Chasing Ghosts

Collin's Ranch, Texas

3:01 AM

The old family cemetery shook and the bones of generations past rattled in their graves. With a charnel yawn, the ground split open, revealing row after row of shifting, fresh dirt stairs that descended into the bowels of the Earth. The wails of the dead eeked out, staining the realm of the living invisibly, joined by a pleasant whistling melody and the occasional, piercing cry of an owl.

This was a cemetery gate, an entrance to the Underworld.

Brady Collins, cowboy extraordinaire and host to the lesser Death God known as Coyote, finished whistling as he reached the top of the stairs, one foot in the grave, the other planted firmly in the world of the living. He wore a black cowboy hat low over his eyes, his dirty blonde hair rustling slightly in the night breeze. Most of his lean, athletic figure was obscured by a heavy, dark leather duster jacket. He kept a long-barrel Smith & Wesson Model 629 revolver at his hip and his boot spurs clicked when he walked, announcing his presence.

"Home sweet home," Brady said, speaking as much to the dead as himself.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one with a snap of his Pa's old lighter. The little flame fought against the oppressive darkness and Brady inhaled deeply. He held it deep in his lungs, making sure his other got his fill and then exhaled.

As with every activity, Coyote took a piece of the experience. A being beyond traditional comprehension, even for one such as Brady, Coyote delivered his appreciation for the burning gift of tobacco through a familiar mediator, the long-dead ghost of James Butler Hickok, better known as Wild Bill. Brady felt the ghost layer over him like skin and pull at the cigarette. He did his best to ignore it.

'Boy, that is trash,' Wild Bill grumbled even as Coyote grinned in Brady's mind.

Brady ignored the comment, looking out over the rolling hills and endless plains of his home.

"Why did you bring me here," Brady asked.

With a shrill cry, a beautiful white barn owl burst from the Underworld in a flurry of gorgeous feathers. It glided over Brady's shoulder and flew up to the branches of a nearby tree that overlooked the cemetery. The barn owl cocked its head and looked at Brady with an expression that was both expectant and blank.

Brady and Wild Bill, ghost speaker for Coyote, took another drag of the slightly bent Marlboro cigarette. The little orange flare glowed in the dark night like a beacon. Beneath the owl, a couple of yards away, a similar flare sparked up and a puff of pungent smoke wafted towards Brady. The barn owl shrieked, piercing the night with its signature cry, and a familiar figure pushed off from the trunk of the tree where he'd been leaning.

"I should'a known," Brady said, stepping from the eerie hole in the ground. He grinned in disbelief. "Pa."

Normak Collins, Brady's father, better known to the world as 'Pappy', took a long drag from his dwindling cigarette and chucked the roach at a nearby gravestone. The moonlight shone through the clouds, illuminating the name on the stone. Theodore "Teddy" Collins. Normak's father and Brady's grandfather.

Pappy stepped into the moonlight, his eyes gleaming beneath the long brim of his hat. Like Brady, he was dressed in traditional cowboy attire. His boots were well suited to the ranch and his black jeans were rugged and worn. He wore a traditional black leather duster and rested his thumbs on a massive skull belt-buckle. His features were gaunt and his wiry beard and mustache were shaggy and unkempt.

Brady spotted a familiar piece on Normak's hip and frowned. As father and son approached, the supernatural tunnel behind Brady closed like a wound, stitching shut until there was no sign of it left.

'He ain't alone,'Wild Bill said. His smoky voice lingered in Brady's mind and he drew his eyes to the scar on Pappy's forehead.'He crossed the threshold, and had a little help comin' back.'

Brady's pulse quickened as they neared. The last time he and his father had stood eye to eye, Normak had aimed a gun at his head, the very same one he wore on his hip this night. He'd called Brady possessed, said he had a monster inside of him and that it was his sworn duty to put it down, even if that meant shooting through his son. Brady had learned more about his father in that one night than in twenty years.

