Rain smashed into the rooftop with heavy footfalls, the sound carrying downward toward Matthew as he looked up at the barrier between his body and the storm. There was something terrifying about the sound; it was incessant. It never stopped. For hours and hours and hours rain had been throwing itself upon their small homestead with no signs of stopping.

He had tried to sleep a few times now, but every time he closed his eyes something bore into the back of his skull. What was it? A thought, an idea, a force as persistent as the rain pouring over the world and with perhaps as much capability to wash him away as the Red River. Jackson’s voice played in his mind over and over again, on repeat, his words cracking like gunshots.

It’s why Ma never loved you!

He had known this was true. He had seen it in her eyes, in the curve of her lips when she switched her view from Jackson’s eyes to his own. He had heard it in her tired demeanor, in her apathetic drawl. But had Pa beat her? No. He couldn’t have. Could he? Pa had always been kind to him. Sure, sometimes he was mean when he needed to make a point. One time, Pa had taken Matthew out shooting and Matthew had aimed the rifle at Pa’s belly while trying to look through the sights. He had yelled fiercely that day; the veins on his neck had burst through their sunburned skin-trapping, and he had smacked the barrel of the rifle down toward the ground where it couldn’t hurt anybody.

He had deserved that, though. He had made a mistake. Pa had never hurt him out of spite, never hit him without reason. He had never even so much as taken out his belt unless Matthew had been up to something unscrupulous.

But he could remember the way Ma snuck around the house with a large bonnet, even when it wasn’t particularly sunny. He remembered days when Pa had told him Ma was just fine, that she needed to rest up because she had been working so hard the day before, or that she was sick. Had he seen a bruised bit of flesh when Ma had walked around the home?

All of his confusion and anger hit Matthew like a sledgehammer as he sat in paralyzed fear and concern, looking up at the ceiling, listening to the violet anger of the storm.

“Can’t sleep?” Arthur asked.

Matthew almost jolted out of his makeshift bed. He had sworn that Arthur was asleep. He could have sworn he heard him snoring just moments before. Perhaps that was part of the storm, too.

“No,” Matthew said.

“Want to talk about it?” Arthur asked.

He did. He desperately did. Pa was dying. Before long, he wouldn’t be around to talk to, and Matthew didn’t feel comfortable going to him most times anyway. Why would a dying man care about his son’s trivial familial concerns?

Matthew craned his neck and looked over at Arthur, who was on his own makeshift assortment of sheets a few feet away. Matthew thought as he listened to whistling wind.

Was that wind? It didn’t sound like it. It was too high-pitched.

“I don’ wanna bore you,” Matthew said. “Jus’ thinkin’ about a lot right now.”

“Like what?”

Matthew remained silent for a few moments, weighing his options. Then, with a hesitant start, he said, “Jackson said that our Pa hit our Ma before she died. But I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Do you believe it to be true?”

“I don’t know,” Matthew said. “Jackson was always Ma’s favorite. So much so that she’d take him into town when she went, or she’d give him a little extra supper. She’d make sure she poured it from my bowl, too. If we had stew, he always ended up with an extra bit of beef. But there were times…”

Matthew paused and placed his head back down on his pillow. He searched for the right words. He had never been good with confiding. Pa had told him that was woman’s work, that confiding in someone and getting all emotional was not what a man does. A man tends field, puts food on the table, takes out his rifle when he needs to ward off a wolf or a stranger, but never, never tells someone else their deepest, darkest secrets. Not even their family.

“I should tell you that my father was a doctor,” Arthur said. “He dealt with a lot of internal issues – provided the medicine of the soul, he called it. I’d be happy to keep this between us if you want to tell me. Perhaps even offer your soul a bit healing, as well.”

“I don’t know,” Matthew said. “Pa always says I shouldn’t tell folks about my feelins.”

“Your Pa is a smart man. An astute man,” Arthur said. “One of the best, I’m sure. In the short time we talked, I got the feeling that he is the kind of person who would give his shirt off his back to help his fellow man.”

“Damn right,” Matthew said. “If it’s the right man, of course. He wouldn’t give it to just anyone. That’s his shirt after all.”

“Matthew, why do you think Jackson told you that your incredible Pa beat your Ma?”

