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The Ranch I Work for Has Been Sending a Priest Out with the Cowboys for 100 Years
When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.
Then I met the priest.
They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.
I figured they were desperate.
Turns out they were.
I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features
“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said
I shook my head
“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”
He stared at me and clenched his jaw.
“That depends, can you ride?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you rope?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’ve you worked for?”
I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.
He nodded
“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”
He slowly stroked his beard
“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”
The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.
“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”
Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.
“Go saddle up.” He said with authority
We did just that.
An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.
“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk
“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”
He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral
I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said
“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”
He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying
“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious
I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded
“Yeah, I got it.”
The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.
When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill
“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.
“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back
Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.
The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.
“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said
“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.
Father Martin nodded
“I trust my horse is ready.”
“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”
He looked past Father Martin to us
“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”
As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did
“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled
“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with
“Hey, who’s the Priest?”
“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”
“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”
At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying
“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”
Before I could reply, he coldly said
“'Excuse me”
And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.
As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter
“Great, now he’ll slow us down”
When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.
“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”
The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.
We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.
“Can you help me?”
The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.
The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.
“Hello? Are you Ok?”
My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.
We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.
“What the Hell?” I screamed
He stood over me
“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”
He reached a helping hand to me.
“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”
Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.
“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”
The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.
“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.
“Best stay alert.”
As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.
“Is that the Bible?”
He looked up and shook his head
“No, it’s a history of sorts.”
“Of what?”
“This place.”
My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.
“What does it say?”
He closed the book and looked me in the eye
“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”
I thought for a moment
“Is it helpful?”
He slowly shook his head
“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”
I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said
“Father, what’s really going on here?”
He continued to stare into the flames
“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”
His eyes shifted to me
“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”
I chuckled a little
“Well then why do they need you?”
“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”
“Did you find the prayers?”
He slowly nodded
“I think so.”
“Father, this is all so...”
“Hello?”
A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.
The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.
“Can you help me?”
The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.
Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.
“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically
“Are you alright? How can we help?”
The girl choked back tears and weakly said
“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”
The priest smiled warmly
“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”
He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder
“Father, don’t.”
The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure
“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.
Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.
“You won’t help me?”
Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.
He shook his head
“I will not.”
“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”
The figure said
Father Martin swallowed hard and replied
“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”
A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said
“You are not welcome here; leave now.”
The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice
“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”
Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.
"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."
His hand tightened around the crucifix.
"So be gone."
The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.
There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.
“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”
Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.
The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said
“See you soon, priest.”
Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.
The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.
“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”
As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.
Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.
Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low
“Damn it.”
escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.
Breaking his own rule, he said
“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”
The rest of us were silent.
Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.
We continued.
The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.
“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.
Gathering the group together, Mike said
“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”
Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself
“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself
“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse
“There he is.” She laughed to herself
She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.
“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.
“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice
“May I come in?”
I held my breath
“Ok, I’m coming in”
With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.
The little girl was walking towards me.
“Are you ok? Do you need help?”
A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.
“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said
“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”
The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.
As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.
I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.
The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating
“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”
#entertainment
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When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.
Then I met the priest.
They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.
I figured they were desperate.
Turns out they were.
I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features
“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said
I shook my head
“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”
He stared at me and clenched his jaw.
“That depends, can you ride?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you rope?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’ve you worked for?”
I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.
He nodded
“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”
He slowly stroked his beard
“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”
The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.
“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”
Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.
“Go saddle up.” He said with authority
We did just that.
An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.
“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk
“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”
He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral
I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said
“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”
He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying
“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious
I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded
“Yeah, I got it.”
The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.
When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill
“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.
“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back
Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.
The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.
“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said
“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.
Father Martin nodded
“I trust my horse is ready.”
“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”
He looked past Father Martin to us
“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”
As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did
“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled
“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with
“Hey, who’s the Priest?”
“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”
“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”
At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying
“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”
Before I could reply, he coldly said
“'Excuse me”
And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.
As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter
“Great, now he’ll slow us down”
When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.
“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”
The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.
We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.
“Can you help me?”
The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.
The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.
“Hello? Are you Ok?”
My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.
We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.
“What the Hell?” I screamed
He stood over me
“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”
He reached a helping hand to me.
“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”
Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.
“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”
The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.
“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.
“Best stay alert.”
As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.
“Is that the Bible?”
He looked up and shook his head
“No, it’s a history of sorts.”
“Of what?”
“This place.”
My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.
“What does it say?”
He closed the book and looked me in the eye
“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”
I thought for a moment
“Is it helpful?”
He slowly shook his head
“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”
I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said
“Father, what’s really going on here?”
He continued to stare into the flames
“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”
His eyes shifted to me
“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”
I chuckled a little
“Well then why do they need you?”
“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”
“Did you find the prayers?”
He slowly nodded
“I think so.”
“Father, this is all so...”
“Hello?”
A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.
The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.
“Can you help me?”
The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.
Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.
“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically
“Are you alright? How can we help?”
The girl choked back tears and weakly said
“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”
The priest smiled warmly
“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”
He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder
“Father, don’t.”
The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure
“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.
Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.
“You won’t help me?”
Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.
He shook his head
“I will not.”
“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”
The figure said
Father Martin swallowed hard and replied
“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”
A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said
“You are not welcome here; leave now.”
The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice
“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”
Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.
"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."
His hand tightened around the crucifix.
"So be gone."
The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.
There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.
“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”
Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.
The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said
“See you soon, priest.”
Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.
The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.
“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”
As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.
Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.
Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low
“Damn it.”
escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.
Breaking his own rule, he said
“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”
The rest of us were silent.
Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.
We continued.
The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.
“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.
Gathering the group together, Mike said
“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”
Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself
“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself
“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse
“There he is.” She laughed to herself
She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.
“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.
“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice
“May I come in?”
I held my breath
“Ok, I’m coming in”
With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.
The little girl was walking towards me.
“Are you ok? Do you need help?”
A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.
“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said
“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”
The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.
As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.
I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.
The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating
“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”
#entertainment
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