"So, the rumors are true," Brady said when they were within twelve paces of each other.

Pappy looked up at the stars. They shone like a blanket of glittering diamonds.

"What rumors?" Normak asked.

"They say the Hell-Hunter retired with a bullet in the head."

Normak grimaced. The wind around them whistled, shrill and cold, but neither man withdrew.

"No man livin' got to see that," Pappy said, cocking his head. "Whose spreadin' the rumor?"

"Oh, you know how it is," Brady said, his eyes twinkling with knowledge. "Dead men, all they do is tell tales."

The air between them was electric. Clouds passed in front of the moon, bathing both cowboys in shadow. The sound of the wind screaming through the trees was loud in the misty darkness of the graveyard. Brady saw his father's hand leave his belt and drift down towards his holster. He mirrored the movement.

All of a sudden the owl above them shrieked, cutting the silence of the night. In a blur of motion, both men drew their guns and aimed. The air grew hot and still. The tension between the two gunmen continued to grow. Neither Brady nor Normak wavered, their guns leveled at each other. Normak held the legendary 1873 Colt single-action revolver known as "The Peacemaker", Brady the modern Smith & Wesson magnum.

"Why'd ya call me here?" Brady asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I didn't," Normak said evenly.

"So you didn't send that owl from the family pictures? A white barn owl with gold markings?" Brady asked, lowering his gun slightly.

Pappy copied the gesture, lowering his gun a few inches.

"Boy, that bird been dead 'bout sixty or so years now," Normak said. He grinned and holstered his gun suddenly. "Sound's to me like you been chasin' ghosts."

Brady's gun arm was strong. He held the powerful revolver steady. In his eyes burned the passion and fire of the wild west. The experience of one of history's greatest gunslingers flowed through his veins. With a sigh, Brady holstered the model 629 magnum. In his mind, Coyote grinned and licked its black lips.

Normak pulled out another hand-rolled cigarette and lit it, chuckling to himself. Brady, cursing his luck, stared angrily at the barn owl on the branch above his dad. It shrieked once, seeming pleased, and flew off in the direction of Normak's old tool shed. Normak took a long, drag of the cigarette and then walked over to Theodore's tombstone.

"Nice talkin' to you, old man," Normak said. He leaned the burning offering against the stone and stood up.

Brady glared daggers at his father as he came near again.

"What say we follow that bird o' yours?" Pappy suggested with a shrug of his shoulders. "C'mon. Walk with your old man."

Without waiting for an answer, Normak started after the white barn owl, his hands in his jacket pockets.

'Got my curiosity,' Wild Bill said, sinking into Brady's soul as one would a comfortable armchair.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Brady stomped after his father, following him up the hill towards the long out-of-use shed. Under the sweeping moonlight and up the grassy hill, the two men walked, their shadows clawing for the darkness like creatures of the night.

Brady was quiet. He lit another cigarette and Pappy did the same. Normak paused, taking in the hill and the dilapidated shed.

"Brady, I ain't done right by you. I'm guilty of making the same mistakes over and over again," Normak said, watching his shadow smoking in the moonlight. It looked up at the old shed. "Hell, feel's now like I been makin' the same mistake my whole damn life."

Brady shook his head and looked away, restless. He had never heard his father apologize to anyone except Ma. The uncertainty in his father's voice shook Brady. Nothing was supposed to bother Normak Collins. That man could stare down the Devil.

"That night, last I saw you, was the worst night of my life," Normak continued. "I never wanted you to see this side of life, to see this side of the world. When I pointed Peacemaker at you, something in me died. I failed as a father and I failed you. I lost the battle to the Hell-Hunter."

The old cowboy shook his head and started walking again. Brady watched for a few paces before joining.

