About ten feet back into the shadows of the trees, bent like an old fencepost and just as gray, stood Sam Winter.
The emotions that ran through Wyatt's breast were not gentle, or slow and they did not pause to be fully realized or felt. In fact, all but the most rudimentary of them was overwhelmed by the single feeling of disbelief.
He stood in shock and silence for enough time that he was afraid that time had simply stopped, but then he heard himself say, "You went into the ground Sam. I spoke at your wake."
Winter, who had been tall in his youth, had aged crookedly and resembled nothing so much as a vulture, hunched over, bald and wrinkled. His clothes hung loosely on his scarecrow thin frame and the hand that clutched his walking stick was more clawlike than human.
"We're haint walkers boy." Sam's cracked and hissing voice replied. "Death don't always stick."
As much as Wyatt wanted to believe that what he was seeing was a vision and a benevolent one at that, he knew better, he knew instantly and all the way to his marrow that this was not only real, but that the danger that it posed was like nothing he had ever dealt with.
His training, his habits did their job and he took a deep drag on his pipe and let the herbs and resins do their work. He felt his senses sharpening, but the feeling was greeted by the hideous laugh of the man who once was his teacher.
"You can't fight me with what I taught you boy." Sam's free hand came up and tossed something into his near toothless mouth and he began to chew noisily. Wyatt didn't bother wondering what it was.
"What are you doing here Sam? What do you want? All of this? This is you doing it?"
The old man shook his head in a gesture that seemed almost as much pity as disbelief and then he lurched forward, taking dragging, limping steps forward until he reached the edge of the treeline.
"You're so stupid it's like you bought it in bulk. You're looking at me ain't ya? Who else do you think might have done it?"
The insult snapped Wyatt into focus.
"Katie…" He said softly.
"You send that dog and I will drop about seven black hounds on her so fast that she'll be ribbons by the time she gets to me."
Black hounds were something that Wyatt had heard of and learned about, but never made use of. Haint walkers who needed them would perform an elaborate rite centered around a living dog, binding it to the walker and then kill the animal, often in malicious fashion to increase its aggression. The idea that Sam had seven of them was insane.
Nevertheless Katie took up a position about six feet to Wyatt's right, her broad head level and a deep growl echoing in her chest.
"Stay…" He said, with a bit more urgency to his voice.
Sam laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound, like a cough more than anything. "Soft." He growled. "So worried about your precious puppy. Probably give up your sad sack little life to protect her, wouldn't you?"
Wyatt had begun to get past the shock of Sam's appearance and his mind was slipping into gear.
"That ain't your concern old man. Now tell me what you want before I pitch your scrawny ass over that cliff."
Another coughing laugh. "You don't want to do that. You kill me, the spirit in that hole under the orchard will eat those children alive."
Wyatt's head calculated the time. He had about two hours before Emma got home with the kids. Not enough time to get there. Not in the rain, even if he left now.
"All the same. Tell me."
"Bossy, ain't ya?" The old man spat. His saliva was the color of coffee with streaks of red and pale green running through it.
So, thought Wyatt. The old man is sick.
"Still like listening to yourself talk, don't you?" Wyatt said bitterly.
Sam Winter's face screwed up in a flash of anger but quieted quickly. "I should have killed you when you were a pup."
Wyatt laughed, deliberately and loud as the first few raindrops began to spatter on the rocks around them. "You might have tried. But death don't always stick."
The sound of his own words being thrown back into his face brought the flash of anger back and it lasted longer this time.
Wyatt noted this and began to plan ways to work through this.
"What do you want Sam? The farm? Powerful piece of land. The ritual sites? Bushel of apples? Case of hard cider? Cup of tea with some honey in it? Your voice sounds like shit."
Then something occurred to him. "Wait… How long have you been playing at this game?"
A smile crossed Sam Winter's face. Nothing about it was warm, or kind, it was the worst kind of smile a creature could come up with. "A long god damned time. So many years now I lost count. I found old Walter a long ways back and piece by piece, I laid this all out for you."
The rain was pouring now in slanting sheets, so heavy that the men had to practically shout to be heard and the thunder was so frequent that it seemed never ending.
The water gathered on the wide brim of Wyatt's fedora and ran off, front and back, but it kept his face and more importantly, his pipe dry.
Sam wore no hat and the rain pounded on his bald head and ran down into his eyes, but he merely blinked and stared, still chewing on whatever it had been that he had thrown into his mouth.
Wyatt edged his left foot forward, more to make sure of his grip on the rock with his toes than to try and advance on the old man, but Sam reacted with surprising speed. His walking stick came up in both hands and he hissed, "You try and come at me I will douse you where you stand."
Wyatt wasn't sure that Sam had the power to do something like that anymore, but he needed to know what this was about. He could work out getting out from under this, once he knew.
He opened his mouth to ask why once again, but before he could say anything, the old man spat again and said, "I've been working on this every day of my life ever since the letter came and told me."
"Told you what?"
Sam shook the rain out of his eyes and snarled. "That they gave you the fucking mask!"
2023 Lance Cheuvront
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