"Shelby Journal" - A Scary Story from the Past

7/30/2019 "Shelby Journal" - A Scary Story from the Past

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September2nd 1868Arrived inCheyenne in thenew Wyoming

Territory earlythis morning onthe new Union

Pacific line. Hasbeen three years


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since I rode the

locomotive. Didnot realize itwould remind meso strongly ofAtlanta. Spent

the last day ofthe journey withthe phantom

smell of bloodand iron in my


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nostrils, and the

bile rising at theback of mythroat, but it isover. God willing,I will never have

to ride the trainagain. Cheyenneis new born and

mewling like ababe. Immigrants


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from the east and

across the seasteem here, fillingthe streets with ababel of tonguesand the raucous

laughter ofdrunken listlessyouths. The

hound Ipurchased before


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leaving tugs at

his leash withdelight at thesights and sound.

The plot of land isstill two days ride

across the borderand to theSouthwest, but

true to his word,the man from the


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bank has hired a

guide to take methere. Sent a lastletter to my wifeand boys withinstructions to

meet me here inthe spring, andhave purchased a

wagon and thesupplies for


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construction. The

guide, a halfIndian fellow, Idwager byappearance, butcivilized in

tongue, hashelped me hiretwo young men:

an Irishman witha sullen chinless


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face, and a

German, wateryeyed and stinkingof bourbon. Bothdespicablewretches, but

they have agreedto work for apittance, and

both claim tohave experience


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in homesteading.

They may intendto kill me, seeingan easy mark in anaive settler, butI do not fear

these drunkenchildren. Iveseen a

generation ofthese boys


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spilled open, and

I know what theyare made of.

September8th 1868

Have crossed intothe Free Territoryof Colorado, after

a day of the levelprairie of warm


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wind of Wyoming,

into the FrontRange. This landis wild, in somestrange way, andlike nothing Ive

ever seen. Weare following ariver through the

shadow of twojagged peaks,


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and camp tonight

just a few milesfrom the parcel ofland. I requestedremote, and byGod, the bank

man did not failme. The Krautand the Irishman

grow demure andquiet without


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spirits, and I see

no possibility ofviolence in themnow, lest theysuspect me ofhoarding whisky.

They will do finequick labor, andreturn to

Cheyenne todrink and fuck


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the profits.

These are men ofdust, and serveonly this purpose.

To think, goodmen like me

fought and diedto protect thesejackals from the

reach of Lincolnstyranny, God


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grind his bones. I

will be free ofthat monstersoon, and if itshould spread itsfederal borders

this far, then Iwill burn my newhome to the

ground and movewest yet again.


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Sons of bitches

will have to pushme into the seabefore I swearfealty.Found a skull just

off the deer trail,when I went tomake water; it

was bleachedwhite and


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divorced from

jawbone andneck. I try notview this aportent.

Tomorrow, we

should reach theplot, and begin.

September9th 1868


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The bank man

has lied to me,the foul stuffedpig. The plot ofland, clearlyidentified by

compass andmap, is not theidyllic grove his

words painted,but a swamp. A


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sodden hollow

filled with mudand grass, ringedwith broken anddying pines. Iwould flay my

guide alive if Ithought hiswretch of an

employer mightfeel a sting.


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Am determined

to homesteadhere, however.

This may not bethe land Idesired, but it is

mine, by God.The Irishman andthe German fell

trees for me, andI have found the


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highest place,

where the earthis damp the least.I will tame thisland.

The hound does

not like it here.He growls at thehorizon and pads

in small tightcircles, looking


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always behind

him.

September

10th 1868Guide has

vanished in thenight. He was tospend the next

few days properlymapping the


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borders of my

land, but he hasfled. Worse stillthe Irishman andthe Kraut havegrown skittish at

his departure, theGerman tells atale of hearing

screaming in thewoods last night.


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But in morning

light, the guidestent andbelongings werepacked away andgone.

It shames me toadmit, but myfirst night was

filled withunease. There is


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something about

this land, unlikeany in the East. Itseems to breatheand pulse aroundme, like it

watches me witha coldintelligence. The

trees sing softlyin the breeze and


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in the smallest

hours, whensleep had fledinto the dark, Ifancied I heardwhispering voices

in the breeze. Iwill share none ofthis with the

laborers; they areweak and callow


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enough as it is. If

superstitioninfects them, Iwill be left alonehere while theyflee.

September14th 1868


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My hands bleed

at the end ofeach day. I drivethe boys hard,but myselfharder. The

skeleton of thecabin is completenow, but there is

much more workto do. I do not


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think they have

the stomach forreal work, thesedogs. They slow,now that theysee the rough

outline, believingtheir work is atan end. I suppose

a pig mayrecognize a barn


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by sight, but we

would hope toomuch to thinkthey understanda crossbeam anda proper roof.