Memories of long, cold nights spent sleeping at the top of the stairs, waiting for his dad to come home flooded through him. He recalled endless nights of Ma going to bed with tears in her eyes, reassuring the kids even as her heart broke. He remembered the countless times Normak had come home, beaten and bloody, collapsing at the kitchen table, a bottle his only companion.

The haunted expression in Normak's eyes had kept Brady from going to him every time. Now, Brady and his father shared that expression, haunted by what they knew.

"What is the Hell-Hunter?" Brady asked, catching up with his father.

Normak slowed as they reached the shed. He turned, his dark eyes gleaming with the ghost of someone inside of him, and Brady tensed. His father was not, and would never be alone again. Like Brady, he was a host to a lesser god of Death, and over time, as the bond became more symbiotic, they would become something else.

'A more powerful union,'Wild Bill whispered, speaking for Coyote, who grinned maliciously from the depths of Brady's soul.

"Lemme show ya," Normak said, gesturing for Brady to join him at the shed door. The scar on his forehead seemed more prominent in the shade of the ugly shed and Brady couldn't help but shiver.

The old structure looked terrible. It shook and swayed in the wind and Brady felt as though it was going to fly away if hit by a particularly large gust. But there was more to it than just its physical appearance. It sat on the hill like a tomb, stained with death energy, pulsing and malignant.

'Death,'Coyote whispered in Brady's thoughts. 'Old and new.'

Normak reached into his coat, pulled out an old brass key, and inserted it into the rickety lock.

"This is where it happened, where you did it," Brady said quietly.

"Yes," Normak said, his voice little more than a whisper.

A shadow passed over them and the white barn owl landed atop the shed and peered down at the two ghostly cowboys. Backlit by the moon, it watched them with twinkling, curious black eyes. Brady wasn't sure if the owl was a ghost or not. He never could tell with owls and his spectral passenger's offered no insight.

"'Cause I died, and came back," Brady said.

"Yes," Normak said again.

With a loud click, the grizzled cowboy turned the key and pushed open the shed door. Darkness spread out before him. It swallowed the interior of the small and shabby shed. To Brady, it seemed to ooze out like pus, as though the only thing keeping it from eating Collins ranch and the rest of the world were these four weary walls.

"Shit place to die," Brady said, regretting the words the second they tumbled from his lips.

Pappy turned and looked at his son over his shoulder. His dark, brooding eyes overflowed with sadness, but there was something else there too.

"Well, ya ain't seen nothin' yet," Normak said.

He reached into the darkness to the left, towards a set of tools hanging on the wall. He wrapped his leathery hands around an old shoehorn and twisted it. The shed suddenly shook with a loud grating sound and the ground in front of Pappy opened up to reveal a metal staircase leading down into the earth.

"C'mon boy. Bout time I showed you all this," Normak said with a nod.

Brady's chest tightened. Normak took a long drag of his cigarette and then started down the stairs. Smoke trailed slowly behind him. Wild Bill fed the urge to smoke to Brady and he obliged, drawing deep on his cigarette before crunching it underfoot. With a long sigh, Brady followed his father into the dark.

When they reached the bottom, Normak flipped a switch and fluorescent lights flickered on, revealing a long, thin bunker lined with tall, glass cases. Each case contained a mannequin wearing a different version of the same heavily modified cowboy attire. There was a placard with the name of the outfit and its purpose on the case, and either a rifle or a pair of revolvers on a cushion next to the boots.

This was the Hell-Hunter's hideout, and though the name was still new to Brady, the weight it carried in the Underworld was undeniable.

"Holy shit," Brady said. He looked at his father incredulously. "This has been here my whole life?"

Pappy nodded. "And most of mine. I discovered the shed when I was 'bout thirteen. After the demon came for my family."

Brady said nothing. He wanted to ask about the demon, about the origins of this costume and the nightly mission, about the blood on his father's hands, and the long nights spent at the kitchen with a bottle, but no words came. Instead, the cry of the barn owl blasted apart the silence of the moment and in a whoosh of quiet feathers, the bird joined them, gliding past and into the bunker.

