints of the tracker and one or two other men were clearly visible

by the body, but there were no evident wolf or bear prints visible anywhere near

the body.

“Down there in sand,” said the Indian pointing to the streams edge, “I

see deer, bird and rabbit tracks, I see dead man’s tracks walking through stream.

A large heavy animal would have left prints in sand, disturb rocks in water, where

are its tracks?”

That particular fact had never consciously occurred to any of the men

standing there. Somehow, the men had instinctively felt in their bones that

something unusual had transpired, though none had thought through or voiced

their concerns. No one wanted to get too close to the mauled body anyway. When

at last they realized the magnitude of what the Indian was saying, a disquieted

ripple of fear passed like a dark static shock from man to man.

21


“This was not done by creature you cannot kill with bullets or knife. It

walk from spirit world ––I’ve seen it in vision—It was called for a dreadful

purpose. Only the one who called it can send it back.”

As the words left his mouth, the tarp covering Strikers body rustled

gently in the afternoon breeze as if a ghost was playing tag with it. Then the

Tracker reached into a satchel and pulled out something covered in a feather with

beads and sage wrapped around it. The Indian said some words in his native

Gabrielino tongue, and waved the strange device over the dead man’s body.

“What is that, medicine man cur-rrap?” Josiah Wedgeworth said in his

thick Irish accent. The Colonel’s men laughed in nervous guttural agreement.

The Indian turned around, strode boldly over to the stocky man with the

balding head, and pointing his finger into the plump mans chest, “You speak with

ignorance! I pray for his soul”, he said to the Colonels field hand, “I am called

‘neofitos.’ My tribe and family, turn their back on me, when I converted to

Christian God…and this…look!” The Indian pushed the feather artifact under

Josiah’s nose. He looked down to see a well-worn crucifix lying on a feather bed

wrapped in a handle of rawhide.

“This, the only true magic I know! I am last of my tribe. They all died,

by the hundreds and hundreds, of white man’s ‘Red Sickness’.” The tracker

pulled back his shirt revealing a mass of scar tissue on his chest.

“They die, but I am alive. Great Father,” and the Indian pointed

skyward, “keep me alive for a Reason. I know not why....”

22


“Yeah so you can entertain us.” Laughed a thin scrawny man named

Weldon Smith. “Look boys, it’s a Christianized savage!” The men roared with

laughter of ignorant release. The tracker’s eyes flashed with anger, but a touch of

grace upon his heart stayed the hand, which had instinctively reached toward the

knife now sheathed at his waist.

“You dare laugh at Great Father who keep me alive? You…” said the

Indian pointing a threatening finger at Smith, “You are the savages. Take heed,

nothing good come, from laughing at what you do not know….there are things in

the world you know not, things you do not want your cross path. Mark well my

words; there is living darkness you awake on this mountain, it will claim more

lives. This I fear, just the first....”

A fight no doubt would have broken out had not Stephen Vassar let out

a startled, blood-curdling cry, as he pointed to the trees behind the body of the

dead man. Low, near the ground in the deep shadows under a bush, two small

probing red eyes slowly bobbed up and down. A low threatening growl came

from the darkness behind the body as the Colonels brave men turned to run for

their lives.

“Stop! No! Do not run!” The Indian shouted. However, it was too late,

the men did not hear or were too full of fear to stop and watch as the Indian

calmly turned and walked towards the glowing red eyes.

~~//~~

23


A demonic panic grabbed the men as they ran terrified like Gadarene pigs

towards their separate doom. Weldon Smith ran over some rotted boards and fell

fifty-feet down an old well shaft, and perished from the fall. His head exploded

like a watermelon on the granite bottom. Stephen Vassar lost his footing on a

steep slope, rolled, and tumbled down a sheer embankment, regained his footing

near the bottom, but continued forward by momentum only to become impaled by

the embrace of a wickedly sharp tree branch waiting for him at the bottom of the

hill.

Jeremiah Allsworth ran so fast, he hit his head hard against a low tree

branch hidden in the shadows; he fell unconscious to the ground. When he awoke

several hours later, the stars reached their zenith and he felt an egg-sized knot on

his forehead. He gently rubbed the bump that stung on his forehead and felt his

head pound with the worst headache he had ever experienced. When he tried to

stand up, the world began to spin in a dance he did not know or like. He fell

forward onto all fours and immediately retched as a wave of nausea wrung his

stomach dry. When he was through vomiting, he did not feel much better. He

wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat and sat back exhausted on his haunches.

