That metal buckle coming down, every whip strike meant to a prove a point. Whatever it intended, the slurred explanations, drunken screams never came close to assuring understanding. Afterwards, brothers gathered to comfort. Nothing said; wounds cleaned – the Lynch boys told jokes to keep the silence from crushing them. All the while, Cillian assured with a grim smile he would bear the brunt. Their father wouldn’t break him.
Waking in the woods, Cillian sat up with a start. Coughing, he hacked up a wad of ink black phlegm. Tossing into the ashes of the fire, he kicked off his blanket. Rising, he prepared for another day.
Piling wood into the fire pit, he focused his rage. He pressed a hand to the log. Letting the anger flow, he ignited the fire. He watched it burn his hand a moment. No pain. He pulled his hand back, and watched the skin heal. Although, it didn’t look quite the same. The fingers longer, bonier, the skin darkened and furrier.
Sighing, he shrugged it off as a trick of the twilight. He sat by the fire until the scarecrow appeared. It crept out from behind a tree.
“You got what I want?” Sam asked.
Cillian nodded. He went over to a small stack of supplies. There he collected a burlap sack, bulging like an overinflated balloon. He handed the sack to the scarecrow.
It held the opening to its mouth, undid the drawstring, and sucked in the contents. Sam shuddered. It reminded Cillian of soldiers in London, hiding memories of the trenches behind a fog of opium. They too shivered with the same delight.
Branches snapped. Vague horrifying whispers drifted on the wind. Without looking, Cillian knew an antlered entity crept through the woods.
Sam remarked, “I heard you made good use of our friends.”
“Knocked a car over like it was nothing,” Cillian said.
The sack empty, Sam tossed it to Cillian. Then the scarecrow produced a map of Detroit. It pulled a jagged crystal out of a pocket. Dangling on a chain the crystal swung like a pendulum over the map. It eventually stopped at a rigid diagonal, pointing to one part of the city.
Sam tapped the map, “That’s where the child is. Mistress’s kid, the old don thinks no one knows about. A favorite too as the child’s too young to’ve done anything disappointing.”
Cillian said, “When should I go?”
“It’s always best after dark.”
The sun would set in a few hours. Meanwhile, they sat around the fire. The scarecrow occasionally snickered then related some tale from centuries ago; like the deaf monk who longed to compose music, Sam taught to steal ears – “Oh, but sadly such things never last. He needed to keep stealing fresh pairs, but what music, my friend, if only you could’ve heard.” Then night reigned, and Cillian went to work.
He touched the map. Closing his eyes, he focused on the spot the crystal indicated. The world went wild, like tumbling unexpected downhill. He felt himself falling then his feet hit solid ground.
He now stood in an alley. Walking out onto the street, he saw rowhouses stretching down the block. Cillian strolled the street until he felt compelled to stop. Eying the house, he saw a young woman playing with a small boy. They sat in the window, a tangible happiness radiating from them.
Watching thru the window, she reminded him of the kind of woman Kyle always described. Cillian scowled – little brother’s dream girl screwing the mob filth that killed him. Her son’s smile minus a few teeth, perhaps lost the same as Sloane, li’l daredevil in training; proof of the beauty in imperfection Flynn might go on about for hours. Cillian felt the anger rising, filling him to bursting then spilling out. A nebulas cloud of ink flowing towards the house, engulfing it.
The right kind of eyes might spy outlines; silhouettes; impressions of memories resurrected. The boys laughing around a campfire; soldiers charging into cannon fire; Magdalene’s beautiful hair on fire – ruby lips turned to coals. The lost moments never to come again, and the worst of times that’d never fade entirely out of mind. Cillian stepped towards the house.
The woman inside glanced out the window, perplexed by the growing darkness. Its intensity unusual. Cillian felt coldness filling his body. A brief thought of his mother, begging him not to – he flinched – the darkness faded, and the woman saw him on the sidewalk.
She grabbed the boy, and hurried upstairs. Cillian realized she knew, perhaps informed by rumors, but she knew.