My dread in thenights hasdeepened to a

level I scarcelyam willing to


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accept. In the

ebon black of thenight, I am animmigrant from adead land intoone that lives

yet; each creakof the treesseems to come

from my ownshuddering spine.


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While I hear no

birds or beastduring the day, afact that onlynow seems tohave pertinence,

the night is alivewith the rustle inthe bush.

Occasionally, Ihear the crashing


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stomp of one of

the drunkardsslogging to thetree line to voidhis bladder.

The boys have

indeed broughtout a stash ofbottles, and they

have taken todrinking


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themselves into a

stupor eachnight, rationingthe stuff to fendoff the night. Iwont speak of it

to the likes ofthem, but I knowthey share my

unease. Theireyes are hollow


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each morning

and I catch themwhipping aroundto look wide eyedinto the trees asif theyd seen

their deathscoming onpadded feet.

Ive taken toleashing the


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hound at the

edge of theclearing. Hewhimpers andshuddersthroughout the

night, and whenhe wakes, hehowls and barks

at the sky. If hecannot make


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himself useful

when the need tohunt arises, I willput a bullet in hisnoisy skull.

September

15th 1868The German is

gone. I suspectedat first that he


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had turned his

tail up, back toCheyenne. I waswise not to payhim up front. Hiscompanion, sick

with fear anddelusion, enteredthe cabin shook

me awake to tellme that he had


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been carried off

in the night,same as ourguide. I boxed hisears and draggedhim to their

camp, whereas Isuspected, hisbelongings were

gone, but thewretch refused to


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work until wed

looked for hispartner.Combed thewoods all daywith no sign of

the German.Some of thenights alien

gloom lingers inthe woods


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throughout the

day, and I mustconfess leapingat the smallestnoises. Thehound, finding his

purpose again,tracked theGermans trail,

only to find that itlooped around


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the grove several

times, spiralingoutward from thecabin. The trailsoon vanished,and the hound

began to strain atthe leash,pleading for me

to return him tothe safety of our


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clearing.

With the cabin insight, at the edgeof the trees Imade anunsettling

discovery. Attwice the level ofa mans height, a

canvas rucksackhung from the


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dead branches of

a massive grayand rotting pine.More unsettling,when I openedthe satchel, I

found the clothesof a much shorterman than I had

expected. Thiswas our guides


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bag.

I will not tell thepoor fear-crazedIrishman when hereturns. To credithis bravery, he

still remains inthe woods asnight falls. I hear

him shouting hiscompanions


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name as he

follows thespiraling trailwith no end. Heis a fool, butbraver than I

believed.The dark hasswept over the

land like thesackcloth of


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revelations, and

there is ice in myblood. I can nolonger hear theIrishman now,the sounds of the

night, the stillunfamiliartapestry of living

bodies and thecreak of the


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towering pines

drown out hiscries.I feel a foolish,but I fear for hissafety.

September16th 1868

Woke in themoonless night to


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the sounds of

screaming, far inthe distance. Awhimpering,tearing shriekthat stilled even

the noises of thedark. I laid,unable to move

in the bedroll onthe wooden floor,


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unsure for a time

if I had everactually left thebattlefieldhospital ofAtlanta and

waiting forcannon andmusket fire. But it

was only the onelone boy,


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screaming in the

dark, and I washelpless to savehim. I clutchedthe rifle close,and the hound

lay shivering atmy side. The boyscreamed, his

voice comingfrom every


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direction over the

course of severalhours before itdissipated into asoft whimper.We could do little

but wait fordaybreak.In the light of

day, I forced thehound back into


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the maw of the

woods. I feel likewilting and cryingeach time Icontemplateleaving the

swampy ring oftrees, but evenan Irishman

deserves acursory search.


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I found him near

dusk. Afterfollowing a nowfamiliar spiralingtrail, I reachedthe unnatural

giant tree thatonce held theguides

belongings. Itwas fresh marked


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with jagged

irregular cutsthat exposed therotting heartwoodbeneath. Thecuts went high up

into the boughs,and I had tostrain my eyes to

see, but what Ifinally made out


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made me

suddenly ill.The boy laycradled in twohigh branches,with his limbs

dangling andcracked in adozen false

joints. His headwas twisted, like


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he sought to

imitate an owl,completelybehind him. Oneglassy eyestretched wide

next to an emptysocket, and histongue lolled

from his frozenjaw.


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He is owed a

Christian burial,even a papistsuch as him, but Iwill need to fellthe tree to fetch

his body. I wish Ihad the strengthand will to do it

now, but thenight of lost rest


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before and the

days gruesomebusiness robs meof the desire formuch besidessleep.

