On the steeple of a church in a New England hamlet, Samuel Burtwhistle finished his whiskey. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. He cringed at his own stink.
A crow shat beside him on a railing, adding a fresh layer of green to a growing pile on the steeple’s floor. The bird eyed the tired man. It eyed the dozens of empty bottles beside him. It eyed the crimson tome resting in his lap. Then it cawed.
“Oh, piss off,” Samuel grumbled.
He threw his empty whiskey bottle at the crow. The bird squawked and burst into flight, scattering black feathers into the late summer wind. In the distance, Samuel’s whiskey glass glittered in the morning sunlight before splashing into the crater at the center of town.
The hole had grown since blood soaked the hamlet. It had widened, slowly but steadily, so that the homes along its edges now leaned into its mouth. Thick red roots snaked from it, cresting over its edges and spreading across the village. The scene reminded Samuel of a bad bruise. A kind of wound which hemorrhaged into dark reds and brownish-purples. It was the kind of wound where ugly veins revealed themselves and scattered. Though he hadn’t a clue where these crimson roots originated, or why they existed, he nevertheless watched the crater pulse with red light and softly devour the town. All from the safety of Cherrytown’s church steeple.
For what felt like eternity, this perch had been Samuel’s drinking spot. Every day he sat inside the church attempting every incantation, spell and rite he could remember in an attempt to free the hamlet’s souls, and especially his nephew, trapped within that cursed tome. Then, after failing, every night he climbed the steeple’s ladder with a bowl of beans and a flask of whiskey and drank himself into a stupor. He cried. He whimpered. He called himself a failure and hit his palms against his head while howling at the moon. He wished he’d never laid eyes on that terrible book.
When he finally closed his eyes he saw his nephew’s terrified face as he floated over rooftops, ensnared by evil magic. He saw the boy’s legs kick in the air. Saw his robes flutter in the morning breeze, past a hundred piles of clothes scattered all over like tombstones kicked over. Only whiskey muffled their screams, but now Samuel had guzzled the entire town’s supply. Now he’d have to leave in search of more. Now, he’d have to face the world.
He rose with a groan and puked off the side of the church tower. His liver felt like it’d been kicked by a horse. His stomach roared. Alone for so long with his terrible thoughts, he’d lost track of time. How many days had he hid inside? How many weeks? He sighed and slumped over the railing. Then a voice echoed from the road below.
“Gross,” it said.
Samuel peered down and squinted. At the church’s entrance, just beside his vomit, was the little demon girl.
“Lily?” Samuel said, wiping his mouth.
She watched him curiously with a scowl on her face. Her trousers were too large. Her shirt hung down to her knees. She was filthy, mangy, maybe even feral, but it seemed she was at least rid of the demon.
“I can’t find food,” Lily called up to him. “You took all the beans and the meat’s gone bad. The bread’s moldy.”
Samuel huffed.
“It’s been three months,” the girl shouted. “When are you coming down?”
Samuel blinked. “How long did you say?”
“Three months,” Lily replied. “It’s September. And I’m tired of hearing you cry up there every night. Come down and help me find food.”
Samuel stared into the horizon and shook his head.
“Three months…” Samuel grumbled to himself. “My God.”
He groaned, knowing damn well he couldn’t stay locked in this church forever. So, he rose from the railing and stumbled over to a hatch on the tower’s floor. He lifted it, knocking over dozens of empty bottles with an ear splitting clatter. He stared into the steeple’s dark throat.
“Three months…” he said, still shaking his head in disbelief.
He swung a leg onto the first rung of a ladder, but as he was about to descend he felt a faint, rhythmic vibration underfoot.
“Do you hear that?” Lily shouted.
Samuel lifted himself back up and peered over the tower’s railings. He figured the crater was finally doing something. Maybe it’d swallow the town and he’d never have to worry about fixing all his problems. He relished the thought. But the giant hole just pulsed its usual red light, emanating from the scattering veins along the soil.
Suddenly, a distant voice echoed throughout the hamlet, growing louder. He scanned the horizon and wondered if the Army was finally investigating rumors of a crazy man with a demonic book who slaughtered an entire town. He imagined explaining to them that it wasn’t really his fault. He didn’t mean to do it at least. And also Cherrytown’s citizens weren’t really dead so much as trapped inside an evil tome with a vengeful, ancient monster. He would tell them he could save them if he just had enough time to figure it all out — if the judge was just patient with him. If they didn’t hang him immediately.
But then he noticed a solo rider on a horse entering town, rounding a corner at the end of main street. The figure rushed towards the church. No one followed. He glanced down at Lily who backed herself into the sanctuary’s locked doors.
“Father Fausto?” Lily fearfully shouted.
Samuel cringed. He’d forgotten about his fake priest persona. The girl still thought he was a man of the cloth.
“I see him,” Samuel responded, listening intently to the stranger’s shouts.
“… Washington!” he made out. “… Vernon… razed!” Samuel leaned forward, turning his ear to the noise. “His precious Martha set aflame!”
“Who is he?” Lily cried.
“It’s just a herald,” Samuel responded with relief now that he knew the military wasn’t coming to hang him. “Annoying bastards, but harmless. He’ll go away if you ignore him long enough.”
The herald, a boy no older than Lily, entered his horse into a trot and approached the church. He paid no attention to his surroundings, seemingly oblivious to the dozens of homes caked in red crust. The kid was a mess. His clothes were soiled and his voice cracked when he spoke. His horse hardly faired better.
“War rages in the South!” the boy shouted at Lily who still pressed herself against the locked church doors. “Fresh Kingsmen have landed in Virginia! Trenches line the borders of the embattled colony!” Then he pointed at the girl. “Everyone with abled limbs must fight for freedom!”
She screamed as the herald jumped from his horse and grabbed her by the arm.
