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 as a breeze flapped through his soiled vestments. He threw an empty whiskey bottle from the tower and watched the glass glitter in the mid-morning sunlight before shattering against an unseen rooftop.
For weeks, this perch had been Samuel’s drinking spot. By day he sat inside the church attempting every incantation, spell and rite he could remember in an attempt to free Cherrytown’s souls trapped within his cursed tome. Then, after failing, each night he climbed the steeple’s ladder with a bowl of beans and whiskey and drank himself into a stupor. He cried, whimpered, called himself a failure, hit his palms against his head, howled at the moon — wishing he’d never laid eyes on that terrible book.
And when he finally closed his eyes he saw his nephew’s terrified face as he floated over rooftops, ensared by evil magic. He saw the boy’s legs kick in the air. He saw his robes flutter in the breeze, past the dozens of vacant clothes piled around the street, their owner’s bodies and souls freshly devoured by an ancient demon Samuel knew nothing about. Only whiskey muffled their screams, but now he’d guzzled the entire town’s supply dry. This meant he would have to leave in search of more. He would have to face the world.
Samuel 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. For weeks he’d been alone with his terrible thoughts, yet as his body quieted he noticed that his vomit had landed beside a girl who stood at the locked doors of the church.
“Gross,” she said.
“Lily?” Samuel replied, wiping his mouth.
He had forgotten about the possessed child he’d come to Cherrytown to save (and in doing so extract every coin from the citizenry as compensation). 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 — which had now taken residence inside that terrible book along with every soul in Cherrytown.
“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 sighed and scanned the horizon. By now the blood on the buildings had washed away, though they still held a reddish tinge. Just up the street was the enormous crater that spanned the width of the road. The girl’s wheelchair still rested at the bottom. Beside it was Benny’s crumpled altar boy robes caked in mud.
“It’s been three weeks,” the girl shouted. “When are you coming down?”
Samuel groaned, knowing damn well he couldn’t stay locked in this church forever. He stumbled over to a hatch on the tower’s floor. He lifted it and two dozen empty bottles clattered like toppled bowling pins. But when he swung a leg onto the first rung of a ladder he felt a faint, rhythic vibration underfoot.
“Do you hear that?” Lily shouted.
Samuel limped back to the tower’s railings and peered down the road toward the south mouth of town. Suddenly, a distant voice echoed throughout the hamlet, growing louder. He figured it was the military coming to investigate rumors of some crazy man with a demonic book who slaughtered an entire town. How would he explain to them that it wasn’t really his fault? And that Cherrytown’s citizens weren’t really dead so much as trapped inside a book with a vengeful, ancient monster. He knew he could save them if he had enough time to figure it out — if the judge was just patient with him and didn’t hang him immediately.
But then Samuel noticed it was a solo rider on a horse entering town, rounding a corner at the end of main street. The figure rushed towards the church. 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, but harmless. He’ll go away if you ignore him long enough.”
The herald, a boy no older than Samuel’s nephew, entered into a trot and approached the church. He paid no attention to his surroundings, seemingly oblivious to the dozens of homes caked in brown crust. The kid was emaciated. His clothes were soiled and his voice cracked when he spoke. And his horse hardly faired better.
“War rages on!” the boy shouted at Lily who still pressed herself against the locked church doors. “Fresh Kingsmen have landed in Virginia! Trenches line the northern flank of the embattled colony!” Then he pointed at Lily. “Everyone with abled limbs must fight!”
She screamed as the herald suddenly jumped from his horse and grabbed her by the arm.
“Fucking fuck,” 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 AT the hot sun behind the church steeple. The horse reared and whinied as the boy let go of Lily and he rushed to the church doors, pounding on them.
“The French retreat!” the kid shouted, kicking wildly at the santuary’s locked entrance. “Samuel Adams lies upon his death perch in Paris! Benjamin Franklin has disappeared! All abled bodies must join the cause!”
“What’s wrong with him, Father?” Lily shouted as the boy thrashed against the doors.
“It’s 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 men!” the kid shouted. “Everyone must fight!” He backed up, then charged at the entrance again. “Philadelphia quakes! Southern colonies reel!”
“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 down there!” He turned but then quickly turned back. “Actually, make sure the horse doesn’t run off.”
He watched Lily nod and approach the fAmished creature, then he turned his attention to the open steeple hatch where a crash echoed down below.
“Patriots call upon the aid of Spain!” the herald cried from the tower’s depths.
The steeple’s ladder shook as the boy quickly climbed upward. Samuel slammed the hatch shut, then sat on the little door as muffled shouts spilled from the wood.
“Go away!” Samuel said.
The door beneath him lifted slightly. He pounded his boots on the wood as the herald tried to gain entry to the steeple.
“New York is in mourning!” the kid yelled. “Red Coats find The Butcher of Stone Street guilty! Captain Francis Edmund Swift 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 and bloodshot, 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!”
“IT IS INDEED THE MAN HIMSELF!”
“Captain Francis Edmund Swift?” Samuel said.
“THE VERY MONSTER OF STONE STREET!”
“When will he hang?”
“NO DATE IS SET, BUT JUSTICE IS IMMINENT!”
“Stop yelling!” Samuel cried.
He 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 boy asked.
“Cherrytown,” Samuel replied.
“Where’s that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Is your horse rideable?”
“My 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 below him and shrieked, clinging to rickety wooden rungs.
“How’d I get up here?” the herald said.
“You kicked down the church doors and climbed up,” Samuel replied.
“I what?” the boy said, terrified.
“Just go down, and I’ll meet you.”
Samuel slammed the hatch on the boy.
He groaned and leaned over the steeple’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 Samuel lifted the steeple hatch and found the boy still clinging to the ladder.
“I’m scared of heights,” the herald said. “And it’s very dark with that door closed.”
“Can your horse hold people?” Samuel said.
“Two what?”
“People.”
The kid stared at Samuel. “I don’t know. I don’t even know its name.”
Samuel shook his head and lifted the rest of the hatch open. He shoved at the boy who shrieked and clumsily lowered himself down the ladder to the belly of the church.
In the church’s sanctuary Samuel slid his evil tome off the altar and stuffed it into a satchel. He lifted another sling bag that rattled with the coins Margaret had dropped across the floor the night of the blood moon. 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 the boy aside and stomped out of the church.
“Vampires?” the boy said alarmed before scurrying after him.
Outside, Lily smiled beside the horse as Samuel approached.
“I named him Oats,” she said.
“Cool,” Samuel replied. “We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” the girl said, startled. “But what about the town? And Margaret? And von Shortsing?”
“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 you 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 go get 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.”
“But where are we going?” Lily asked.
“To New York City. Hopefully before they hang this Butcher of Stone Street.”