Looking up at the stars and the moon, he tried to figure out by their place

in the sky, how long he had been unconscious, when the unearthly quiet was

broken by a sudden loud snap of a twig in the shadows nearby. Then all sound

ceased. Even the crickets remained quiet. Allsworth strained, but saw nothing

save the swirling darkness in the cold mists of the night. Time stopped and

24


seemed to run sideways for Allsworth; his heart beat so hard he thought it would

explode out of his chest. Black imaginings of what the old tracker had called an

evil skin-walker, a medicine man transforming into a man-beast, filled his heart

with terror, as shadows seemed to come alive and play tricks with his eyes.

Allsworth vainly tried to calm himself, but the moon went behind some

clouds and the darkness became thicker, almost suffocating. A moment later, he

heard another twig snap, but this time it was much, much closer to him. Then he

thought he heard the heavy plodding steps of a large animal thrashing through the

understory in the darkness. Worse, the sounds seemed to be coming towards him!

Alarmed, Allsworth reached for his holster, slipped off the leather strap

securing his single action ‘51 Navy Revolver. Nervously he thumbed the hammer

back from its detent, pulling it the from safety slot. Cautiously he half-cocked the

gun and inspected the chambers; five firing caps sat nestled securely above their

paper cartridges. All seemed dry and in good firing shape, still he nervously

checked each round once more. A full cradle of lead brought a small measure of

resolve but thin comfort; still he felt nervous even as a dim courage slowly began

to grow within. Maybe he would be okay; maybe he had just imagined everything

and would soon awake in bed to find it had all been a bad whiskey-fueled dream.

However, all fantasies of safety fled when he was startled by a twig

snapping in the darkness off to his right. Turning quickly, he lost his balance,

accidentally fired off a shot into the darkness and just missed shooting off his

little finger in the prosess. Luckily, the shot fired in the direction of the noise.

There was a brief demonic wink in the dark, as the .36 caliber round ricocheted

25


with a spark off some rocks. However, there was no expected sound of animal

flesh being torn nor was there any cry of pain from a wounded animal. Allsworth

realized it was a wasted shot. Only four left, better make them count, he thought.

The crickets and night creatures held their breath as a cold graveyard stillness

settled around Allsworth. The silent dewed filled air seemed poised with a strange

electric expectancy.

Cautiously Allsworth attempted to hide in the protection of the deeper

folds of shadow beneath a large arthritic pine tree. Then another wave of nausea

from the concussion momentarily doubled him over again and he dry-retched

once more. Huddling at the base of the tree, double vision made the stones at his

feet multiply and dance in blood pulsating waves, as pain pounded his skull.

Allsworth realized the blow to his head was far worse than he first thought.

Gingerly he explored the knot on the side of his noggin. He would definitely have

to have the Doc look at him when he got back to camp.

Off in the distance he thought he heard faint uneven footsteps approaching

once more, but was not sure now if they were animal or human. Could be the

bear or wolf that got Eldon, he thought. Straining to hear, the faint sound ceased,

almost as if the animal knew he was searching for it. Without warning it grew

very cold and Allsworth’s breathe came out in frosted wisps as if he was standing

in an icehouse. Again he heard the footsteps in the darkness.

“Josiah?” Allsworth cautiously called out into the gloom, “that you?” The

sound stopped, now just a few yards away in the deep shadow of a large

elderberry bush. The darkness around Allsworth seemed to grow deeper and

26


strange black monstrous shapes seemed to swirl and dance in the darkness. I’m

seeing things! ...gotta be that blow to my head. However, it was not his

overactive imaginings; he definitely saw red eyes, like those of a wolf in the mist,

glowing dimly in the darkness and then, like snuffed candle in the rain, they

simply went out.

Allsworth finally decided to make a break for it and jumped to his feet,

ignoring the nausea that greeted him. Then in the shadows behind him, he

distinctly heard heavy uneven footfalls loping towards him, like the steps of a

large bear charging. Allsworth glanced nervously over his shoulder in the

direction of the noise but saw nothing following him. Suddenly a dark shape ran

across a moonlit patch on the trail in front of him. It stopped, reared up its

massive frame and blocked the path! The stars cut a grizzly bear-sized silhouette

against its huge dark form.

