A Book Without A Name: Western Horror • Splatter Western • Southern Gothic Anthology

By B. L. Blankenship

The 19th Century was a bitterly cruel time in American history. President Abraham Lincoln waged an ongoing war across the seceding South that would inevitably kill a higher percentage of Americans than any war to date. Thereafter, the proud people of this fallen Confederacy would be diminished, written off as traitors, and oppressed benea

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Blankenship
• Release date: Apr 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087955872

B. L. Blankenship

About the AuthorB. L. BlankenshipBenjamin Lee Blankenship was born in Toledo, Ohio in 1981 to his two southern parents Larry Brown Blankenship of Giles County, Tennessee & Jonelle Blankenship of Harlan, Kentucky. During his youth in the mid-1990s, he moved to Roane County, Tennessee. Having a deep love for literature and history, he's studied many aspects of the American Civil War.Like many Americans his ancestors fought on both sides of the war. Each of his direct bloodline kindred that fought for the Federal Government (i.e. Union Army) lived in the Republican stronghold of Harlan County, Kentucky. They were: • James H. Ticky Howard (1832-1922)• Leonard Samuel Scott (1825-1889)• David E. Lee (1824-1905)• Elijah G. Helton (1829-1904)• William Burton "Gabby Burt" Hensley (1832-1906)Each of these willingly submitted to the federal draft under the direction of Robert Hays, Prevost Martial of the 8th Kentucky District.Likewise, his family housed many proud Democrats who fought for the Confederate States of America. Unlike the array of Harlan Co. Union Soldiers within his bloodline, those who chose to serve as Confederates were spread abroad; they were:CONFEDERATE HERITAGE:Richard Pierce Stracener (1843-1906)7th Reg. Georgia Infantry--------------------------James W. Farmer (1834-1910)Company C, North Carolina 3rd Light Artillery Battalion--------------------------Jefferson Pack (1830-1864)35th Regiment Tennessee Infantry, 5th Infantry,1st Mountain Rifle Regiment--------------------------Granville Smith (1843-1923)60th Regiment Virginia Infantry3rd Regiment Wise Legion, Company A--------------------------Gabrial "Rial" Smith (1820-1912)4th Regiment, Virginia Reserves, Company F--------------------------William Riley Thurman (1816-1907)2nd Battalion, Arkansas Infantry--------------------------All of B. L. Blankenship's direct bloodline ancestors lived through the American Civil War except for the confederate Jefferson Pack. He was born in Stokes, North Carolina (1830) and died on November 12th, 1864 while imprisoned at Camp Douglas, Illinois.

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Introduction

  Very often my books have Dedications, Introductions, Prologues, and an array of other things all before the meat of the book. A fellow author told me some time back that she doesn’t participate in Open Submissions because they’re over-saturated. Having thought of spearheading an anthology of my own, I felt that I’d have my OCD self give it a try, knowing that I could use anything the publishers didn’t use in this. Consistently, I received some of the nicest, most apologetic letters telling me how writers have bombasted them, and they thereby were forced to refuse a lot of terrific material. Following that, on each refusal letter was an encouraging plead to keep submitting to Open Submissions like that.

  Ergo, the works of mine within this book consist of the short stories that could have appeared elsewhere, but didn’t. Also, a short story and narrative poem I’d previously published by themselves are in this as well, so they’ll be attainable in a physical book. Public domain works are utilized to break apart the book. Likewise, there are an array of authors who have been included, all of which were green-lighted via my personal invitation. These are authors who have appeared in other anthologies, been cool to me, or in one case lives next door.

  The stories in this book are predominately within the sub-genre of Western Horror. Howbeit, it is open to nebulous period pieces or other sorts of gothic/horror from the nineteenth century. As is always the case and should go without saying, the stories under each individual author’s name is reflective of that author's works. As this is horror, many of the stories would be in the PG-13 - R-Rated category. If you like any of their stories, check them out and support them in purchasing these other books.

  Enjoy.

B. L. Blankenship

w i l l i a m  s h a k e s p e a r e

Sonnet 71

no longer mourn me when i am dead

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell;

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it; for I love you so,

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O, if (I say) you look upon this verse,

When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

But let your love even with my life decay,

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

And mock you with me after I am gone.

b. l. blankenship

The Dead are There

i

He awoke beside the whore.

