A Visit To Raging Bull

Visibility is low on the highway today; as the wind rages, the sand is turbulent. Dense. Traffic is at a stand-still, waiting for the storm to pass.

Kyra and Steve sit in silence. Steve is asleep, his head resting on the passenger window, while his companion taps her fingers on the steering wheel. They've been waiting for more than an hour after the windstorm engulfed their vehicle. Kyra grimaces.

Their destination is the ghost town, Raging Bull. The moniker fits as the abandoned hamlet boasts a history of violence and strange events. It is empty now. The last resident moved to greener pastures in the '60s. All that is left are dilapidated buildings, the mines, and a story to tell.

Silverhill's. Inc, their employer, is interested in the resources in the region, namely, silver. That's where Kyra and Steve come in. Nothing more than glorified gophers, their job is to photograph the structures and check county records for land ownership and mineral rights documents. Steve is a glutton for the supernatural and insisted they begin their journey in the town.

When the last of the sand drifts by and the sky is clear, they finish their drive through the expansive basin and find themselves on Main street. They make their way to the old stone courthouse, a dirty and crumbling building. They were not able to get a key, so they settle for breaking the lock.

The tile is littered with yellowing papers. The door to the clerk's office is splintered and smeared in rust-colored splotches. Under the desk is a woman's flat, once white but now sporting red smudges and a layer of dust. Next to the phone is a black and white photo of two little girls.

"Looks like someone had a nasty spill!" Steve says.

"Looks like more than that, Steve," Kyra says.

"If you say so, Partner." Steve shrugs and attempts a small smile, but Kyra walks away.

They pour through files for the rest of the afternoon, but most of the paperwork was damaged. They record anything relevant and walk down the street to what was once the town's historical society, a squat brick building downhill from the decaying mining operation.

Once there, Steve leans against the wall and pulls out a ham and swiss sandwich. Extra pickles. Kyra watches, mouth askew and eyes narrowed, as he chews, open-mouthed and slimy morsels tumble to the sidewalk.

"You're disgusting!" She says.

"You're just mad. I remembered my lunch, and you're going hungry. Want a pickle?"

"No." Kyra frowns and goes inside, leaving him there.

Inside, she's greeted by an enormous statue of a bull. Its horns curve toward sharp points near the ceiling and its nostrils flare. At its hooves, which look ready to tear at the ground, is a plaque.

In 1945, just after the war ended, when both the cattle ranchers and miners in the area were experiencing an economic boom, the bulls began to act aggressively. At first, the men didn't think much of it, as it wasn't an unexpected phenomenon, but then the males began tearing the females and the calves to pieces. By 1951, most local cattle-based industries had shut down. There are theories about the causes of their behavior, but none have solved the mystery as of today.

"Whatcha lookin' at, Kdog?" Steve says from behind Kyra, causing her to jump.

"Kdog, really?" She rolls her eyes, "nevermind, look at this."

As he reads, his body becomes more rigid, and he presses his lips together. Finally, after a long silence, he looks at her with wide eyes, full of fear and amazement.

"Even coming into this expecting something abnormal, this gave me chills. Did the boss tell you anything?"

"Why would I know more than you?" She asks.

"I dunno. I wish I'd done more research before now, but I wanted to surprise myself." He grins.

"You would." She says, raising her eyebrows at him.

They split the task, Kyra taking everything to the left and Steve taking everything to the right. Kyra finds a collection of vintage photos, yellowed with age. The first few are of the town. In one, the mayor cuts a ribbon in front of some new establishment. In another, three men stand around a well, holding shovels and looking serious.

They become more disturbing as she gets further in the stack. In one, a farmer squats next to a mutilated cow, holding his head in his hands. The creature's innards are scattered across the field. In the next, a dog can be seen chewing on a horse's leg, its muzzle twisted in a growl. The last is a blurry image of a woman in the street. Her light-colored dress is covered in stains. In the background, a crowd had gathered. They're all facing the camera.

Kyra's arms prickle with gooseflesh, and a chill runs up her spine. She pockets the pictures and joins Steve by the old-timey equipment.

"What'd you find?" He asks.

"Not much, you?"

"Some cool scythes. You ready to go uphill?"

Scythes? She broods, what does he want with those?

As they hike up to the mines, the heat is oppressive. Steve's shirt is soaked through, and Kyra is sure hers is as well. She pins her hair up against her skull and lets the dry air work on her neck.

The reception area is no cooler. While being indoors may provide relief from the sun, it's also more stifling without any hope for a breeze. Worse, it reeks of death.

Blood is crusted across the furniture and linoleum. This time, Kyra is sure of what it is. There's a handprint on the doorjam. She thinks about the woman in the road while a group stares on in morbid curiosity.

Steve whistles, "looks like a party in here," he says.

Kyra gapes at him without replying. His expression is unreadable to her. Shaking her head, she turns her attention to a large wooden door with a metal plate that says, "Daniel Smith, Head of Operations."

Steve follows her inside. She can't help but notice he's holding something in his hand. Something glinting in the diminished light.

She picks up a folder from the desk, looking warily out the window. It's painted shut. She pretends to flip through the contents, daring to glance up occasionally. He's fiddling with the thing in his hand, turning over itself again and again. He's pacing the room, looking at the books and knickknacks on the shelves. His face is shadowed.

With a shaky voice, she says, "what is that?"

"This?" He holds up a silver quill, and Kyra's eyes fall on the sharpened point. She can already feel its prick on her throat. "Just something I found in the museum. I bet I can make a pretty penny off it, don't you?" He smiles; his face is contorted and unnatural. His teeth look sharper, ready to bite.

"What's wrong with you?" Kyra backs away, bumping into the desk.

"With me? What's wrong with you?" He's leering and lurching in her direction.

With quivering hands, she grasps a letter opener and thrusts it into his belly in one quick motion. He gasps as he falls to his knees. She's still until he stops moving and then, she starts searching for an entrance into the shaft.