However, this was not a bear! It had a large misshapen head and its mouth

was too large, and crowned at the corners by four large tusk-like incisors jutting

out of it jaws! Moreover, its shape was all wrong for a bear it had four arms!

Allsworth thought its head looked more diamond shaped like a squished

copperhead snake than any animal he knew of, but it was of huge proportions. (If

Allsworth had ever seen a Chinese New Year celebration, then he might have

thought the creature bore more than a passing resemblance to a parade dragon.

However, Allsworth had hated everything about “them slanty-eyed dogs” and had

had nothing to do with the Chinese or any trappings of their culture.)

27


The strange head lumpy swiveled around, latched its piercing red and

yellow eyes on Allsworth and opened its mouth in a fetid growl of defiance and

warning. Allsworth raised his revolver and with a shaking hand squeezed off two

rounds hitting the creature squarely between the eyes. The creature was unfazed.

He fired the last two rounds straight into its chest. They were absorbed like

pebbles thrown into a black pond, only the ripples on its skin proved he had struck

his mark. The gun continued to click as Allsworth repeatedly squeezed the trigger

over spent rounds; there were no more bullets to fire, but he didn’t notice.

Allsworth screamed, as the head of the animal seemed to drop, as if guillotined

off its shoulders, and began to travel like an elevator straight down the front of the

erect black body, and then stop in its middle! Impossibly, it opened its mouth, and

like a basilisk, its breath was overwhelming with the putrid smell of death and

decay. A sickly dark red tongue licked at wickedly sharp crocodile like teeth; the

end of the tongue was slightly forked.

Allsworth dropped the handgun and patted wildly at his vest pocket

seeking the hidden bulge. Finding the secret pocket, he pulled out his ace in the

hole, a 2-shot revolving pocket pistol secreted for emergencies. Aiming the pistol

at the right eye of the creature, he fired twice hitting it squarely on target, this

time with a different effect. Blood gushed out of the exploded eye and the

creature stepped back for a moment and seemed to scream at the moon in rage.

However, as the echo of its roar faded, Allsworth had the unmistakable feeling

that the demonic beast had not bellowed in rage but had merely laughed at him!

28


When the creature glared back at its prey, both eyes were completely

intact and its black lips twisted into a strange expression that could only be taken

for a grin. Then, impossibly, like a spring-released toy, the head shot straight

forward at Allsworth trailing a long coil of body that flowed out of its frame like

black smoke. Allsworth turned to the side just in time as angry jaws wildly

snapped the air missing Allsworth’s head by mere inches. In terror, he turned and

ran through some bushes hiding a deep ravine.

Allsworth grabbed some tree roots as he went over the edge of the cliff,

and held onto the gnarled roots for dear life. Jagged rocks covered the ground

more than sixty feet below. Ten feet above him on the cliff’s edge, a little faced

boy appeared out of the shadows stepped into a beam of pale moonlight. Standing

stock still, the little boy simply gazed down into the gloom, with a strange white

face that seemed frozen in one undecipherable expression.

“Help me,” Allsworth yelled desperately up to the boy, “before it comes

back.” Strangely, the boy remained silent and continued to stare at the desperate

man clinging to the tree roots. Allsworth could glimpse nothing of the boys face

through what he now realized was some sort of strange white mask that appeared

to melt into the boys’ hairline. The only feature he could see clearly through the

mask, was sickly jaundiced eyes staring at him with deadly intensity. Strangely,

Allsworth felt like a mouse that a cat was toying with. Then slowly, without a

word, the little silhouetted shape stepped back from the cliff edge and disappeared

back into the shadows. Dark clouds covered the moon and the world once more

became a pit of coal dust shadows and malevolent darkness.

29


“Don’t go!” Allsworth pleaded, “Get help! Please...don’t leave

me….alone….” Just then, the little shape reappeared on the cliff. It seemed the

little boy had not left him after all. However, something was different, about the

boy, he stood more like a large hunched over man than child. Then the silhouette

began to straighten itself and grow larger, once more taking on a massive dark

menacing shape. The creature that had chased him through the bushes and over

the cliff now looked down at Allsworth, who screamed when he realized, too late,

what his fate would be. Then the face of the creature began to slowly melt like a

bead of wax running down its body. When it reached its feet, the head continued

to flow down the side of the cliff side, while its body, standing on the edge above,

trailed the head and emptied out, elongating and becoming narrower and thinner,

taking on a strange lizard-like snake form. Finally, the last of the creature’s body

followed the head over the side of the cliff forming into a scaly whip-like tail.