Her skin looked so pale and fare.

Her ghostly face was as white as lace.

Death’s stench faintly kissed the air.

Her bed smelled of the sweetest perfumes

to mask the smell of sin.

So many Johns had lied with her

There’s no telling how many it had been.

He awoke from a night of burning passion

to that harlot’s empty mortal shell.

Though the night before seemed a sort of Heaven,

Dawn’s light revealed its course, a way to Hell.

Like leaves decaying, upon the Earth laying

So there this dead tramp lied.

And her John knew when her soul withdrew

Hades opened its mouth wide.

He unremittingly examined the harlot’s corpse

And carefully looked over her porcelain skin;

Asking himself, "If I prized open her mouth

What would I find within?

Would creeping things wriggle up from her bowels

which crawl, slither, and squirm;

No longer wishing to abide inside this desolate thing

since life therein adjourned?

Or perhaps they’d prefer to remain

to claw, and sting, and gnash

Until her corpse had flushed out its dung

And degraded to rot and ash?

If I pressed my lips to her’s

Would her demons enter into me

And like the angels they were long ago

Would their songs dissuade this tragedy?"

As these dark dreams passed before him

Their words like music, it seemed

But then he questioned this reality?

Is she truly dead, or is this merely a dream?

Had guilt overcome this man’s sinful mind

For the seed he had sown

As he lied with the harlot in her bed

When he should have been asleep at home?

Summer sweat still soaked his skin

unscathed by lukewarm night.

This harlot now faced judgment at last

Since her soul had taken flight.

One day, he too would drift away

From Him whom one cannot run

To lurch naked and enchained unto God’s throne

For every wicked deed he’d done.

Had she been touched for her wicked deeds,

Or was this just happenstance?

Incidental and merely inconsequential?

She was not pierced by requitement’s lance…

And so entranced he gazed at her corpse

Praying that this were a dream

As though his sinful prayers could escape her room

And drive him from this thing.

Time drifted by and shadows turned

Riding about the walls

Though they stood near her window so small

They’d now stretched themselves so tall

It was as though these figures were watching him

They stalked him as if he was their prey

And no matter how many tears this John did cry

They wouldn’t go away.

Rising up, he got dressed

and fled this silken grave

But before he left, he looked back

upon her whom he had craved

At the door he heard sin’s sweet voice

Sounding in his head

Luring his sinful eyes towards her corpse

Lying nude, with her legs wide spread.

His mind became consumed in ineffable darkness

Such sin had stained his soul

Things seemed so grave. What might he pray

to make himself pure and whole?

He reasoned he’d cut her to pieces

And bathe himself in her blood

He’d break this witch’s spell, release his soul from Hell,

Then he might find his rest above.

And so he began to skin, chop, and flay her

with a clever, axe, and knife

And in his sickened and perverse mind

this John felt it’d save his life.

As he worked his way to her neck

which was covered by her hair

He pushed it back, then emitted a gasp

As he saw the long thin bruises there.

Why, these perfectly align with my fingers

He thought in strange delight

"Was she the monster or was it me,

who asphyxiated her late last night?"

There as he pondered, memories came and went

rushing through his wicked mind

Of the many women he had killed

and butchered them like swine.

ii

Still, there in the newness of morning

a young John then knelt before a bedded grave,

To kiss the lips of this dead whore,

Whose life he’d stripped away.

He never even knew her name

Or what brought her to this place.

He reasoned the life that she had lived

Had led her to this fate.

With many blades he hacked and chopped

at this poor dead broken thing

Dousing the walls with her blood,

Strewing her intestines about like string.

What made this most difficult

was her ghastly pungent reek;

Were it not for the perfumed bed, he might have fled

This scene so macabre, dark, and bleak.

By midday he’d left that place

with clean clothes and hands

And to anyone who’d not witnessed what he’d done

He seemed a common man.

There was nothing spectacular which he conveyed

Not wit, nor grace, nor charm

He portrayed such unextraordinary normality

None would believe he’d render harm.

