Incident at Whisper Falls: Mystik America, #1

By J. Stephen Thompson

"A deftly blended genre mashup"
-Kelley Kombrinck, Night of the Living Podcast

"Magic and Mayhem in the Old West"
-David Lee Summers, Author of The Clockwork Legion

"This weird western is nothing less than magical."

-K.M. Latch, Author of Winchester County Legends

McCray is a bounty hunter who specializes in hunting Mystik outlaws. Spenser Townshend is a Mystik conman who uses magic to commit crimes. Together, they stumble upon the mystery of Whisper Falls, a town that ceased to exist a dozen years ago, and a gang of outlaws straight out of Hell.  In a town where nearly everyone has their secrets and nothing is what it seems, McCray and Townshend must join forces and, along with the local sheriff, a bevy of beautiful saloon girls, and a skeptical frontier doctor, put down the supernatural threat.  Welcome to Whisper Falls, a new vision of the Old West!

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Stephen Thompson
• Release date: Dec 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9798201338343

J. Stephen Thompson

Stephen Thompson was born and raised in West Virginia. As a kid, Saturday mornings were meant for Westerns with his grandparents. At night, after everyone else had gone to bed, he would sneak and watch Chiller theater on a little black and white TV in the spare bedroom. These two early influences would lead to a life-long love of the Horror and Western genres. This love would spawn several film podcasts(JAFMP, Wanted: Alive or Preferably Dead), an acting stint in a horror film (Porkchop 3D), and finally, his own series of Western/Action/Horror/Fantasy novels.

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To my grandmother, Elizabeth, for all the Saturday mornings spent with Brett Maverick, Wild Bill, Wyatt Earp, and Marshal Matt Dillon.

And to my father, James, for introducing me to The Twilight Zone, Trinity & Bambino, and John Wayne.  He’ll always be the fastest on the draw and the straightest shooter I know. 

PROLOGUE

Whisper Falls, Wyoming . 1861

In the shadows, Reverend Mitchell prayed. In sobbing, halting breaths, he reminded the Almighty of his years of tireless service in the Lord’s name. He laced his prayer with flattery, praising God’s wisdom, strength, and compassion. He used words like deliverance, salvation, and liberation. Despite the eloquence and adulation, only the most naive deity would fail to see the true purpose behind the good reverend’s linguistic facade: Reverend Mitchell was begging for his life.

Not that he had any options available to him. He’d come to the town of Whisper Falls two years ago to bring the word of Christ to the edge of civilization. He’d not been in a fistfight since his childhood and had never even fired a weapon. Even had he the skill at firearms or fisticuffs, it would be little use against the enemy that had laid siege to the town.

In warmer months, taking the town would have been impossible for a gang of outlaws, even a gang as deadly as the one led by Ned Fetters. But this was September, and the air was tinged with the bitterness of the coming winter. The residents of means had already migrated south for the season, and the rest were busying themselves with stocking up for the long, cold months ahead. Only a few dozen people remained, and a good third of them were the whores.

The Fetters gang had robbed a bank on the outskirts of Denver a few weeks before, leaving four men, two women, and a horse dead in the street as they made their escape. It was Ned’s brother Bud, the brains of the bunch, that suggested no posse would be tenacious enough to chase them north at this time of year, especially into the mountains. Bud’s hunch was right. As outraged as the community was, no one was willing to join the Denver sheriff’s posse and risk getting buried in a mountain snowstorm. Justice would just have to keep until spring.

Ned and Bud Fetters decided that the nearly abandoned town would be the perfect place to hole up. Any other gang would probably have quietly ridden in, checked into the hotel, and waited out the winter with a degree of discretion. But Ned Fetters and his boys were known for being vicious, not cautious. Within an hour of hitting town, they’d tossed the town constable off the balcony of the Whisper Falls Hotel. He might have survived the fall, had it not been for the noose around his neck. Later that evening, two more locals decided to ride out to Old Man Taggart’s ranch for help. Before the moon rose they had joined the constable, their bodies knocking together at the end of ropes like a grotesque wind chime.

And so the Ned Fetters gang owned Whisper Falls. Soon the winds would come raging out of the mountains, angry and tempered by the icy peaks and smother the town in snow. No one in. No one out. Even the town’s namesake waterfall would come to rest as a silent column of ice. That’s the way it would be until the spring thaw, when the warm prairie winds would breathe life back into the town. Until then, all anyone could do was keep their head down and pray. Reverend Mitchell was doing both, here in a locked church, in the shadow of a six-foot-tall wooden cross.