Allsworth could hear the claws of the bear-snake-lizard creature digging into the

rock face as it easily crawled, hugging the cliff face, down towards its prey.

Allsworth searched the scene below him seeking a safe place to jump. He

spied a small ledge about fifteen feet to his right. Unfortunately, there were no

trees directly beneath to cushion him if he fell; only jagged teeth like rocks jutting

up towards him from the dry river bottom almost five stories below. Allsworth

screamed as the monster slithered nearer. The creature was so close now that

Allsworth could feel its hot putrid breathe and see the small blood-shot veins in

the amber-flecked eyes. The square snouted dragon-like head stopped just above

30


the spot where Allsworth’s white-knuckled hands were frantically gripping the

tree roots.

The creature hissed and growled in a low menacing voice that Allsworth

felt reverberating through the very rock face against his body. At the same time, it

opened its toothy mouth and raised back its head like a snake about to strike. Then

it paused and looked at Allsworth as if considering its next move. It opened its

foul smelling mouth and let out an unearthly fetid scream that was so terrifying

the foreman immediately wet his pants as he closed his eyes hoping against hope.

However, when he opened his eyes, the creatures face was only inches from his,

as if studying him. The mene tekel uphasim eyes weighed the man and decided.

It pulled its head back once more and then like lightening, it sprang forward and

bit the tree roots Allsworth was holding. Allsworth fell screaming to the jagged

rocks below. He landed with a sickening wet crunch as bones shattered and

organs ripped open splattering the dry river stones. The strange wet sound echoed

momentarily in the black of night. Then the moon reappeared from behind the

clouds revealing Allsworth’s crumpled and twisted body where it lay on the

newly painted crimson rocks. The creature casually sat upon the bluff, looked up

into the night sky, then slowly began to melt into the night and it was gone. It was

a beautiful night out.

~~//~~

31


“Nohusha, Nohusha.” The Indian said in quiet calming tones. What

the Indian saw was far different from what the Colonel’s men saw. He looked

with eyes of faith and reason. They saw with the dull imperceptive eyes of fear

and ignorance.

Slowly from deep in the shadows, a wounded dog wandered out. It was

cut up and bleeding terribly, like a protective family dog that had fought and

fended off an attack from a much larger predator. The Indian removed the tarp

covering the dead man’s body and gently wrapped the wounded animal in it.

“Shh, I clean your wounds. I ask Heavenly Father spare your life.” The

dog weakly licked the Indian’s hand and whimpered as it briefly wagged its tail.

The Indian carried the injured dog back to his home down in the valley

and far away from the cursed mountain. He cleaned the dog’s wounds, putting an

aloe salve on them and gave the dog some dried venison, which it slowly ate.

Then it curled up, lay down on the tarp beside the Indian’s bed, and peacefully

went to sleep.

~~//~~

George Squire cried like a little girl and finally stopped running to rest

under the shade of a giant California Oak tree. The moon was setting by now and

the shadows became darker and thicker. The darkness seeped up from the ground

32


around him and seemed as if it was alive. Squire was panting hard as he tried to

collect himself.

What the Hell was that thing? He wondered to himself. Have to keep a

level head. A hot wind rustled the leaves at his feet, which danced demonically

to the frenetic unheard dirge.

George Squire’s had just about made his mind up to go back and see

what happened to the Indian when he heard a low dog-like growl coming out of

the shadows from somewhere nearby. Squires squinted into the darkness trying to

find the source of the sound. Then a rough hand reached out from inside the tree

he was leaning against and held him fast in its skeletal wooden grip. Squires

desperately tried to release the bark hand holding his shoulder, but as he did, razor

sharp claws on the finger tips bit in and tore chunks from his flesh! George falling

on all fours, screamed like a stuck pig when searing pain and blood erupted from

his shoulder.

