“Well I am death, none can excel

I'll open the door to heaven or hell

…

The children prayed, the preacher preached

Time and mercy is out of your reach

I'll fix your feet ‘til you cant walk

I'll lock your jaw ‘til you cant talk.”

– Ralph Stanly, O Death

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THE BEFORE

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1921

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Black Wolf, KS

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Pt. 1

 

The Ford Model T drove lazily down the road, clouds of Kansas dust billowing under it’s wheels. Jesse pressed his heels to the floorboards, false bottom rattling beneath his feet. It was the hinges, they were loose. If he didn’t fix them, he would be courting fate, and fate often came in the form of a pig with a penchant for violence – at least for men like Jesse it did. Bootleggers. Moonshiners. He could store up to fifty gallons in the space under his seat, but none of that mattered if a cop grew suspicious.

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He wiped the sweat from his brow.

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Welcome to Black Wolf, the sign read as he drove by.

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Population 45.

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Speed limit 101 m.

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Watch us grow.

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Air and water free.

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Jesse laughed. He’d never been to Black Wolf. Hell, he’d never been much west of the Mississippi. But there was always a first time for everything. A rendezvous with Robert Peterson, inspect the barrels, make sure the product was quality, load up then head out under the cover of nightfall. Seemed solid. A job he wanted to put his name on.

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A job that couldn’t go wrong.

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The whole town rolled by in a matter of minutes – a train depot and eight other buildings that registered as nothing more than a blip on the map of expansion. His informant said the place was a near ghost town; it wanted to exist – had been around for fifty years, a depot on the Union Pacific Railroad – but it seemed as if the air itself desired nothing more than to suffocate.

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Black Wolf was dying, and moonshine was its last rattling breath.

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#

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The farmhouse. Exactly like what he’d seen in photographs snapped by traveling reporters – the ones who roved the midlands, telling stories about homegrown Americans resistant to change. Dirty white paint. Small porch. A roof with shingles out of place. It just needed the family; a tall man, a stern woman, a few feral children who always looked like specters in a portrait.

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Jesse pulled up to the house. The front door opened.

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A boy, only somewhat feral, peered at Jesse over round cheeks flecked with freckles. Curious blue eyes under pale hair. The door closed and the boy was gone and Jesse pulled the key from the ignition and tucked it in his pocket. He stood, ran his hands down his waistcoat. Smuggler or not, he was building a name for himself, and people appreciated a man with presentation. He was already tall, kept his curls long enough to charm but short enough to respect, and even had the vocabulary of an educated man under his tongue. Throw on a good suit and a nice flat cap? Some would say he was almost decent. Almost. But Jesse could never be entirely decent.

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Can’t shake all the devil from your bones.

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The front door opened again, hinges squeaking. A man stepped out, decidedly not as tall as Jesse would have expected, but he fit the part. “I reckon your name is Robert Peterson?” Jesse asked, a smile taking center stage on his face. “And this is the lovely Peterson farm?”

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The man’s eyes narrowed. “And I reckon you’re Jesse?”

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Jesse noticed the bolt action rifle leaning against the doorframe, easily within the man’s reach, and quickly decided that yes his name was Jesse and he probably should have led with that. “Yessir,” he said with a nod. “Jesse Jones at your service, here to run the liquor quicker.” He flinched. It sounded stupid when he said it out loud like that. 

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The man stared at Jesse.

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Jesse stared back.

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A soft breeze rustled the branches of a nearby oak.

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“Robert Peterson,” the man finally spoke as he strode down the front steps, flashing a not-so-intact smile of his own. “Good to meet ya.” He grabbed Jesse’s hand and gave a firm shake. “Lets get to work.”

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Jesse followed Robert to a barn behind the house, small barrels of corn moonshine laid out for inspection, a still tucked back behind vacant stalls. He carried barrel after barrel from the barn to his car, arranged them into the space beneath the floorboards. The sun set across the golden horizon, and even at night, midwestern summers proved relentless. The feral boy from earlier watched from beside the barn doors. He looked at Jesse, then at his father. “Ma says supper is ready. Says the salesman should stay and have a plate.”

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Robert wiped his hands on the front of his pants. “Oh? And what are we–” but the boy was gone before he could finish. Robert let out a soft laugh. “Don’t mind my son. He’s shy around strangers.”