The two cowboys watched the strange white owl. It landed on a nearby case and peered down at its reflection before turning its black eyes on them. Pappy finished his cigarette and set it in a repurposed paint can nearby where it continued to smoke.

"Sure does look a lot like Pa's bird," Normak said, striding over to the case.

The owl tapped the glass with a claw insistently and Brady joined them, eager to inspect the contents within. Normak's face sunk a bit as he looked at the case. With a heavy sigh, he lifted the small, brass latch and swung the glass case open. Almost meticulously, Normak lifted the pair of time-worn revolvers and wiped them down with a nearby rag. He cleaned the barrel, the muzzle, the trigger, and the handle and then set the guns down lovingly, facing one another.

The outfit before Brady seemed ancient and wondrous. The black cowboy hat on the mannequin looked heavy and lined with metal while the gloves, boots, and chaps all seemed relatively standard if dated. The trousers were made of a thick, reinforced leather resistant to slashing and the dark red, nearly black duster was lined with early bulletproof metal and several layers of thick cloth fabric designed to reduce the impact of incoming projectiles. The heavy duster was also lined with straps and pouches containing canteens of what Brady assumed was holy water, wooden stakes sharpened to a point, and silver crosses. The twelve shells next to the pair of old revolvers also looked to be hand-made.

"Hell-Hunter, Blood Rider," Brady said aloud, reading the placard. "Smith and Wesson Model 3's, Crucifix rounds." He turned to his father. "You fought Vampire's?"

Normak closed the case and relatched it before leaning against it. He looked more tired than Brady had ever seen him suddenly.

"The same mistakes, every night," Normak said quietly, looking into the Domino masked eyes of the mannequin. "I let the bottle get the best o' me, let my anger drive me away from my family, from my wife and my children."

Inside Brady, Coyote was quiet and Wild Bill said nothing. Brady got the impression that the god of death responsible for his new lease on life understood the importance of this moment and would leave him to it.

"Pa," Brady began, but Normak turned slowly and shook his head. His dark eyes were haunting.

"No, boy. I didn't do right by you, by my kids, by my Abigail. I lied to you, I lied to her, and I lied to myself," Normak said, looking down the bunker at the other eleven cases, each containing an outfit and an arsenal of old weaponry. "I told myself I was doing it for you, for her, for my parents. But the truth is, I was doing it for me. I went out night after night to try to kill the hole growing in me. Nothin' worked. For every monster I put down, the hole in me just continued to grow, unchecked darkness waiting to swallow me up."

Brady swallowed hard. He didn't know what to say. He'd never had an interaction this personal with his father and to see him in such pain filled Brady with sorrow. He looked around the hidden bunker, following Normak's eyes, and eventually settled on a case covered with more dust than the rest. Brady went to it and wiped the placard on the outside.

"First Ride," Brady read. He turned to look at his father. "This where it all began? Your first night on the job?"

Despite the weight of Brady's words, both father and son smiled. Normak approached the case and opened it with a flick of the latch, revealing a very basic, leather reinforced riding outfit and a broken rifle. The card next to the rifle called it an 1853 Slant-Breech Sharp's Carbine. In bold text underneath that were the words "The Bible." It looked as if it had been torn in two.

"Had to make a lot of changes after that first ride," Normak said, chuckling a bit. "I thought I knew what I was getting into. Enchanted rifles, holy weapons, a just cause. Boy, that Werewolf nearly tore me a new one."

Brady laughed. The weight of responsibility and secrets that had kept his father out of reach for so long was beginning to lift. Despite the years of resentment, Brady was starting to understand who his father was.

The rifle looked strikingly familiar, and Brady knew why. He carried a similar weapon deep within his soul, a memento not only of his death but of the mysterious entity that had brought him back.