A deep throaty growl answered his scream from somewhere in the

darkness of the boughs directly above Squire’s head. He shuddered, feeling cold

suddenly as his breath came out in frost painted puffs. Squire’s hesitantly looked

directly overhead into the shadows of the tree just in time to see two tiny orbs red

slowly grow larger and come together to form two large red eyes with yellow

pupil slits. The venomous eyes blinked looking down at George, while a viscous

flesh of wood and vile darkness swarmed around its face like maggots over

rotting meat.

33


Sharp jagged teeth formed of wood and rock pushed out of the tree to

form into a wickedly toothed mouth, while hate clothed its sinews, muscles and

bones. Squire’s bowels let loose and he peed in his pants as the dark mouth

opened wide and lunged straight down at him like an insane reversed jumping

jack. George screamed when he was yanked up like a rag doll, straight into the

dark bowels of the tree. There was a horrible squeal, like a slaughtered rabbit

scream, as bones and flesh met with teeth of hate and pure, rancid evil. One final

wail of terror and pain echoed through the night. Then blood rained down under

the tree and all was quiet. Save for the quiet crunching and chewing sounds that

continued for another minute, until the headless and limbless trunk of George

Squire’s body fell wetly to the earth below.

~~//~~

Aftermath

The only man to make it back safely and report everything he had seen

to the Colonel was Josiah Wedgeworth. Josiah had run away at first. But when

he could run no further, he stumbled into a ravine and fell against the old sluice

track and narrowly missed impaling his head on a sharp piece of metal sticking

out from the beams. Wedgeworth crouched beneath the sluice track panting,

trying to regain his breath.

34


That had to be an Injun trick, why I bet that son-of-a-gun planned it;

he’s a pro’bly laughing at me right now! Then Josiah remembered his rifle, and

inspected it to see if it was fully loaded. Holding his newfound courage in front of

him, Josiah decided to find his men. I’ll teach that Redskin a thing or two—

He’ll wish he was never born! However, Josiah would soon get his wish, but not

as he imagined.

As Wedgeworth stumbled back through the foothills, he came upon

Vassar’s impaled body and nearly vomited at the sight of the red painted branch

protruding out of his chest like some nightmarish pinned insect. There was a

congealed pool of blood around Vassar’s feet and a look of incredible pain etched

upon his moribund face.

Next Josiah nearly stumbled headlong down the same well where he

spied the crumpled body of Weldon Smith lying at the bottom of the shaft.

Weldon’s head had been smashed open like a rotten pumpkin splashing the walls

of the shaft with brain matter and blood.

Shortly thereafter, Wedgeworth found George Squire’s body—missing

its head and limbs, laying in a pool of blood beneath an evil tree. That was when

all bravery, courage and thoughts of revenge melted away like a snowfall on lava

and Josiah dropped his rifle, turned and fled back to the Colonels house ranting

and raving like a frothing lunatic.

Back at the Colonels house, so strange was Josiah’s behavior and

fragmented his speech, that the doctor was immediately summoned. Bits and

pieces of the story tumbled out in Josiah’s disjointed ravings, but once the

35


morphine had calmed his mind, more of the story came out in somewhat lucid

ramblings.

“They’re all dead. The Injun was right, Oh Jesus!” he shouted, “we’re

all gonna’ die, we hav’ta leave now, now, now! Don’t you see? Nótt koom—Oh

God, George and Weldon...the blood! Vasser, it ate most of Vasser! Oh Gott, Oh

Gott, the eyes, I see its eyes—Momma help me!” Josiah whimpered, cried and

shivered like a little child and began to gabber in garbled German, which no one

understood. "Nótt ... er, kommt der Teufel, er kommt für uns... Das ist das Ende!

Jesus, Jesus...kommt der Gott des Todes. O Jesus! Entschuldigen Sie lieben

Gott.... Scheiße-Scheiße...."

No rest came to the Bledwrite household that night as Josiah would doze

and then wake screaming at the top of his lungs in a most unnatural way. This

went on throughout the tormented night despite Josiah’s heavy sedation.

The Colonel wisely decided to wait until daybreak to send out men to

check on his story. With the first rays of dawn’s light, a search party was sent to

retrieve the bodies, but no corpse’ were ever found, even Strikers body had

disappeared! They did however find the broken well boards and the impaling tree

branch painted with dried brown blood and other evidence of the previous nights’

violence. Josiah’s rifle was recovered from the pool of dried blood where he

dropped it under the branches of a sleepy old oak tree. The search party returned

with more questions than answers.