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Jesse bent over an upturned barrel, eyed Robert. “Salesman?”

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“Aye, salesman. No need for a child to get caught up in all of this.” He strode toward the barn doors. “To him, you’re here to pick up all this corn and take it to Wichita. Help feed people. Understand?”

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It wasn’t a question, and Jesse knew as much. “Understood.” He slipped on his cap and followed. “But if I may, corn in barrels? Not sure your son will believe that.”

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“You don’t have kids, do you, Jesse.”

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“No sir. Wasn’t too long ago I was one of ‘em myself.”

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“Then trust me, Thomas will believe what I tell him.”

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Jesse nodded, but he wasn’t so sure about that either.

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#

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The house was lit by candlelight, quaint and pleasantly old-fashioned. Jesse himself was a city boy, born and raised in Atlanta, where he could turn on the chandelier with the twist of a key switch. He’d never used candles for light, but electricity hadn’t reached the rurals yet, and gas fixtures were too expensive for people like the Petersons. Out here, he learned that folks lived like they had for hundreds of years – with fire and iron and wood.

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Dorothy fixed a stew on a cast iron stovetop, and Robert lit the extra candles in the windowsill. An infant cooed in Dorothy’s arms as she stirred the pot of stew.

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“Are you thirsty, sir?” Thomas asked from behind the counter, a short boy only just able to see over the top. “We got water or milk.”

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Jesse smiled. “Water’s fine.”

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Thomas turned to the icebox, peered at the cabinets above. “Go sit,” Dorothy chided. “I’ll get everything set.” But the kid had determination in his eyes and no ear to hear his mother. He braced himself against the icebox and climbed, knees locked as he swung open the cabinet. “Thomas, I said–”

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The boy slipped. Lost his footing on the rail and tipped back, reaching out with hands desperate to grab onto anything that could save him. Instead, they found the dishware. Thomas, a stack of plates, and a few glass cups all crashed to the floor alongside something else. Something a bit heavier, a bit harder. It shattered against the ground.

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Jesse was there in an instant – he had a younger brother, was well acquainted with the role of caregiver in his absentee father’s stead – but Robert pushed by and hauled his son up, clear of the sharp glass and porcelain. The wooden shards, splintered and busted from the lid of an oak box. Cards spilled out, but not the gambling kind. These had cups, sticks, daggers and coins. A hanged man, a hierophant. Words in french Jesse couldn’t read despite a year with a private tutor. A glass ball, so clear it was almost crystal and as large as his fist, rolled across the floorboards. It came to a stop against Dorothy’s feet.

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She picked it up, stepped forward. Her shoes crunched against the glass. “Take your sister upstairs,” she told her son as she shoved the baby into his arms. “Put her to bed, then come back.” She looked to Jesse, her ice blue eyes locked with his. A worming sensation moved inside him, uncomfortable, like he’d seen something he shouldn’t have.

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Thomas took the baby and left. Jesse quickly peeled himself from the mess, returned to his seat at the table where he laced his fingers together and tried to act like he hadn’t noticed a damned thing.

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It’s none of your business, Jones, he thought. But he knew those cups, those coins and sticks and daggers. His mother had been a superstitious woman, a little bit of the devil laced into her too.

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He drew the flask from his pocket, took a drink of the moonshine always at hand.

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Next thing he knew, Robert had swept up the mess and Dorothy had dished out the stew and Thomas was sitting across from him swinging his legs under the table while everyone ate in silence.

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Jesse took a sip of water.

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Dorothy sighed. She flattened her hands against the tabletop. “Jesse,” she said, “what you saw–”

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“It’s nothing, ma’am,” he assured her. We don’t need to make this awkward.

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“But it’s not,” she continued. “It’s not nothing. My family and I are involved in the spiritualist movement. A bit outdated, I know, but it’s true nonetheless. Seeing as we also deal in moonshine, I take it that won’t be a problem for you, will it?”

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Robert’s spoon clattered to the table. “Dorothy!”

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“Robert,” she snapped, and Jesse felt a might unsure of the situation. Robert wasn’t the one in charge, Dorothy was, and she’d hid it well. Had him fooled. Dorothy, with her sunkissed hair braided back, her modest skirts and her rosy cheeks, called the shots about moonshine and magic in the Peterson home.