There was a round window set high in the back wall of the church, and he’d had the large cross erected between it and the pulpit. During certain times of the year, the sun would hit the window just right and create a blinding halo around the apex of the cross. A well timed sermon about the blinding of Saul on the road to Damascus, combined with the light effect, could double the offering that week. He’d always known a flair for the dramatic.

Just as Reverend Mitchell was resuming his pleas, he heard the door rattle. Rolling off of his knees into a seated position on the floor, he drew in his breath. He had barred the front door, hadn’t he? The door rattled again, this time with more agitation. Then silence. Yes. Thank God, yes he had.

Mitchell exhaled. He had not realized how long he had been kneeling, and now that he had shifted positions, his feet and ankles were needled with pain as the circulation returned and his nerves reawakened. He winced and rubbed his calves, hoping to speed up his recovery. For the first time in hours, he began to relax. He needed a break, and for all he knew, so did God. He struggled to stand, but his feet weren’t ready to accommodate him quite yet. He turned and leaned on the pulpit for support, and doing so noticed the full moon streaming through the high round window, silhouetting the cross, and... the shadow of a man who appeared to be hanging from the crucifix.

Reverend Mitchell stepped back, his weary ankles gave way, and he fell flat on his back in the aisle of the church, but the figure didn’t even twitch. I have been praying too long, he thought. I wonder if this is what happened to Joan of Arc. He struggled to his feet, steeled himself, and stepped closer to the cross. Whatever was causing this illusion was quite convincing. Closer he crept to the figure, until it turned and spoke to him.

Boo, the shadow said, and Reverend Mitchell nearly broke his ankles when he fell backward this time. Mitchell strained to find his voice, but produced only a hoarse wheezing sound. Just as well, as the instinctive scream would only have drawn unwanted attention to the church. A chuckle came from the shadow.

Sorry. I have been listening to you go on for quite a bit, and I just had to do something to lighten the mood.

Reverend Mitchell just stared, mouth agape.

I have never understood why even near illiterates think they have to pray like they are reciting Shakespeare. All the hallowed art thou, and thine be the glory. It’s all quite tedious. Are you praying to God or composing a sonnet? The shadow took a step forward and lowered his arms, dispelling the illusion that he was hanging from the cross. You realize he is omnipotent? I am sure he is familiar with the current vernacular, the figure continued.

The figure snapped its fingers and two rows of candles that adorned the sanctuary lit themselves and illuminated the front of the church. Mitchell leaped to his feet and tried to extinguish the wicks with frantic palms, but each one lighted itself anew as he withdrew his hand.

Oh, please. A little light, the figure said. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. In fact, they aren’t even whose they used to be.

Reverend Mitchell inhaled a deep, calming breath and steadied himself, then turned to face this intruder. To his relief the figure was a frail, elderly man and clearly no physical threat. To his further relief, the thin, ancient man was dressed in a black priest’s cassock adorned with a red sash and wide, red cuffs embroidered with elaborate gold filigree.

How did... the door... Reverend Mitchell sputtered. After another deep breath, he began again. Did he send you?

The old priest laughed, and drew his right hand close to his chest and pointed furtively skyward. Did he send me? Well, you prayed, I came. Let’s not get all bogged down in causations and correlations.

Father— Reverend Mitchell began, but the intruder interrupted.

Well, Cardinal. But, it’s not like the army where ranks really matter, right? The intruder smiled a thin lipped smile so wide, it seemed as if someone were pulling his skin toward the back of his head.

Cardinal- Mitchell started again.

Funny, how the more pious you are, the nicer robes you get. Seems like it should be the other way around.

I— Mitchell was interrupted again.

And don’t get me started about the hats, the Cardinal continued. But you don’t want to discuss fashion, I take it. The Cardinal adopted an exaggerated, ominous tone. The answers you seek are in the book.

The Bible? Mitchell asked.

The Cardinal shook his head. You’ve read the Bible, right?

Of course, answered Reverend Mitchell.

"Then you should know not that book."

The Cardinal bounded up to the pulpit, and from beneath it produced a large, leather bound volume. The front cover was illustrated in what appeared to be red ink and depicted a large eye with three teardrops falling from it. He scratched the back of his head, where a line of peculiar stitches descended beneath the collar of his vestments.

And, now, preacher man! The Cardinal cast his arms wide in a grandiose gesture. Now we find out how much you are willing to pay for salvation!

CHAPTER ONE

MONTANA TERRITORY, 1873

The Bounty Hunter stood in the entrance to the saloon, casting a long shadow across the floor ahead of him; a harbinger of the apothic. Dressed entirely in black and back-lit by the afternoon sun, it seemed as though the man and his shade were one dark entity. The bar grew quiet at his appearance, but only for the briefest moment. The occupants returned their attention to their drinks