A mania seized Josiah Wedgeworth as he spent the next two days

cloistered in the locked sweltering attic of the Bledwrite house frenetically

36


scribbling in a maniac fury. Terrified of shadows, three lanterns stayed lit day and

night in the hot attic, banishing any darkness from the small room. Josiah barely

ate the food left at the door, and despite pleas and demands from the servants and

co-workers, would not leave his self-imposed confinement, claiming he was not

safe except in that light filled room.

At night from a distance, the attic of the Bledwrite house shone bright

like a crazy land-locked lighthouse. Josiah let no one into attic, speaking only

through the cracked open door. All day long, he furiously wrote in a journal and

talked to no one, save a priest he had asked to take his confession on the afternoon

of the second day.

Father Sandoval sat patiently in the hallway and talked to the disturbed

man through the crack of the partially opened door. He listened to the crazed

confession as the sun began to set. When crimson shadows crept up t The priest

was unable to shed any light on Josiah’s strange behavior. Though the Colonel

wanted the full details of his confession, the man of the cloth sited priestly rights

of immunity and would not or could not help the Colonel. Father Sandoval for

his part looked greatly disturbed by what he had heard in the confidential

confession. Shortly thereafter, Father Sandoval began to act strangely himself,

and soon requested and received a change of parish from the local diocese. He

never returned to San Monrovia.

On the morning of the third day, it was eerily quiet in the Colonels

house. Annie, a servant girl brought some coffee, eggs and toast for Josiah, but

found the attic door busted out as if someone had taken an axe to the door from

37


the inside. Moreover, the inside of the room was like walking into the mind of

madness. Black ink drawings covered the walls, floor and ceiling. There were

jumbles of frenetic words, Chinese script and burning eyes with crosses scratched

through the pupils into the underlining wood, covered nearly every square inch of

the room.

However, one huge picture startled the servant girl so badly it caused

her to drop her tray and scream so loudly the whole house ran upstairs to see what

was the matter.

It was a drawing on the south wall, the only wall without a window in it.

The picture depicted a demonic creature with a dog-head flying up out of a

burning rift in the ground where flames and the arms of the damned reached out

toward the land of the living. The dark angel held a loose net bag over its

shoulder containing fourteen numbered human skulls; its other hand held an

opened scroll with fourteen names written on it. The list was written in a

brownish-red ink; the only color in the images and included the five missing men

with their names already crossed off and lined through, Josiah Wedgeworth’s

included. All of the men listed on the scroll were men who had worked on or had

had a hand in the design of the collapsed tunnel. The house was in disarray when

a search did not turn up the missing attic occupant.

Josiah soon turned up, though his discovery was accidental when the

Annie’s twin sister went out to milk the cows. Sarah was completely unaware of

the morning’s commotions; having spent the morning tending to the chickens,

cows and swine. It was when she went to the barn to milk the cows that she

38


found something she was not expecting.. Sarah ran screaming hysterically into the

house a few moments later; everyone upstairs was suddenly afraid the apparition

from the picture had bodily manifested itself downstairs and begun a killing spree,

but they needn’t worry, it was only Josiah. Sarah discovered him when she turned

around and bumped into his boots where he calmly hung swinging gently from a

post in the barn.

~~//~~

In the morning when the Indian awoke, the dog was gone, though the

door to his shack remained firmly latched shut from the inside. At that moment,

he remembered the mark of death he saw upon the faces of the crude men he had

met the night before. He knew an angel had led him away from that place before

it became a killing ground.

He prayed for all the men, though he knew they most probably did not

have a good rest awaiting them at their journeys end.

~~//~~

In the morning, the Colonel sent employees to check on every name

recorded on the lunatic’s list. To varying degrees, they all came back with the

same story; no sign of the person was discovered except for blood, lots of blood

and every employee’s domicile was a shredded mess on the inside, as if a wild

39


animal had torn them apart in a fit of rage. In addition, all the rooms had been

found securely locked from the inside; some even had had chairs pushed up under

the door knobs bracing them shut. Most had to have the doors broken down just to

get inside. It was as if the attacker and the victim simply vanished from the room

as if they had simply walked through the walls. However, many had bullet holes

in the walls or ceiling, but no sign or evidence of the attacker was ever discovered

in any of the residences.