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Robert picked up his spoon and pointed it at Jesse. “We just gonna tell our secrets to the first bootlegger that walks through the door and catches sight of something he shouldn’t?”

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Thomas shifted. “You’re a bootlegger?”

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Jesse eyed the kid, shrugged.

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“We gotta trust him,” Dorothy replied. “What, you fixing for a better lie?”

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Her husband pursed his lips, looked down at his dinner and festered.

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“Look,” Jesse turned to Dorothy, “ain’t no problem with me, okay? I’m not bothered by it in the slightest. My own mother liked to read tea leaves sometimes. It’s not the life I’m after, but I have nothing against those who choose it.” He dipped his spoon into the stew, stirred. “Gotta say though, didn’t expect it from the likes of you. What with your farmhouse and all.”

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Robert glared at Jesse, but the glare softened. “So you’re familiar enough.”

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Jesse nodded. “Just enough.” Enough to know that spiritualism had gone syncretic, seeping into the cultural fabric of America like a blood stain on linen. He didn’t believe – preferred himself an educated man, a man of science. But he recognized its many forms. Irish. Haitian. Italian. Decades of immigrants and enslaved men bringing their lore to the new land. But the turn of the century and a handful of exposed hoaxes saw an end to most of it. The glorious manhattan seances, the movements where hands were laid and lame men walked. It still breathed in small pockets across the country, but just like Black Wolf, it was dying.

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And Jesse planned to take no part in its revival.

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He was just there for the booze.

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“We’ll get on fine, sir,” he said to Robert.

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The man nodded. Tore a piece of bread and dipped it into his stew. “Sure hope so.”

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#

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Dinner sat warm in the space below his heart, along with the tales Dorothy told. About her mother’s passing, her attempts to make contant, none of which had worked. He’d been polite enough, hadn’t scoffed or drawn judgment. That wasn’t his place. But he found himself wondering why so many people couldn’t let go of their dead. To him, the transience of life was what made it worth living. Beauty only existed because one day it would all turn ugly.

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“Why reach out to her?” he’d found himself asking, respectfully.

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“The act brings me solace,” she’d replied. It was a simple response, and he respected it well enough. Jesse could say the same about moonshine – he’d never known peace like the bottom of a bottle. But if he died only to be hauled back from oblivion by a morose relative, he’d sure have some words for them. And they wouldn’t be kind.

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“Thank you for the dinner, Mrs. Peterson,” he said as he stood, gathered his dishes into the kitchen sink because in all her eccentricities, his mother had still managed to impart on him good manners. “But I ought be on the roads here soon.” He peered out the window, the sun long set and the moon full above them.

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“You have all night to drive,” Dorothy replied, bussing the remnants. “Least you could do is stay for another hour, lend us another set of hands.” She looked to her son. “Go get the tools, since you’re so fond of scattering ‘em everywhere anyways.”

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Thomas nodded and dashed into the kitchen.

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“Now Dorothy,” Robert stood. “I’m okay building a relationship with Mr. Jones here, but I’m sure the man has no interest in our endeavors. And asking him to take part might be a bit presumptuous.”

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Jesse felt the weight of the flask in his pocket. He leaned against the wall. “Are y’all asking me to join in on…” he motioned to the table, to whatever it was they called their endeavors, “your–”

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“Seance,” Dorothy chimed. “Yes, suppose I am.”

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Jesse retrieved the flask. “Thank you for the invite but I’m going to pass. As much as I don’t mind what you get to in your own home, I don’t feel right being a part of it. No offense.”

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“None taken,” Robert replied with an air of relief.

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Thomas appeared at the table with the cards and glass ball, laid them out before his mother’s seat. Dorothy hiked her skirts and sat down, pulled the chair forward with such force it scraped against the floorboards. She dropped her hands onto the table with a power that startled Jesse. No longer the mother, now the witch.

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Except witches weren’t real.

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The candles in the window flickered and Jesse drank from his moonshine.

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He could have left, bid them farewell and walked out the door like he’d planned. But he found himself stuck in the threshold between the family room and the kitchen, feet anchored to the floor. Something about the way Dorothy’s fingers flipped through cardstock. He took another drink, then another, and the air smelled faintly like someone burnt a garden, sage and thyme clinging to the walls in soft memory.