Matthew chewed on the question for a while, looking up at the ceiling. It was imperfect, as was most things Jackson built. Sure, it kept the rain out, but aesthetically it wasn’t impressive.

I could easily have done a better job.

“I think Jackson’s just jealous o’ me,” Matthew said. “Before Ma died, he got all the attention and all the praise from her, and she shunned me for the longest time. I spent all my time with Pa, and he taught me how to be a man. Then when Ma died, Jackson didn’t have anyone to turn to. Got real lonely, I imagine. So now he takes it out on me ‘cause I’m an easy target and there’s nothin’ wrong with pickin’ on an easy target in his mind.”

“How’d your Ma die?” Arthur asked.

“Mexican killed her,” Matthew said. “Pa doesn’t like to talk about the details, but he said that she was walkin’ into town and she got robbed. Apparently, she put up a fight. Pa had given her an iron to bring with her on her journeys, you see? She didn’t carry it most times, told Jackson that guns were dumb. Just big dumb things that kill folk who most likely don’t deserve to be killed. But that one day she needed it, she didn’t have it. O’ ‘course, Jackson don’t put the pieces together. Jackson just takes her mantra o’ ‘guns are just big dumb things’ to heart. Truth o’ the matter is that a gun coulda saved Ma’s life right then.”

“Did Pa carry his gun around the house?” Arthur asked.

“Sure did,” Matthew said with a smile. “Sure did. Sometimes when Jackson was being really troublesome he’d take the revolver outta his holster and unclasp the cylinder. He’d just flick it open like it was a toy and show Jackson that it was loaded. Then he’d snap it closed and pull the hammer back real smooth, like he was a bounty hunter or somethin’. He’d point it at Jackson and Jackson’d get so scared. You’d see his eyes go as wide as the sun. Jackson wouldn’t misbehave after that. He’d be real good. O’ ‘course, once Ma died, Jackson tried to leave. I remember he was fifteen and he stole Pa’s repeater. He just ran off with it and a bag full o’ food from the kitchen. He was halfway to town when Pa caught up to him on a horse. I don’ know what happened on the way back, but when Jackson returned he was beaten bloody. Took him two weeks to be able to walk around the house.”

“And you don’t think your Pa was overstepping when he did this?”

Matthew shook his head. “No, Pa was just reprimanding Jackson. Jackson was steppin’ out after all. And Jackson stole his repeater. Hell, I’d slap anybody who wanted to steal my iron, let alone a repeater I paid good money for.”

“So do you think your Pa hit your Ma?”

Jackson thought about the question long and hard, looking up at the ceiling, listening to the wind. His skin bristled as a cold chill tumbled through the air.

“I don’t know,” Matthew said. “Pa could be real mean. But I don’t think he was ever mean outta nowhere.”

“Has Jackson ever been mean outta nowhere?

“Oh, sure. Jackson’s mean whenever he gets the opportunity. He may not put his hands on me all the time, but when he yells at me or calls me names or tells me Ma didn’t love me, I can tell that’s just him bein’ jealous cause Pa loves me more than him.”

“Interesting,” Arthur said. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but would you ever kill Jackson if you needed to?”

Matthew craned his neck upward to look at Arthur. He was sitting up on his bedroll, leaning back at a comfortable, obtuse angle.

“What do ya mean?”

“Exactly what I said. If you ever needed to kill Jackson, would you be able to?”

Matthew hesitated.

Most times you can trust blood, that’s true, but sometimes you can’t. This is one of them times.

“I guess if I had to,” Matthew said softly. “But I don’t see why I would need to.”

“Well, what if something happened to Pa?” Arthur said. “Or what if he decided that you didn’t need to stay here anymore? That he was going to throw you out to the wind?”

“Jackson wouldn’t do that. No, he wouldn’t.”

“Probably not,” Arthur said with a comforting smile. “Most likely not. It’s one of those ‘one-in-a-million’ scenarios. But I know you’ve got two guns on you at all times, so I have a feeling this thought has crossed your mind more than once.”

Matthew froze. Arthur had been asleep when he had taken Jackson’s iron out from his trousers’ waistband and slid it under his pillow. Everyone had been asleep.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Matthew said.