As news of the mysterious disappearances spread, rumors began

circulating of a dog-headed creature roaming the midnight lanes. The locals

claimed it was the Watcher of Indian legends. Within two months, the town of

San Monrovia was a ghost town. Like the played out Millers Town, it was now

mostly abandoned, except for the few rough trappers who lived off seal and otter

pelts, and some stalwart fishermen who tenaciously eked out a meager existence

on the seas.

Over time, the town slowly began to recover, but never to the level of its

former glory as in the heyday when the Pacific Rail was under construction.

However, time erases memories and washes much pain away, but only for the

living.

When the otters disappeared and the fish moved farther north, the few

remaining residents decided to reinvent the town as a resort community for the

well to do from the San Francisco area. They moved the center of the town two

miles inland closer to the natural hot springs at the base of the Sasquamah

Mountain and built a beautiful health spa around this natural feature.

40


Slowly opulent resort mansions began to sprout between the Alder, Firs,

Monterey Pine and Dogwoods like mushrooms overlooking the ocean. Amid the

fields of native poppies and wild mustard, Grand Tudor mansions and Grand

Victorian Houses spread like weeds.

However, like a toxic metal slowly poisoning the drinking water, an old

presence subtly made itself known. It found a new venue for expression when the

Hasting family, late of Boston Massachusetts, hired Flucier Söllen, a local

architect to construct a large gothic brick mansion on a lonely cliff side bluff

overlooking the ocean above the old fishing village. As a sign of his affluence,

John Hastings imported graceful Sitka Spruce trees and Redwood saplings to

grace the entrance road to the Hasting estate.

Built on the bluffs overlooking San Monrovia, “Ravens Brook” sat among

beautiful coastal California black oaks, Lodgepole pines, sugar pines and white

bark pines, yellow spruce, tanbark and white oaks. An unusual feature of the

property was the covered bridge that spanned a gap at one edge of the bluff where

a stream cut an ugly gash down to the ocean. Designed as the departure point for

guests to the many planned parties and society events, the covered bridge had

flowerboxes bursting with rosebushes that trellised the opened sides of the

structure. Eventually the locals took to calling the property “the Rose Bridge" and

the name stuck.

One of the unique features of the property took advantage of the natural

caves that riddled the area around San Monrovia. Hewn through the rock, a stone

stair passage connected the house to a natural cave at the base of the cliff that

41


opened onto a secluded beach with a private pier. Shortly after the passage into

the natural tunnels was completed, terrible and unexplainable things began to

happen.

One worker fell down the stairs and broke his ankles so badly he was

never able to walk again. Another worker fell off scaffolding like Lucifer cast

from the Heavens, becoming impaled by a broom inadvertently left in the precise

spot and angle. When the worker hit the broom, it pierced through his back and

pushed a ribbon of intestines out his stomach. It hung there like grisly Christmas

decorations upon the impaling shaft.

Finally, a few weeks later, as the last window was being glazed, the pane

of glass came loose and fell from a third story window striking the worker as he

bent over to tie his shoelaces decapitating him. After that incident, it took threats

and forceful persuasion to keep the few remaining workers on the job.

One cold cloudy morning shortly after that all work ceased on the house

when an unusual thick yellowish fog flow out slowly between the Macrocarpa and

Bishop pines like a cold lava from the direction of the dark mountain. There was

a distasteful sulfurous smell to the peculiar fog. It stopped just past the tree line

without flowing into the clearing around the house under construction. A lone

Osprey circled above calling out a warning.

A silent ghostly figure walked in the shadows but stopped in the shade of

the stopped under the shade of . A Native American, in war paint and dress,

strode purposefully through the thinning mist and ferns, he stopped ten feet into

the clearing standing just within the edge of the fog. He looked at the now stilled

42


workers as if waking from a dream, his eyes were grey from age and filmed over,

like the eyes of a dead man. He raised his war lance over his head, pointed at the

house, and spoke. No one understood his language, but all got the intent of his

message. Somehow, they all realized he was warning them to immediately leave

and not come back. Within a week, all work had stopped on the house and the

buildings on the property, forcing the exasperated supervisor to import workers

from distant Fresno in the Central Valley to complete the house. Finally, in the

fall of 1892 the property was finished.