“Yo freakshow.”
He ignored the voice until three bullets ripped into him.
Cillian turned. He saw a man in a slouch hat and a suit.
“Been waiting for you,” the man said then fired again.
Without a word, Cillian rushed him. In a blink, he crossed the ten feet between them. One deft motion, he tore the guard’s throat out. He used to linger, watch them die. Now he walked away. The gurgling slow crawl towards death meant nothing to him now. Instead, he went for the house.
Hurrying, he banged his head on the doorway. That gave him pause. Cillian recalled always being taller than others, but lately, he seemed to have grown. Even his arms appeared longer than usual. Ignoring that for now, he went inside.
His hobnail boots thudded as he explored the house. Ears pricked, he heard two rapid heartbeats. He followed the sound upstairs to a secret panel, a hideaway of sorts. The smell of fresh paint suggested a recent installation.
He punched through the wall and ripped open the hiding place.
A scream followed by gunfire. He felt something punch him in the face. For a moment he couldn’t see out of one eye. Slowly, the world came back into focus.
He saw the woman put a hand over her son’s eyes.
Tearfully, she said, “Don’t look baby. It’ll be okay.”
Cillian said, “No, it won’t.”
#
Morty stopped the car. Parking along the roadside he regarded the woods. The sun would be going down soon. He never cared for nature, and certainly didn’t desire getting lost. However, he wanted the matter closed.
For weeks he watched Emry wither. The suffocating grief strangled the man he knew, the friend he loved and respected, choked out of existence. He went from a force of will to a shivering drunk, fading away in his study. Morty determined to do whatever it took to set things right.
So, “The Butcher” went to work. He started in Kalamazoo. From the diner where the Lynches died, he followed the roads, stopping in every small town he encountered. Cash, for the most part, bought him information – pointing Morty in one direction or another. When folks got a bit more resistant, he showed them why they called him “The Butcher”.
Snipping a fellow’s fingers off, he learned the Lynches tended to come from the North. Everyone in the speakeasy agreed. One even offered the notion, most folks suspected they hid out in the Lower Peninsula. However, that made little sense to Morty. Afterall, Lynch couldn’t be hopping between the two places unless he flew in and out of Detroit somehow. Yet, it gave him a location to focus on.
Getting out of the car, Morty thought about the last time he talked to Emry. He informed the boss of his plans before leaving. The whole while Emry sat staring out a window. The husk barely managed to look at Morty. He simply nodded, a feeble wave of the hand sending “The Butcher” off. About to leave, Morty hesitated.
He said, “I’m going to get him.”
Emry said, “He comes sometimes, in the night. A sack goes over my head, and when it’s gone, I’m actually relieved. I don’t feel… sorrow anymore. Then it comes crashing back in, worse than before because there’s a guilt about the relief.” He downed a glass of bourbon, “He’ll be back soon. I’m full again. That’s when he comes.”
Morty resolved then and there to do whatever it took to end this madness. Although he doubted he’d run into Cillian Lynch in the woods – calling the organization to check on things, he heard about Lynch murdering another child; that put him in Detroit – Morty wanted to find his hideout. That could give him a clue what to do next.
In Bay City, Morty met a woman named Polly. She told him what Sloane Lynch once said. Stop by the road, head into the woods, and look for the scarecrow. Grabbing a flashlight out of the trunk, Morty did just that.
Deeper and deeper into the woods “The Butcher” marched undaunted. He saw no reason to worry. Even as the trees began growing darker, he suspected little. Though the sun still shone a bit, the forest grew more and more shadowed. Bark darkening as if stained black. He ignored it as the sun vanished. Though he saw nothing, the thud of heavy footfalls suggested large animals nearby. Just as it started occurring to him, something in the air didn’t feel right, Morty spotted a flickering glow in the distance.
Correctly suspecting a fire, he crept toward it. Closing in, he grinned. Sure enough, there stood Cillian Lynch. Morty saw him standing next to the scarecrow which sat on a trunk for some reason. Cillian held a sack to the scarecrow’s mouth.