"Now we ride the dead paths in places where the living cannot tread," Brady said, looking at his father. Their eyes were dark with otherworldly power, weathered reflections of one another. "The monstrous God's of Death ride with us, and we must take care not to become monsters ourselves."

Normak nodded.

"When you fell in that mine, and that explosion happened a few seconds later, I thought I'd died inside. My son was dead," Normak said, his tone heavy with grief. "No one could have survived that. When you came back, I saw the dark in your eyes, saw the shifting of others in your mannerisms and I knew the world that I hunted had taken my boy."

He put his head down, then looked around the bunker, gesturing wearily at the display cases.

"I pointed my gun at you," Normak said shakily. "I aimed with intent to kill, all because of an oath I'd taken to purge this world of evil. So long as I still had the strength to ride, the Hell-Hunter would keep Texas safe."

Brady nodded. His face flushed with anger and he could feel dead blood pounding in his veins. A fire burned in his eyes and the charnel smell of burnt flesh began to fill the bunker.

Normak put a hand up to his forehead, to the scar right above his eyes.

"I couldn't live with my oath," Normak said weakly. He put a few paces distance between himself and Brady, looking off at the far side of the bunker. A single case occupied the wall. "I'd been too weak to hand this life to you before ya died. When you came back, I knew that it was too late."

A heady cocktail of anger and understanding rocked Brady Collins. He stood quietly by the first case with his head down, trying to come to terms with his father's deeds. Suddenly, in his thoughts, as abrupt as the barn owls screech, Brady saw a flash of dark hair, he smelled jasmine and honey, and the cold, battle-hardened eyes of Sultana Masterson manifested briefly, the woman he loved. He smiled to himself, reminded of the life he was building in New Orleans and the Pantheon of god-vessels he called friends.

"A father protects his family," Brady said, cutting the silence. "Sometimes that protection takes the form of secrets."

Normak turned around. Brady smiled and sighed, letting the anger burn off him. His coat visibly smoked.

"You didn't pull the trigger on me that day. You pulled it on yourself. A lot of sons would hate their fathers in a situation like this. God knows I'm filled with rage. It burns at me like a funeral pyre. But there's something to be said for the whims of fate. Whether by accident or design, we've been reunited. I stand beside you on even ground for the first time in my life. Regardless of the circumstances, I'm grateful for the opportunity," Brady said, looking his father in the eyes.

The white barn owl screeched suddenly, a loud, invasive sound that echoed in the underground chamber. With a flap of white wings, it flew down the long bunker and landed on the farthest costume case, where it settled in as if nesting.

"You sure you didn't call that bird?" Brady asked, laughing. "I've seen some of us do it."

"I'm green when it comes to using dead powers," Normak admitted, starting towards the case. "The Hunter and I aren't exactly on the greatest terms."

"The Hunter?" Brady asked, following. "Is that what your ghost passenger is called?"

Pappy nodded as he approached the case. The owl shrieked, but the call was quiet, more subdued. Normak wiped the dust off of the placard. In stylish, hand-etched lettering were the words "The Beginning." Inside the glass, hanging on what looked to be an old coat rack, was a weathered brown cowboy hat, a blood-stained, dark brown duster, and an 1877 Colt double-action revolver with a card next to it that read "Lightning."

Inside of Brady, Coyote howled. Its lips salivated and Brady's palms began to sweat. A dark aura surrounded the revolver and Brady found his eyes drawn to the scar on Normak's forehead.

"You can see that stain as well as I can, huh?" Normak asked. Brady nodded. "The bottle can make a poet out of any man. It seemed fitting. To go out with Pa's gun. Use the beginning for the end. Seems so stupid now."

Pappy Collins sighed and took a seat, leaning against the thick glass cabinet. He pulled a pair of hand-rolled cigarettes from his coat, lit them both, and offered one to Brady, who accepted and sat down next to him. It was the closest either man had been in years.

"Why'd the Hunter bring you back?" Brady asked after a long moment. "My others tell me suicide types aren't terribly appealing."