“Yes, you do,” Arthur persisted. “Right under there, under your pillow. It’s a gorgeous piece. Colt Army Model 1860. Only been fired twice.” Arthur paused, and the silence between them was filled with the sound of rain. “Is it loaded?”

Matthew nodded.

“Well, hopefully you won’t use it for the third time,” Arthur said. There was something in his voice that unsettled Matthew, though. Something dangerous. Something sinister.

The feeling was gone as soon as it appeared. Matthew turned over on his bedroll and slipped a hand underneath the pillow. The cold metal of the revolver greeted him. Satisfied, Matthew closed his eyes, trying to sleep, trying to push away the thoughts of the night and live to see another morning. He focused on the sound of the rain. It was angry, and yet in that anger there was something soothing.

Before long, Matthew slipped into the warm bath of sleep.

*

A screech permeated the darkness, jolting Matthew from his bedroll in a panic. The echo of the sound still lingered in the air like smoke from a candle, but the initial sound was gone.

What was that?

It could have been a crack of thunder he supposed, or maybe an extremely forceful bit of wind trying to worm its way through the cracks of Jackson’s imperfect roof. Yet, something told Matthew that it was something else – that it was something unrelated to the storm and to the household.

He sat up on his bed roll and looked over at Arthur’s empty blankets. He was gone, lost somewhere in the house, maybe visiting the washroom or just wandering the small domicile in hope of finding some sort of inner peace. That was what Matthew wanted to do, at least.

Through the windows in the back of the house, next to the door that led to their farm, he could see nothing but blackness and droplets of water on the glass, leaving behind long trails as they moved with the force of the wind. Not even the moon was shining; it was hidden behind the black clouds.

Matthew stood. The old bones in his legs cracked, and Matthew winced. In the house, the small sound was as loud as an explosion. The trail of the screech he had heard was still lingering in the air.

The noise came again, cacophonous and disorienting – a high-pitched wail that seemed to make him go deaf the longer it was intoned. Then it was cut off all at once, and the rattle of the storm returned.

Matthew blinked his eyes just as he saw a shadow rush past the back window. Astonished that he could see anything in the blackness, he rushed to the window as fast as he could. Once at it, he pushed his nose to the glass and cupped his hands over his eyes, trying to see through the fog of night.

What he could see was muddy and unhelpful: bending, broken corn stalks and standing water on their farm land. The streaks of rain continued their assault, and Matthew felt his heart beginning to slow in his chest.

What was that?

Is this a dream?

Must have been my mind playing tricks on me.

Matthew turned around and looked back at the living room. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he could make out the furniture and his own bedroll. He rushed over to it and pulled his revolver from its holster, checking quickly to ensure it was loaded.

He was Pa’s son. Of course it was loaded.

Despite his heart’s continued descent from terror to calm, Matthew’s hands shook as he held the revolver at his side. He wanted to call out to Arthur, to figure out where he was and what he was doing, but he couldn’t do that without waking everyone in the house.

Without waking Jackson.

Maybe he was with Pa.

Jackson stepped over his pillow and walked down the long, thin hallway toward Pa’s room. He was reaching his hand out toward the large knob when he was startled by the sound of the washroom door opening. Arthur smiled at him and closed the door, walking toward him with his hands in his trousers’ pockets.

He nodded at the revolver. “Expecting someone?”

“Did you hear that scream?” Matthew asked. “I swore I heard this sound – I can’t even describe it.”

Arthur nodded and motioned for Matthew to follow him. He did so, still holding his revolver at his side. Once they were in the living room, away from all prying ears, Arthur turned and looked Matthew in the eyes.

“I haven’t told anyone this,” he said. “But I feel like I can tell you. That sound is part of the reason why I sought refuge during the storm.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Whatever that thing is,” Arthur said. “it is dangerous and it is evil. All you can do is run from it, and hide, and hope that it does not find you. If it does, you’re dead.”

“What is it?” Matthew asked. His heart was beginning to race again.

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. Matthew noticed that there looked to be genuine fear in his eyes. It was hidden behind his pupils, pushed away so most people wouldn’t be able to see it, but it was there. “Whatever it is, though, it is not something to mess with.”

“What are you saying?’

“I’m saying we need to be really quiet until this storm is over,” Arthur said. “And if anyone goes outside, they’re as good as dead.”