“Christ alive,” Samuel mumbled before shouting down at them, “Get off her! We want nothing of your damned war!”
The boy’s head whipped up, startled. He squinted against the seething summer sun. His horse reared and whinied as the boy let go of Lily and rushed to the church doors, pounding on them with his little fists.
“Canada retreats!” the kid shouted, kicking wildly at the santuary’s locked entrance. “John Adams dies in Spain! Feeble Franklin flies from Boston — his destination a mystery! All abled bodies must join the cause! Fight or Die!”
“What’s wrong with him, Father?” Lily shouted as the boy thrashed against the doors.
“He’s under a herald spell,” Samuel replied. “He’s hypnotized, and now that he knows I’m up here, he won’t stop until he tells me all the damn news.”
The teenager charged at the doors, slamming his body into the wood.
“Horacio leads twenty thousand yanks!” the kid continued. “Fifth Continental Congress considers women joining ranks! Hoorah!” He charged at the entrance again.
“Thank you, boy!” Samuel said, waving his hand. “We’ve heard enough! Thank you!”
But then the church doors exploded open, and the herald disappeared from Samuel’s view.
“For fuck’s sake,” Samuel groaned, then shouted, “Lily, stay put!” He turned to the hatch, but then quickly turned back to the railing and peered down. “Actually, make sure that horse doesn’t run off.”
He watched Lily nod and approach the famished creature, then he turned his attention to steeple’s throat where a crash bellowed.
The herald’s cries echoed from the dark, “Desperate Patriots call upon the aid of Dutchland!”
The steeple’s ladder shook as the boy quickly climbed. Samuel slammed the hatch shut, then sat on the little door as muffled shouts spilled from the wood.
“Go away!” Samuel said.
The floor beneath him slightly rose. He pounded his boots on the wood.
“New York is in mourning!” the kid yelled. “Red Coats find The Butcher of Stone Street guilty! Captain Francis Edmund Swift is ordered to hang!”
Samuel’s heart nearly stopped. His breath went shallow.
“Wait…” he muttered.
He rolled off the hatch and lifted it. The herald popped his pimply head over the floorboard. His eyes were glazed over, as if in a trance.
“Say that last bit again,” Samuel said.
“NEW YORK IN MOURN—”
“No,” Samuel said, rubbing his ears. “The part about the Captain.”
“THE CAPTAIN IN NEW YORK?”
“Christ, kid, yes. You said Francis Swift?”
“SWIFT?“
“Yes!” Samuel said. “Captain Francis Edmund Swift?”
“THE VERY MONSTER OF STONE STREET!”
“When will he hang?”
“NO DATE IS SET, BUT JUSTICE IS IMMINENT!”
“Stop yelling!”
Samuel quickly mumbled an incantation, closed his eyes, then touched the screaming boy’s forehead with two fingers. The herald immediately quieted. He blinked and peered around the steeple. The glazed look in his eyes disappeared.
“Where am I?” the kid asked.
“Cherrytown,” Samuel replied.
“Where’s that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Is your horse rideable?”
“What horse?”
“Jesus, they really bound you, didn’t they?”
“Bound? Who?”
Samuel shook his head. “Can you make it down the ladder?”
“The what?”
The boy glanced down and shrieked. “How’d I get up here?”
“You kicked open the church doors and climbed up,” Samuel said.
“I what?” the boy said, terrified.
“Just go down the ladder. I’ll meet you in a moment.”
Samuel slammed the hatch on the boy.
He pulled himself off the floor with a groan, then hobbled over to the tower’s railings. Below, Lily stood with the horse, patting its nose. The animal was malnourished, and definitely needed water, but it seemed fit enough for travel. He figured he could make it to New York within a week, maybe less.
He turned and lifted the steeple hatch. The boy still clung to the ladder. He hadn’t budged.
“I’m scared of heights,” the herald said. “And it’s very dark with that door closed.”
“Where do you live?” Samuel asked.
“Boston, I think?”
“I’ll take you back to Boston, but I need your horse.”
The kid stared at Samuel, then said, “How did I get up here again?”
Samuel shook his head and kicked at the boy who shrieked and clumsily lowered himself down the ladder.
In the church’s sanctuary Samuel slid his evil tome off the altar and stuffed it into a satchel. He lifted another bag which rattled with the coins. Then he turned and found the herald gawking at long strands of dried garlic cloves hanging from the ceiling.
“What are those for?” he asked.
“To keep vampires out,” Samuel said, annoyed, then brushed past the boy.
“Vampires?” the boy said alarmed before scurrying after him.
Outside, Lily smiled beside the horse as Samuel approached.
“I named him Oats,” she said.
“Great,” Samuel replied. “We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” the girl said, startled. “But what about Margaret? And von Shortsing? Everyone?”
“I can’t help them here,” Samuel said, hitching his two satchels onto the horse’s saddle. “But I know someone who can. We need to find him.”
The herald stumbled out of the church. Lily stepped back cautiously.
“He’s fine,” Samuel said to her. “I broke the binding.”
“Binding?” Lily asked.
Samuel turned to the boy. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Recorn,” the boy replied.
“Recorn?” Samuel said with a raised eyebrow. “The hell kind of name is Recorn?”
The boy shrugged. “It’s Irish.”
Samuel sighed. “Lily, meet Corn, Corn, Lily.”
Lily waved at the boy who blushed.
“Now both of you fetch Oats a bucket of water.” He pointed at a vacant inn down the road, the one he’d cleaned of whiskey weeks ago. “And any grains you can find. We’ll leave at noon.”
“Where are we going?” Lily asked.
“New York,” Samuel replied. “To find this Butcher of Stone Street.”
Delightfully strange. I'm also writing a serialized weekly novel and this is an inspiration!