‘Nut job,’ Morty thought. He pulled out his gun. Stepping into the campsite he pointed the gun at Cillian.
“Cillian Lynch?”
The large man cocked his head to the side.
“Turn around. Slowly,” Morty said.
Cillian turned. His eyes shone like an animal’s. Morty peered at him. The firelight seemed to be playing tricks. Cillian appeared to be growing stag antlers. Morty shone the flashlight on him. Cillian stepped back as if repelled by the light. Oddly enough, he did indeed have the start of antlers protruding from his skull.
Morty shook his head, “I got no idea what’s going on here, but you and I, we’re gonna spend some time together.”
For weeks Morty planned what he’d do if he got his hands on Cillian. Days of torture lay ahead. He tried not to smile at the prospect but found it difficult.
The scarecrow remarked, “I really don’t care for interruptions.”
It took a moment for Morty to realize the scarecrow spoke. He assumed some ventriloquist trick, but then the scarecrow frowned. It stood and tossed the deflated sack to one side. Assuming some freak, lunatic accomplice, Morty shot the scarecrow in the head.
Its head snapped back. Straw blew out the back of its burlap skull. Yet, it remained standing. The damn thing even started laughing.
Morty fired at the scarecrow again. It continued laughing, louder this time. Cillian moved towards him. Morty pumped a few rounds into him. Cillian stood unflinching, taking each bullet with barely a grunt.
Regardless of the unreal nature of things, Morty knew a losing situation. He ran. The scarecrow’s laughter chased him through the woods. Morty heard the rapid thud of pounding hooves. Shining his light around, he caught half glimpses of giant antlered creatures pursuing him. His foot caught on a fallen tree, and he fell. Scrambling to stand again, something stomped on him.
He felt a hand jam literally into his back. The curious sensation of someone holding his spine. Then what he could only describe as a rip. For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend what he saw. The tops of trees, the forest floor then the trees again, only upside down. He felt pain yet it seemed far away as if it existed but didn’t really matter. He also couldn’t feel his body. Just as it started making sense, the world vanished entirely.
Waking in the woods, Cillian sat up with a start. Coughing, he hacked up a wad of ink black phlegm. Tossing into the ashes of the fire, he kicked off his blanket. Rising, he prepared for another day.
Piling wood into the fire pit, he focused his rage. He pressed a hand to the log. Letting the anger flow, he ignited the fire. He watched it burn his hand a moment. No pain. He pulled his hand back, and watched the skin heal. Although, it didn’t look quite the same. The fingers longer, bonier, the skin darkened and furrier.
Sighing, he shrugged it off as a trick of the twilight. He sat by the fire until the scarecrow appeared. It crept out from behind a tree.
“You got what I want?” Sam asked.
Cillian nodded. He went over to a small stack of supplies. There he collected a burlap sack, bulging like an overinflated balloon. He handed the sack to the scarecrow.
It held the opening to its mouth, undid the drawstring, and sucked in the contents. Sam shuddered. It reminded Cillian of soldiers in London, hiding memories of the trenches behind a fog of opium. They too shivered with the same delight.
Branches snapped. Vague horrifying whispers drifted on the wind. Without looking, Cillian knew an antlered entity crept through the woods.
Sam remarked, “I heard you made good use of our friends.”
“Knocked a car over like it was nothing,” Cillian said.
The sack empty, Sam tossed it to Cillian. Then the scarecrow produced a map of Detroit. It pulled a jagged crystal out of a pocket. Dangling on a chain the crystal swung like a pendulum over the map. It eventually stopped at a rigid diagonal, pointing to one part of the city.
Sam tapped the map, “That’s where the child is. Mistress’s kid, the old don thinks no one knows about. A favorite too as the child’s too young to’ve done anything disappointing.”
Cillian said, “When should I go?”
“It’s always best after dark.”
