Words to that effect.

Then he started chanting. Hirem said he didn't recognize any of the words, and he knew quite a few Indian languages and some French-Cajun talk, and it wasn't any of those. He thought maybe it was African or something. He said he remembered a few words, and he told them to me, wondering if I knew what they meant, because he said those words haunted his mind. He said that soon as they were mentioned the wind picked up and the rain came harder and thunder barked.

The words weren't Indian. I don't know their source, but I recognized the words. I have them in some of the books I have here. THE NECRONOMICON, MYSTERIES OF THE

WORM, and NAMELESS CULTS. Basically, the words refer to something that at times has been called a Wendigo, a vampire, ghoul, or nosferatu. Sometimes a mixture of all these things. According to my books, these words allow a sorcerer to invite a demon into his body for purposes of revenge. The demon lives for one thing. Revenge. And it gives the dead body it has animated powers beyond those of normal man, while on the other hand, it dooms the individual's soul to hell.

Then the spell broke, Hirem said, and Webb jumped forward, slapped the horse's flank, and it ran, and the Indian dangled. He hardly even kicked at all, but in a heartbeat he was dead. The crickets went completely quiet, and the storm stopped. Then a moment later the storm picked up again. Wind broke tree limbs and tossed them, blew leaves, and the rain came down like buckshot. Lightning cracked out of the sky, hit the body of the Indian, and everything went white.

When their eyes came free of light-blindness, the Indian was gone. The lightning had blown him to hell. There was just the rope smoking, the noose swinging in the wind—

and a huge spider—or something that looked like a spider, and it scuttled up the rope into the tree and was gone.

That's when Hirem knew there was more going on here than just a crazed Indian. That spider looked just like a growth on the Indian's chest. Hirem noticed it when he helped toss the Indian in the wagon, and the man's shirt tore, revealing it. At first, Hirem thought a great spider was nested on the red man's chest, but then he saw it was an upraised birthmark: a giant, hairy mole in the shape of a large spider. Or as Hirem put it,"...

something that reminded you of a spider."

…

When it was all over, Hirem came by and talked to me. He was crazy with guilt. He'd been half drunk and got caught up in the mob. Later on, others told me much the same thing. No excuse mind you, but part of one.

Hirem told me that they had dumped the Negress' body out at the edge of the stage road, and it was on his conscience. Nothing could be done for her and the man now, but he wanted to see that she got a decent burial.

So we hitched up a wagon and went out there. The storm was really going then. We could hardly see our hands in front of our faces. The body was hard to find, but we finally located it. She'd been skinned, Reverend. Just like a squirrel. We had an old plow crate in the back, and we put her in that and took her off in the woods and buried her. And it was a chore with the rain coming down like it was, and there were all manner of stubborn roots to cut through. But we wanted to make sure the body wasn't disturbed. If Caleb got enough drinks in him, he might want to come for the body, string it up somewhere in town. Hirem said Caleb had already strung the ears on a piece of rawhide and was wearing them around his neck and was saying he was going to make a tobacco pouch out of her breasts.

We finally got the job done and got back to town, and that's when we heard that Glenda was alive.

The medicine the Indian had given her worked. It had made her die and come back to life, cured of the pneumonia. Either that—or her body functions had been in such a catatonic state when she was brought to me—I didn't notice, but I'm a better doctor than that, Reverend. I say the girl died and that was part of how the medicine worked, and before she was cured, the Indian was hung.

That changed Webb's tune. He suddenly believed the Indian's curse. He and his family packed up that night and rode out of here without so much as looking back. And though it was raining bad, I saw them go, and I could tell Glenda was alive. She was sitting up front on the wagon with her mama holding a big umbrella over their heads. I remember thinking, "I hope she don't get the pneumonia again," and then wondering if the Indian's medicine would permanently prevent that.

Next morning they found Hirem's body behind the saloon. His hand was clutched around a bowie knife. He'd used it to cut his own throat from ear to ear.

Next the stage came up missing. Then there was the man in the street today, falling apart like wet paper. And Nate, the banker. Found out back of Molly McGuire's with his throat torn and his neck broken. Nolan's body. His neck ripped the same way. Loss of blood, but neither of them having a lot of blood on them, or in Nate's case—only a bit was found where he died. I don't know about Nolan, but I'll bet the same. Or did you notice? No matter.

And there was a baby a few days back. I ruled it natural causes. There was a little wound in the small of its back, but it wasn't bad enough for the child to bleed to death-there was only a drop or two on its bedclothes. I figured it had rolled over on an open diaper pin or something.

It all fits the pattern that the books say the demon will follow—a vampiric existence till all his enemies are vanquished. As well as anyone that gets in its way. And even then—it may not be satisfied. The demon may decide to stay in the dead body and use it for as long as it pleases.

Now, before you go back on your word and tell me I'm crazy, let me add just one thing.

And I admit, I was sleepy at the time and had all this other stuff on my mind. And I’d been dreaming.

But the other night I was having the dream I told you about. Bedding the Negress until I died of a heart attack. Only it was strong this time. Different. So intense, I woke up sweating.

When I sat up—the window is at the foot of my bed— I saw through a slit in the curtains: a FACE looking in— nose pressed up to the glass. The light was so bad, and I couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like the Indian's face, and he had the same expression he wore that day I went over to talk to him and look at their wagon. A superior, knowing look. It was like he was saying with his eyes, "Do you like the dream I sent you?"

I reached for the lamp to light it, but by the time I did, the face was gone.

One last thing. The dream about the woman was the same—except for one major difference. It was her skinned corpse—the way she looked that night Hirem and I buried her—that I was making love to.

Now, tell me, am I crazy?

I don't think you're crazy, Doc," the Reverend said.

"But I'd be a liar if I said I swallow all of this whole. I think you believe what you're saying, but you just might be terribly mistaken."

"As for seeing the face at the window," Abby said, "I believe you, Dad. But it was part of your dream. You feel guilty for what happened to the Indian and the Negress-think maybe you could have stopped it. As for your sexual interest in the woman—that's only healthy.

But you feel you must be loyal to mother even in death, and the dreams make it seem you're defiling her memory, cheating on her. Your last dream, making love to the corpse, was a combination of both of those guilts."

Doc's face was slightly flushed. "Possible, I suppose."

"You may also feel guilty about your envy of the Indian's abilities," the Reverend said.

"Perhaps, deep down, a part of you feels he got what was coming to him. But all of us have those kind of feelings to one degree or another. You're torturing yourself for nothing, Doc "