Lost in the crowd, he’d walk the streets;

A stranger unnoticed, and threat unseen

Longing for the day he’d find new prey

And alone they’d both convene.

As a child he found a baby bird

He held it in his grasp.

It was unable to get away

As his fingers slowly clasped.

He heard its hollow bones crackle

as in his grip they broke.

His wicked heart filled with delight

As if it were a joke.

As he grew, this sickening man

Did far crueler things.

He was wiser than they ever knew,

As if it were all some sort of game.

This poor dead whore mentioned,

Was not his first, nor his last.

Darkness and desolation followed this John.

He could not escape his past.

Sheol’s fire dashed the bottom of his feet

as on his course he trod

Ushering lost souls into eternity

before the judgment seat of God.

Each time it rained upon the streets

He thought how teardrops fell

And wondered did the Heavens weep

For the souls he’d thrust into Hell.

At times he thought himself a gardener

working in the field.

Striking down tares amidst the wheat

So it might bear a better yield.

On his way from town to town

This John scoured the land

Rending death and evil

Adding more blood to his hands.

He walked in a world of nightmares

haunted by the deceased whores’ shades.

These scars left by their banished souls

echoed from their bloodstained graves.

It was the cost of his work

and the great darkness that he knew.

Perhaps ‘The Pit’ would be his home

for the hidden things he’d do?

Howbeit, was this not judgment and mercy

purging the wicked from the land?

He’d never harmed an innocent one

but banished evil by his hand.

Surely, those things in nature he’d expelled

wouldn’t be counted as sin.

For he had heard in God’s Holy Word

Mankind has dominion over them.

And so he argued and pled his case

to excuse all of his wrongs.

Like sweet sounds of a symphony

The dying acted to him as song.

Yet, in time he learned the truth

in slaying of those poor damned whores,

For one day he saw devils play

as though through the crack in a door.

It happened then, one called to him

and was matter-a-fact.

Saying, "My child, God has now forsaken you,

and there’s no turning back."

A chorus then joined in

to remind of his wicked deeds.

He sobbed, "Could you make me a God

If I let you live in me?"

And then pure darkness filled the little room

His mind ravelled in the deepest Hell.

In infancy he was such a precious child

but now, so far it seemed he’d fell.

Upward went the slayings

Without mercy, none were spared.

The proverbial harlot’s bed is a way to Hell

and the dead truly are there.

mawr gorshin

Ghost Town

Duane Parkhurst rode on his horse into his small hometown of Arlington only to find it completely deserted.

What the hell? he whispered to himself as he looked around and saw not even one person on the main street.

Far off in the distance along the main road, he could see the local saloon, which looked burned down to its foundations. It was an eerie sight, seeing it all turned from a healthy brown to a black of death. It reminded him of some nasty business he’d been involved in just a few days ago.

Don’t mind that for now, he thought; I’ll check on it later. I wanna go home ‘n’ see the Missus, see if she’s alright.

He rode off the main road and found the neighbourhood of houses where his family’s was. He got there in a few minutes. He got off his horse, took off his hat, and went in through the front door.

Emily? he called out for his wife, then for his kids: Billy? Sue?

He looked around the parlour, then the kitchen, and finally, in his and Emily’s bedroom.

Where the hell is everyb– he said as he entered the bedroom, then he saw Emily.

She was hanging by the neck under a wood beam from the ceiling. A kicked-over stool was lying by her feet.

Oh, my God! No! he yelled, then ran over to her body.

He untied the rope and took her down. He laid her on the bed, then removed the rope from her broken neck. The red marks were deeply cut into her neck. He checked for breath and movement, only to find none. The top of her dress was torn open, revealing her breasts. He looked over at the floor, by the stool: her torn-off drawers were lying there. He wouldn’t allow himself to imagine what had happened.

No, baby, no, he wept. Why? Why’d ya do it? He held his head in his hands and continued weeping for several more minutes. Then he got up and left the room, fearing for his kids. What the hell happened here?

He kept looking around the house for little Billy and Sue, but they were nowhere to be found. It was getting harder and harder for him to contain himself. He returned to the parlour and sat on his chair. He needed a moment to think things over, to reflect on what had happened over the past several days…not that they had had anything to do with what was going on now, surely.