The sun would set in a few hours. Meanwhile, they sat around the fire. The scarecrow occasionally snickered then related some tale from centuries ago; like the deaf monk who longed to compose music, Sam taught to steal ears – “Oh, but sadly such things never last. He needed to keep stealing fresh pairs, but what music, my friend, if only you could’ve heard.” Then night reigned, and Cillian went to work.
He touched the map. Closing his eyes, he focused on the spot the crystal indicated. The world went wild, like tumbling unexpected downhill. He felt himself falling then his feet hit solid ground.
He now stood in an alley. Walking out onto the street, he saw rowhouses stretching down the block. Cillian strolled the street until he felt compelled to stop. Eying the house, he saw a young woman playing with a small boy. They sat in the window, a tangible happiness radiating from them.
Watching thru the window, she reminded him of the kind of woman Kyle always described. Cillian scowled – little brother’s dream girl screwing the mob filth that killed him. Her son’s smile minus a few teeth, perhaps lost the same as Sloane, li’l daredevil in training; proof of the beauty in imperfection Flynn might go on about for hours. Cillian felt the anger rising, filling him to bursting then spilling out. A nebulas cloud of ink flowing towards the house, engulfing it.
The right kind of eyes might spy outlines; silhouettes; impressions of memories resurrected. The boys laughing around a campfire; soldiers charging into cannon fire; Magdalene’s beautiful hair on fire – ruby lips turned to coals. The lost moments never to come again, and the worst of times that’d never fade entirely out of mind. Cillian stepped towards the house.
The woman inside glanced out the window, perplexed by the growing darkness. Its intensity unusual. Cillian felt coldness filling his body. A brief thought of his mother, begging him not to – he flinched – the darkness faded, and the woman saw him on the sidewalk.
She grabbed the boy, and hurried upstairs. Cillian realized she knew, perhaps informed by rumors, but she knew.
“Yo freakshow.”
He ignored the voice until three bullets ripped into him.
Cillian turned. He saw a man in a slouch hat and a suit.
“Been waiting for you,” the man said then fired again.
Without a word, Cillian rushed him. In a blink, he crossed the ten feet between them. One deft motion, he tore the guard’s throat out. He used to linger, watch them die. Now he walked away. The gurgling slow crawl towards death meant nothing to him now. Instead, he went for the house.
Hurrying, he banged his head on the doorway. That gave him pause. Cillian recalled always being taller than others, but lately, he seemed to have grown. Even his arms appeared longer than usual. Ignoring that for now, he went inside.
His hobnail boots thudded as he explored the house. Ears pricked, he heard two rapid heartbeats. He followed the sound upstairs to a secret panel, a hideaway of sorts. The smell of fresh paint suggested a recent installation.
He punched through the wall and ripped open the hiding place.
A scream followed by gunfire. He felt something punch him in the face. For a moment he couldn’t see out of one eye. Slowly, the world came back into focus.
He saw the woman put a hand over her son’s eyes.
Tearfully, she said, “Don’t look baby. It’ll be okay.”
Cillian said, “No, it won’t.”
#
Morty stopped the car. Parking along the roadside he regarded the woods. The sun would be going down soon. He never cared for nature, and certainly didn’t desire getting lost. However, he wanted the matter closed.
For weeks he watched Emry wither. The suffocating grief strangled the man he knew, the friend he loved and respected, choked out of existence. He went from a force of will to a shivering drunk, fading away in his study. Morty determined to do whatever it took to set things right.
So, “The Butcher” went to work. He started in Kalamazoo. From the diner where the Lynches died, he followed the roads, stopping in every small town he encountered. Cash, for the most part, bought him information – pointing Morty in one direction or another. When folks got a bit more resistant, he showed them why they called him “The Butcher”.
Snipping a fellow’s fingers off, he learned the Lynches tended to come from the North. Everyone in the speakeasy agreed. One even offered the notion, most folks suspected they hid out in the Lower Peninsula. However, that made little sense to Morty. Afterall, Lynch couldn’t be hopping between the two places unless he flew in and out of Detroit somehow. Yet, it gave him a location to focus on.
