Free A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West by Kevin G. Bufton (Editor) Page A

concerned, it was merely a curiosity.
    The hands dragging him by the feet across the ground concerned him. His eyes cracked open. His vision blurred and all he could make out were darkened figures walking with their weighty load.
    “What the? Who?”
    He blinked his eyes, trying to clear the fog on the lenses of his eyes and when he could see he didn’t, couldn’t, comprehend what was going on. There were two people at his feet, dragging him, and another person fixating on Seamus as he walked beside him. Something was wrong with these people. They didn’t look right. They looked melted, like candle wax and blackened. Seamus thought they looked like his Gerrolds but shook his head muttering, “No,” because the notion was too absurd. The dead don’t just get up and walk do they?
    But these men were blackened from head to mid chest weren’t they? Disfigured, melted faces and empty eyes sockets peered at him as he was pulled along the ground. The thing holding his left leg glared at him and when a spider crawled out of the thing’s blackened socket and scurried into the exposed nasal cavity, Seamus whimpered and dug his elbows into the dirt to stop his momentum. His speed did not diminish. Thick, black smoke swirled up from the yellow and orange flames. Seamus thought if he could stand up, the fire would be about his height.
    He tried to free his legs but the arms pulling him were relentless. He tried to twist around so that he could grab the dirt with his hands, maybe grab a root, get a hold of anything to anchor himself but his hands slid over the ground and he pulled a muscle in his side. Seamus yelled at them, more angry than afraid, “Stoooooop! STOP IT!”
    Their reply was the sound of their feet scuffing the ground.
    The heat penetrated the soles of his boots and his shins. The thing that had walked beside him squatted and leaned on Seamus’ shoulders with both arms. Its head hovered over Seamus. He wondered what it was doing when his boots were tugged off of his feet by the other two things. Fear energized him. Seamus tried to squirm out of there but it was like a horse had sat on his chest.
    Immobilized, he whispered, “Please. Stop.”
    The heat of the fire on his bare soles heightened. When his pants were removed, Seamus whimpered, “Gerrold. Please.”
    Seamus looked into the impassive burnt head above him. Yellow fluid leaked out of the eye sockets and plopped onto Seamus’ beard. The fire had eaten holes in the flesh of the cheeks and through them Seamus could see sooty teeth. It looked like a terrible grin.
    “This can’t be.”
    When his ankles were pulled into the fire and held there, Seamus screamed.
    It took a long time for him to die. When he would pass out from the pain, the Gerrolds would pull him out and wait. They were patient. When Seamus awoke he would be put into the fire again, an inch at a time. Seamus’ teeth exploded in his mouth, from biting so hard and the shards sat in the back of his throat. He swallowed some when he screamed. He wished for death. It was denied him a long time. The night passed and when dawn crested the horizon and Seamus’ stomach reached the fire, he died. The Gerrolds fed the fire again and tossed the rest of Seamus into it. The Gerrolds lay back in their resting places. The curse had been satisfied and they had earned their peace.
     

A CHANGE IN FORTUNE
    Paco
     
    Keeping one eye on the clientele, Earl dunked the mug in the dirty water and polished it with an old towel he kept behind the bar. When the glass was as close to clean as any dusty eyed, road weary traveller would expect to see in a small town like Blankenship’s mill he tucked it away beside the others on a shelf under the counter. In the far corner, a few of the locals were playing a rare, friendly game of poker. The night was young, though, and drinking and gambling typically led to a fight before closing time. He’d have to keep an eye on that table, but he wasn’t too concerned. Next to