Matthew nodded as Arthur touched his arm and gave him a thin smile. Then he returned to his bed roll, leaving Matthew to stand and think about what he had just said.

What had he even seen? A black blob, a large mass, a silhouette outlined by darkness. There was nothing he could derive from that – nothing of value, at least. And what was Arthur trying to say? Some monster was out there? Some demon waiting to eat them? Some entity that could not be reasoned with, could not be guarded against. Could it be killed?

Sure it could. Pa always told him if it bleeds, it dies. That was true, right? If it bleeds it has to die. That’s the rule of life. One of the rules of life, at least.

If it bleeds, it dies.

He turned back toward the hallway. Visiting Pa was a tempting idea. He wondered if Pa knew anything else about this mysterious shadow, or if he had any parting words of wisdom for the night. He most often did. Even when Matthew would go into his room looking just to chat or to bring him a meal, he would leave with some new bit of wisdom. His Ma had never done that. The few times he had had positive interactions with her were when she was telling a joke that made the whole family laugh. She was good at that – telling jokes. Jackson would tell her she could go into town and put on a show. A humorous show, though perhaps without the puppets and the odd voices, as those sometimes got old.

Pa had only ever taken him to one show. It was a dramatic reading of Shakespeare and it hadn’t interested him all that much. Everyone was betraying each other, and the language was so gnarled and mangled it was difficult to tell what was going on. Yet, the person who spoke the words seemed to do so with effortless beauty. He spoke with perfect diction – the kind of diction Ma always wanted Matthew to speak with, the kind of diction Jackson spoke when he was kissing up to Ma – and he told the story with a flowery flow. It was like listening to a river babble in incoherent sentences and jumbled up thoughts.

Could Ma have done that? Maybe. Maybe she could have been a fool, like the ones the Red Coats used to have. That’s what Grandpa had called them at least – Red Coats. He had heard stories in school about how the British had jesters and fools to entertain them when they got bored. Ma had been quite a fool – it was foolish of her not to wear her gun after all. It had caused Pa so much pain to learn that she was dead. But she was also a funny fool.

Matthew walked back to his bed roll, deciding to let his Pa sleep through the night. Even if he had awoken to the sound of the screams, there was nothing he could do to stop them or to comfort Matthew. They were both in the same boat. They were all in the same boat.

Just as he was reaching for his holster, the door began to buckle on its hinges as someone banged on it from the outside. Shock raced up his spine in a single, powerful bolt, and he jerked upright with the revolver, aiming it at the door. The rain slapped on the roof in discordant rhythm as someone – or something – pounded on the wood from the outside.

Arthur stood up next, walking beside Matthew. “What do we do?” he asked.

Matthew felt his joints freezing up. What if Jackson had died in his sleep and Matthew was in charge of the house now? What he wanted to do was fire his gun until it was empty: put bullet holes in the wood until the thing behind it was bleeding out on the ground, the rain washing away their crimson blood. But he knew he couldn’t do that.

As if to answer his thoughts, Jackson rushed out in his long pants. He didn’t have a shirt on, and the black hair on his chest stuck out at odd angles.

“What’s goin’ on?” Jackson asked. Mary was close behind him in her night gown.

“Someone’s bangin’ on the door,” Matthew yelled. He still had his pistol pointed at the source of the sound.

“Put that damned thing down,” Jackson scoffed. He walked toward the door, the hinges continuing to buckle. Then it came again: that sound. A shriek? It tore through the house, rattling the windows, joining the wind and the rain.

“Jackson, don’t open that door,” Matthew said. Without thinking, he aimed the revolver at his brother. Jackson looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Matthew pulled back the hammer.

A strange look overcome Jackson’s visage. Most times he was angry at Matthew. This time, he just looked sad and tired.

“If you’re gonna shoot your brother in his own house, you might as well get it over with,” Jackson said. “I’m goin’ to see who’s at the door.”

Without waiting for a response, Jackson turned and walked up to the door. Matthew kept the revolver aimed at his back. His finger was over the trigger. All it would take was a small pull, and his brother would be dead.

Jackson grasped the knob, twisted, and pulled the buckling door open.

Next Chapter: Luis