September17th 1868

I am leaving thisplace. I lose all


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that I own, but if I

leave in a fewhours with thesafety of thedawn, I leavewith my life. I will

see my wife andboys again. Wokethis morning to a

flinty gray dawnthat never turned


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blue, but only

drizzled a thinvapor of rain. Theidea that I evercould havedreamed of living

here sickens menow. I sat all dayon the porch of

the house, thevery ground of


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the meadow

lookingthreatening. The

jagged teeth ofthe trees againstthe gray sky, and

the lapping of thepuddled water inthe wind gave me

the uncannyfeeling of being


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inside a

gargantuan mawthat has beenclosing down onme since themoment I arrived.

I was stilldetermined then,to reclaim this

land. To fill thebog and fell the


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trees, and make

the fertile blacksoil work undermy plow. Howfoolish, now.With the fall of

night came awhipping wind,buffeting me with

heavy damp air.When the last


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thread of light

had been cut, thehound stood tohis feet andstrained againstthe leash, hair on

end and teethbared. Hestrained on the

leather leash thatheld him and


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began to growl, a

low menacingsound. I looked towhere hestruggled tolunge, but could

see nothing in, nohorizon betweenground and

forest, or forestand sky. Just


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blackness.

When the leashbroke, it made apopping sound,like a firecracker,and the hound

bolted into theblack. I heard theangry rhythm of

his barking as hewas absorbed


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into the dark.

Then, it ceased,and I heard asharp squeal.

Then silence. Thecrowding throng

of life that I hadfelt each nightbefore was

utterly silent, theonly sound the


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dry rustle of the

pine.I shouldered therifle and firedonce into thedark, and my skin

rippled as myinsides froze. Inthe bright flash of

the rifle, I saw aphantom


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impression of the

world inside thegloom, pale treesand wet earth.And I saw,clearly, the

corpse of thehound, wet andglistening. Beside

it, was the shapeof some foul


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thing. Crouched

on crooked legs,like the limbs ofsome beast, itheld some darkportion of the

dog in its splayedfingers. It wasupright, and

looking straightat me. All I saw of


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its face was the

bright diamondglint of two eyes,and teeth. Somany teeth.

The gunshot

rolled down thevalley indarkness, and I

heard nomovement from


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the blackness

beyond. With allthe speed I couldmuster I fled forthe cabin andbarricaded the

door with everycrate and unusedhearthstone I

could find.Gripping the rifle


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tight, I did my

best to layperfectly silently,and swore toleave at firstlight.

When sleepfinally came, itwas fitful, and I

awoke only a fewhours later to a


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strange pinprick

burning on myneck. I cameawake to find thehead of the dog,perched like a

trophy at the topof the barricade,which yet lay

intact andundisturbed.


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Around me were

the hellish tracksof some beast,wet mud shapesthat defiedidentifications. I

put my hand tomy throat andfelt a line of small

drops across it.Blood welling up


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from a delicate

scratch that ranfrom ear to ear.

The room wasempty, and stillfortified from

within.But it had beenhere with me,

moments before.It had marked


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me, toyed with

me, and left.And so, at firstlight, I will leave.

September

18th 1868I am 10 milesfrom the cabin,

and I cursemyself for a fool.


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With the morning

sun the meadowsteamed and feltsomehow... safer,but still I packedmy lightest

valuable toolsand left thecabin. Five miles

down the road,doubt set in. I


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have stopped to

eat on this smallbluff looking outat the glory ofGods creation,and I have made

up my mind.Readingyesterdays entry

flushes me withshame, what a


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coward I was!

Whatever thatthing is, its abeast, and I am asoldier. I will huntit, trap it, and kill

it. What God andGrant could notgrind out of me, I

will not relinquishto some wild


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animal. I will not

leave my wifeand sonspaupers, I will bea man. I willreturn.


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June 29th, 1869Mrs. Augustine ShelbyGrand Hotel Cheyenne,WyomingDear Mrs. ShelbyWe recently received theenclosed from a pair ofhunters who discovered it in

forests of the Front Range inColorado Territory. Havingbeen made privy to the issueof your missing husband, wefelt it was best to inform you

directly, and pass on hisjournal and a few otherpossessions.


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The hunters describe the areain which they found the items

in a way that agrees exactlywith your husbandsdescription in the journal, butthere was no cabin, norfoundation, or any other signsof habitation.We are deeply sorry that wecould not be of moreassistance to you, and I pray

that your husband willeventually be found.Deepest RegretsColonel Benjamin WilliamsFort Collins Colorado Territory

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"Shelby Journal" - A Scary Story from the Past