However, less than two years after moving in, John Hastings lost his

business in some shifty dealings and under a cloud of accusations, took to heavy

drinking. One night in the cold of January when the moon bore a frosted red ring

around it, John Hastings took an axe and chopped up his entire family and their

servants in a savage bloody killing spree that left eight people dead before finally

hanging himself from the second story porch. The bodies of his two youngest

children were so brutally mutilated; but for their clothing, the doctor had a

difficult time identifying the little boy from the girl.

After that, the house sat vacant for two years before it finally sold sight

unseen. However, it was lived in for only one night. Come morning, the new

owners fled in terror leaving all their belongings behind, claiming the house was

haunted by a demonic little white-masked boy and something else—a large black

presence dripping with an evil feral malice.

During the depression, bootleggers briefly used the vacant house and its

basement ocean passage to move illicit goods north to the bay area. Many area

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residents still vividly remember the Damon Runyon characters that briefly blew

into town and then inexplicably disappeared one cold October night.

Strangest yet were the claims of a blood soaked rummy who stumbled into

the police station with wild claims of a horrendous beast that had killed all of his

friends. He claimed a wolf-like beast lived in the caves beneath the old house and

that it had ripped apart a dozen men in one evening and he alone survived. The

police investigated and found blood painted all over the walls of the ocean cave

but no other signs of violence, and no bodies. In a heavily biased kangaroo court,

the outsider was declared guilty of the deaths of his friends and executed in

Alcatraz three years later.

After that, no one lived in the house and it remained vacant for decades

(until it mysteriously burning down in the mid 1960’s). It sat like a canker on the

cliff casting its vampirous shadow over the fishing town below, a constant

reminder of the sins of the past. The locals took to referring to the Rose bridge

property simply as “The House” when they spoke of it at all. To the children of

San Monrovia it was “The Bluff House” or “The Axe House” and they would

throw rocks into its open shattered windows as a game of bravery. A few hardy

souls would even dare venture onto the huge wooden patio that wrapped like a

snake around three sides of the house. Some with hearts thumping, cautiously

would dare peak in a dark empty window. Others, when goaded by friends,

proved they were not “chicken” by actually stepping foot inside the front door—

so long as it remained wide open. However, no one ever went near the creaking

old house at night, when sometimes, deep within, mysterious pale lights could be

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seen floating past the darkened windows, and no one ever ventured near the house

in cold of winter, especially not in dead of January under a full moon with a blood

ring around it.

In 1909, Forty years after “that dreadful affair”, the Wellington family

of Stockbridge Maine made the westward trek, purchased the Colonels house and

property sight unseen. They built two beautiful buildings and a schoolhouse to

start the San Monrovia Orphanage and Home for Wayward Children. This

eventually grew and ten years later was rechristened “Saint Catherine’s

Preparatory School”.

No teachers or staff at the school ever talked openly about the rumors

and stories concerning the crazy old Railroad Tycoon who had built the

Headmasters House. However, every boy at the school had heard some version of

the tale about the crazy railroad tycoon and the thirteen people he had killed and

covered up with the collapsed tunnel story. Some talebearers whispered he had

actually been a practitioner of dark ancient and forbidden rites and had called up

an unruly midnight demon that turned on him. Others said that the General, (as

he was now sometimes wrongly called), left home under a cloud of suspicion

regarding kickbacks and uncovered bribes and drowned in a storm at sea. Some

old-timers however swore they had seen him or the ghosts of the men he had

murdered, wandering late at night in the dead marshes of Blue Lake near the base

of the mountain. A sickly body of water formed when talus blocked a little stream

overrunning a valley filled with refuse and ore processing debris. The small lake

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had an unhealthy blue-green hue to the water due to the poisonous heavy metals

leached into its shallow basin. No animals lived within its deadly waters.

Other dark stories whispered late at night under bedspreads, retold the

Indian legend of a hellish guardian that first appeared after the Conquistadors

massacred a local Indian tribe. The monster tracked down and killed all the

Spaniards responsible for the atrocity. The bear-wolf creature called Wăkōntan,

by the surviving natives, did not turn to stone with the morning light, as all other

earth monsters did after their creation. Instead, it burrowed deep under the

mountain creating the lost caverns where it hid away from the gods lost their

anger over his actions. None of these stories bore the whole truth, but then no one

cared to find out the truth, that did not happen until much, much later.

~~//~~//~~

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