Getting out of the car, Morty thought about the last time he talked to Emry. He informed the boss of his plans before leaving. The whole while Emry sat staring out a window. The husk barely managed to look at Morty. He simply nodded, a feeble wave of the hand sending “The Butcher” off. About to leave, Morty hesitated.
He said, “I’m going to get him.”
Emry said, “He comes sometimes, in the night. A sack goes over my head, and when it’s gone, I’m actually relieved. I don’t feel… sorrow anymore. Then it comes crashing back in, worse than before because there’s a guilt about the relief.” He downed a glass of bourbon, “He’ll be back soon. I’m full again. That’s when he comes.”
Morty resolved then and there to do whatever it took to end this madness. Although he doubted he’d run into Cillian Lynch in the woods – calling the organization to check on things, he heard about Lynch murdering another child; that put him in Detroit – Morty wanted to find his hideout. That could give him a clue what to do next.
In Bay City, Morty met a woman named Polly. She told him what Sloane Lynch once said. Stop by the road, head into the woods, and look for the scarecrow. Grabbing a flashlight out of the trunk, Morty did just that.
Deeper and deeper into the woods “The Butcher” marched undaunted. He saw no reason to worry. Even as the trees began growing darker, he suspected little. Though the sun still shone a bit, the forest grew more and more shadowed. Bark darkening as if stained black. He ignored it as the sun vanished. Though he saw nothing, the thud of heavy footfalls suggested large animals nearby. Just as it started occurring to him, something in the air didn’t feel right, Morty spotted a flickering glow in the distance.
Correctly suspecting a fire, he crept toward it. Closing in, he grinned. Sure enough, there stood Cillian Lynch. Morty saw him standing next to the scarecrow which sat on a trunk for some reason. Cillian held a sack to the scarecrow’s mouth.
‘Nut job,’ Morty thought. He pulled out his gun. Stepping into the campsite he pointed the gun at Cillian.
“Cillian Lynch?”
The large man cocked his head to the side.
“Turn around. Slowly,” Morty said.
Cillian turned. His eyes shone like an animal’s. Morty peered at him. The firelight seemed to be playing tricks. Cillian appeared to be growing stag antlers. Morty shone the flashlight on him. Cillian stepped back as if repelled by the light. Oddly enough, he did indeed have the start of antlers protruding from his skull.
Morty shook his head, “I got no idea what’s going on here, but you and I, we’re gonna spend some time together.”
For weeks Morty planned what he’d do if he got his hands on Cillian. Days of torture lay ahead. He tried not to smile at the prospect but found it difficult.
The scarecrow remarked, “I really don’t care for interruptions.”
It took a moment for Morty to realize the scarecrow spoke. He assumed some ventriloquist trick, but then the scarecrow frowned. It stood and tossed the deflated sack to one side. Assuming some freak, lunatic accomplice, Morty shot the scarecrow in the head.
Its head snapped back. Straw blew out the back of its burlap skull. Yet, it remained standing. The damn thing even started laughing.
Morty fired at the scarecrow again. It continued laughing, louder this time. Cillian moved towards him. Morty pumped a few rounds into him. Cillian stood unflinching, taking each bullet with barely a grunt.
Regardless of the unreal nature of things, Morty knew a losing situation. He ran. The scarecrow’s laughter chased him through the woods. Morty heard the rapid thud of pounding hooves. Shining his light around, he caught half glimpses of giant antlered creatures pursuing him. His foot caught on a fallen tree, and he fell. Scrambling to stand again, something stomped on him.
He felt a hand jam literally into his back. The curious sensation of someone holding his spine. Then what he could only describe as a rip. For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend what he saw. The tops of trees, the forest floor then the trees again, only upside down. He felt pain yet it seemed far away as if it existed but didn’t really matter. He also couldn’t feel his body. Just as it started making sense, the world vanished entirely.
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