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Time elusive, shadows dancing, the Peterson family around their little table and Dorothy’s eyes finding his with the tilt of her head. A smile crawled onto her lips. “You staying, Jesse?”

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He shook his flask, damn near empty somehow, and his head swam with that intoxicating pull. Curiosity biting at his ears. He tucked the flask away. “Guess I am.” He patted the wall. “But I might just watch, if you don’t mind.”

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“Not at all.” She spread the cards out before her. Flipped one. The Empress.

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Sweat gathered at Jesse’s forehead, the breeze through the window cooling him just enough. He smelled it again – that garden, that smoke – but nothing burned except the wicks on the candles. It was all a little ostentatious. Too much pageantry. Dorothy had been at this years without avail, and one would think she’d learned it was all just prattle by now. Still, he watched as she flipped another card.

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The Tower.

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Curtains rustled, fine cream lace too close to the candles for comfort. None of the Peterson’s noticed, so Jesse pushed off the wall and grabbed them himself.

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They flittered at his touch.

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For the briefest of moments, he faltered.

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“Mother?” Dorothy’s voice broke the silence, her face drawn taught. Robert looked to her expectantly. Thomas merely waited, too young to understand, swinging his legs under the table.

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Dorothy flicked her eyes up to Jesse and he got worms in his stomach again. He broke from her gaze, quickly pushed the curtains aside. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. Didn’t like the surprise on Roberts face, like the man had witnessed an anomaly even though he’d seemed nearer to a stoic over dinner.

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The sound of cardstock shuffled in the room and Jesse stepped aside, kept his distance as Dorothy drew another. Placed it face up. The World.

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Summer’s night time breeze turned into a gust that leapt through the open window, claws grasping at curtains and cards scattering to the floor. Dorothy gasped as she reached out, placing a hand on the crystal ball to keep it centered in the table. The flames died in the wind, and silent darkness filled the Peterson farm.

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Movement. Fabric against wood. That smell again, and Jesse leaned towards the window.

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So dark. Where was the moon?

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He dug his hands into his pockets, searching for his lift top lighter. Fingers flicked the cap up. He spun the flint and it sparked but didn’t catch. In the split second light, he caught Dorothy hunching over the table, hands like claws against the wood. Unsettling. Another spin, another flash of light just quick enough to see the matriarch bent back the opposite way, too far back, before the spark was gone and the lighter failed to ignite.

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Jesse’s hands shook.

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In the dark, Robert shoved out from his chair. It hit the wall with a crash.

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Sweat gathered in the grooves of Jesse’s palms, slick against the lighter. Slick as the worms in his stomach and the devil down his spine, like his mother always said, trying to pull away the backbone of good men.

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“Dorothy!” Robert bellowed.

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Thomas screamed, “Mom!”

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The lighter slipped out of his hold, and Jesse’s heart beat in his ears like a war drum. The kitchen became a burning garden, and even though there was no smoke in the air, he was sure he would choke on it. A scent so putrid and wrong. He dropped to his knees, felt for the lighter, pulled it back into his grip and spun the flint once more as he stood.

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A flame.

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His eyes widened with fear and firewater.

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Dorothy hovered above the ground, arched like a crescent moon as things spilled from her open mouth. Her ears. Her eyes. Even the beds of her fingernails. Yellow and wretched and cascading down her body, alive and organic. And she choked on it. Strangled as it burst from her like an over stretched seam.

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Oh hell no. Jesse stumbled into the wall, his body thrumming like a live wire. The flame in his grip wavered. Robert reached for his wife as she bloomed – bloomed? Jesse didn’t know how else to call it. She grew plants from her body, and they spread into Robert when his fingers met hers. Somewhere Thomas screamed, reaching that high note only children could find. 

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Jesse slid across the wall, around the corner. Fucking hell why did he drink so much. The bottom of his flask wasn’t peace anymore, it was madness, pressed against him and mocking his ignorance.

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He ran and the flame snuffed out. His feet caught themselves. He fell forward, the sound of death happening wet and fervent behind him. The sharp edge of a parlor table primed in the darkness before him. His head met it with a crack, and everything went still.

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The night blossomed.

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#