Normak chuckled.

"That so? I'll have to ask my new partner 'bout that," He said, tapping his chest. Normak looked up at the owl. It peered down at him. "Y'know, when you were a baby, I used to put owl feathers under your pillow to keep away evil spirits."

Brady laughed and took a hearty drag of his cigarette.

"Must have worked. Except for nighttime, I had a pretty charmed life."

The two finished their cigarettes and sat in amicable silence long enough to lose track of time. Before they knew it, the dawn was fast approaching. With what seemed a farewell screech, the gorgeous white barn owl with the golden markings flew from the bunker and out over the Collins ranch, disappearing.

Brady stood up, stretched, and offered a hand to Normak, who happily accepted.

"Y'know, you've got a hell of a collection here," Brady said, looking around at the old guns and sporting a sly grin.

"That I do," Normak agreed, crossing his arms.

"What say we saddle up and take some of these bad boys out? You didn't tear down my old shooting range, did you?" Brady asked.

"No, I did not," Normak said, a strange grin spreading across his wiry features.

Within Brady, the trickster god of death known as Coyote began to howl.

The two men gathered arms and ammunition, bonding over their love of guns and western history. Just as they were about to head for the stairs, something caught Brady's eye.

"What's this?" Brady asked.

It was a picture of his grandfather, Theodore "Teddy" Collins. He stood proudly in front of what looked to be the newly constructed Collins house, Brady's childhood home, a Winchester rifle slung over one shoulder, and a beautiful, snowy white barn owl with golden markings resting on his forearm. Brady flipped it over. In fading pencil, barely legible were the words "Teddy and Duke, 1955."

Normak came up behind Brady and looked at the picture. His eyes were misty.

"I'd forgotten all about Duke. Damn. Dad loved that bird," Normak said.

Brady set the picture down.

"Grandpa was the first Hell-Hunter. You inherited his legacy," Brady said." 1955. They died that year, Duke and him."

Normak nodded.

"The night the demon came for Pa, he hid me in this shed. I saw this Hell-Hunter outfit and held the Colt Lightning for the first time. When morning came, I was an orphan, but the Hell-Hunter was still very much alive. He lived in me."

Brady looked at the picture, at his proud and wonderful grandfather that he never got to meet, and his owl that even now looked over the property as a guardian spirit. He holstered the arm full of guns and nodded towards the door.

"C'mon," Brady said, starting up the stairs. "Let's go see if these old guns still work."

Normak laughed and followed his son, but not before pausing to put a hand on the old picture frame.

"Thank you."

* * *

"Mom! Mom!"

"Come quick!"

"Mom! It's Brady!"

Abigail Collins opened her eyes, her feet already on the floor. Her hand swept the bedside table and she grabbed the pistol she kept for protection before pounding down the stairs. The sound of gunshots filled the air, distant but close enough for worry. Two of her seven children crowded the front door and one was already on the porch, pointing. The sound of little metal pings cracked out across Collins ranch and the children cheered loudly.

As she neared, the six of them clamored, their faces lit with joy and excitement and Abigail slowed, lowering the pistol.

"What is it?" She asked, stepping past them and looking to where they pointed.

Abigail's heart skipped a beat. Shakily, she leaned against the door frame and set the pistol down on a nearby bench. Staring, her expression twisting between laughing and frowning, Abigail began to cry.

"Ma! Look! It's Pa and Brady!" Edlyn, her second-oldest shouted.

On a nearby hill overlooking the Collins house were two figures Abigail immediately recognized as her husband and her eldest boy. They stood where they had ten years earlier when Normak taught Brady to shoot. Side by side, the two cowboys blasted away, shooting down the old training range. Their horses grazed nearby, saddled and loaded with rifles and ammunition. It was the most welcome sight she'd ever seen.

"My boys," Abigail said, laughing with tears running down her cheeks.

The End