It had been three days, since September 23rd, 1883, to be exact, when he and his gang robbed the bank in Chesterton, Nebraska, and burned down two buildings there to distract the locals from chasing the gang. Actually, two of the boys in the gang, brothers George and Ronald Wilson, also burned the buildings down for the sheer fun of it.

All of them had safely ridden out of town on their horses after a shootout with the sheriff and his men, and Duane and his partner in the robbery, Clifford Keane, hid out by some trees. (George and Ronald were slowed down by the shootout, which injured both of their horses.) Then Duane pointed his sawed-off shotgun at Clifford.

What the hell d’you think you’re doin’, there, boy? Clifford said as he stared at the barrel of Duane’s gun.

Drop yer share of the loot, Duane said.

You’re gonna regret this, Duane, Clifford said, then untied his bags from his horse and dropped them to the ground.

I’m sure I will, Duane said with a grin, then shot him.

George and Ronald were approaching on foot, their horses too badly hurt to be ridden on anymore, when they saw Clifford fall off of his horse and hit the ground, a river of blood flowing from his gut. Their jaws dropped.

What the hell you doin’, Duane? George said.

Drop yer bags, boys, he told them.

They did. Then he shot them. He got off his horse and picked up Clifford’s bags of loot.

As he went over to get George’s and Ronald’s bags, he heard the gasps of barely-alive Clifford: You will pay dearly for your sins, Duane…You…will…pay…dear…ly…

Duane tied the other bags to his horse, got on, and rode on towards Arlington. Any posse coming for me would first find the bodies of my gang, he thought. They’ll be too distracted with the bodies to continue searching for me. In fact, who knows? Maybe the posse will think the whole gang was killed and they’ll stop the search completely.

If this last possibility came true, he would be totally free. Then he would ride into Arlington with all that extra loot and enrich the entire village, not just his family with his original cut. So were his hopes at the time.

But now that he’d reached Arlington, he saw nobody, not a soul, to share all that money with.

His triple murder and grand theft had all been for nothing.

Unless his kids were still alive. He hung on to that fragile hope.

He went back outside, put his hat back on, and got on his horse.

I’m going back to the main street, he thought as he began riding. That saloon down the way, burnt to a crisp, looks ominous, but I’ve got to find the truth to whatever happened here.

As he was riding along, he heard, Duane, whispered from a familiar voice.

Emily’s.

He spun his horse around in a panic.

There she was, a glowing, ghostly apparition that was floating before his face. The rope marks were still on her neck, she was in the frilly dress she’d had on–still torn and showing off most of her breasts–when she killed herself, and on her pretty face was a permanent frown.

Hey, baby, he sobbed. Why’d ya kill yerself?

I couldn’t live with myself after what…they done to me, she said in a reverberating whisper.

What…who done to ya? Done what to ya, darlin’? He still refused to contemplate the meaning behind her torn dress.

Three men…yesterday…they…knew me…in a way…only you’re supposed to know me. The ghost began sobbing.

No longer able to deny it, Duane blew up. Where are they?! I’ll kill ’em, the lousy sumbitches! He was ready to ride off.

You can’t.

What’dye mean, I can’t? I’m quick on the draw! You think yer husband ain’t man enough to–

It ain’t that, honey. You can’t kill ’em ’cause they’re already dead, like me.

His eyes widened so much, you could have seen almost half his eyeballs, it seemed. His jaw dropped so low, it was almost touching his chest. Naw, he thought; it couldn’t have been them.

How can dead men…v-violate you, honey?

I don’t know, but three ghosts came at me and…they did things to me…that are so filthy…I can’t describe ’em to you. She began weeping again. They were like…ghosts with bodies, ’cause I could….feel them…inside me. She was weeping louder now.

Who were they? Duane asked, afraid to hear the answer.

They told me their names, ’cause they wanted me to tell you: Clifford Keane, and George and Ronald Wilson.

Duane fell off his horse. His hat fell off, and the wind took it away.

He just sat there on the dirt road, stunned, for several minutes.

That can’t be! he thought. Emily never met the members of my gang, not even once in her life. There’s no way she could have known their names. Still, can ghosts come back from the dead like that? Naw, they can’t!

He snapped out of it and looked around. Emily was gone.

Uh, baby? Where’d ya go?

No answer.

He got back up and got on his horse. He continued riding over to that saloon, full of emotional exhaustion and dread.

He reached the front of the saloon, that is, its charred and blackened remains, and he got off his horse. He walked in so slowly, it was almost as if he were standing still.

As he walked around the remains of the ground floor, with its coal-black stools, tables that once had been, and a bar totally devoured by fire, he heard faint voices from below.

We’re down here, a group of voices whispered.

In the basement? he asked.

Yes, they said in those eerie, ethereal voices. Come down and meet us.

He gulped, then looked around for the stairs down there…hoping he wouldn’t find them, but sadly, he did find them.

Duane went down those stairs with shaking legs as the whispering voices grew louder.

Come and meet your destiny, one voice said.

Come and meet your doom, said another.

Daddy, two children’s voices whispered…familiar voices.

Billy? Duane yelped, then rushed down the rest of the stairs, almost tripping at one point. Sue?

He stopped dead in his tracks just a few steps from the bottom. For in the basement, he saw a hill of charred corpses. It seemed to be pretty much the entire population of his village here in this large basement. The stench was unbearable. He put his hand over his mouth and nose, then continued inside.

Daddy, Billy’s and Sue’s voices said again.

Where are you? Duane asked in sobs, his eyes darting all over the place to find their ghosts.

Over here, Daddy, they whispered. He followed their voices over to the hill of bodies.

He stopped before a slope of the hill of corpses when he saw two tiny, blackened arms sticking out, each with a distinctive bracelet on its wrist. Though they were damaged by the fire, he could still recognize them by the names carved into them: Billy and Sue.

He’d given them the bracelets as gifts a year ago.

He broke down and wailed, Oh, my babies!

Why’d you do it, Daddy? Billy’s voice asked from over his right ear.

His head spun around behind him, and he looked up to see floating apparitions of his eight-year-old boy and six-year-old girl. They looked down at him with a kind of despairing frown that should never be seen on children.

Why’d I do what, boy? Duane asked in sobs.

Kill those three men you were workin’ with, Sue asked. Weren’t they yer friends? You’re never supposed to do that to yer friends, ain’t that right, Daddy?

Duane’s heart was pounding with terror to know that they knew something they couldn’t have known. The words of his sweet, innocent daughter gave him a pang of conscience.

It’s enough of a sin that you robbed that bank and had your men burn those buildings and kill all the people in ’em, but killin’ yer own buddies, Daddy? Billy asked in that haunting, echoing voice. That’s just too much.

An’ yer buddies done killed all o’ us to get back at you, Daddy, Sue said in that same, chilling whisper. If you hadn’t done killed ’em, they wouldn’t ‘a’ killed us.

How could this’ve happened? Duane sobbed. I just wanted to use all the loot to help our poor town to invest it and prosper. Those three men were just thieves. No one woulda missed ’em.

You got greedy, Duane, the familiar voice of a man, Clifford’s, rang in Duane’s ears. I told you you’d pay dearly for your sins.

Duane turned his head slowly, away from the ghosts of his kids, the other way to find the source of Clifford’s voice. Sure enough, now he saw apparitions of not only his ghost, but also the ghosts of George and Ronald.

It’s payback time, Duane, George said.

Remember what it says in Galatians 6:7, Ronald said. Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.

Since when are you a preacher all of a sudden, Ronald? Duane said. You’re as much an unrepentant sinner as I am. I never committed arson, as you ‘n’ yer brother done!

True, but we’re paying for our sins now, Ronald said. As you will be doin’ soon…with us, in Hell!

All three ghosts were glowing and hovering over Duane’s head, looking down at him with malevolent smiles.

But before you’re sent to Hell, where we’ll really torment you, Clifford said, we want you to see how all your efforts to help your town done the opposite.

How’d you kill everyone here, you sumbitches? Duane asked.

Well, after we raped yer wife… Ronald said.

…and did things to her that are illegal in every state in the Union, George added with a lewd grin. What exactly are the laws against sodomy, fellas?

You shut yer goddam mouth, George! That’s my wife you stained!

Oh, yeah?