Atropos Dwells in the Desolate Country

Word Count: 2,807

“It was bright and crisp that morning, I remember that much. ‘Course that was the day she came down from the hills so I wasn’t about to be pre-occupied by anything else. I remember Ms Garratie’s kid came running in and hollering about a figure sketched on the horizon, a moving piece of colour in the light sandstorms that swept across the dustbowl. ‘Course he didn’t quite say it like that, but I smile when I say that sorta rendition. He’s a good kid, I’m sure he could come out with such a thing if he wanna; his speech was more the screaming of childish excitement laced with fear of the unknown.

‘Course I was up here in the bar serving as always and thought I’d check his commotion, for other fellas were starting to appear inside as well, heads nodding in approval of the kids yelling and well if that aint gonna swipe at your curiosity well just about nothing will now won’t it? Anyway I put down the glass I was cleaning, Mr Brookes’s giant pitcher if I recall, you know the one he loves to down with a nice piece of cornbread? Well anyway I hop this here bar (not that I could now mind you) and trot on outside into the main square and see there’s quite the commotion about. You know how people are round these parts, always whisperin’ of ghouls and demons, self invented myths they’d like to pretend been in their families for generation and generation, a snippet of fictitious history they prize themselves on. I guess even here people want a social pyramid.”

The barman paused for a moment to take a lengthy intake of air; his cracked voice was withering in the baking heat. It was a hot one today, perhaps not the best for this story.

“So what happened next?” the voice was tense with wonder, the teenager was sitting on an old barstool sipping at his rapidly decreasing glass of water, staring in awe at the barman. The barman’s face twitched which caused his bushy white moustache to perform an incognito dance, he had always loved the old handlebar style and had kept it that way for twenty years, his long white hair pushed past his neck with the top hidden underneath his worn leather hat.

The barman was as stereotypical of the desolate country as you were going to get. Leathery hands were methodically cleaning an already pristine glass as he stared to his left out the slightly grubbed window. The hills were clear in view as there was no dust blowing around, the small humps speckled on a straight earth purified the memory and he returned his gaze to the eager adolescent before continuing.

“Well people were yappin’ on about how it were gonna be a bandit of some kind. The figure was still far out so working out gender was impossible but all of us guys assumed it had to be a man. Only the most toughened of souls ever pass over the hills, and well I hate to cause a stir but round these parts there aren’t exactly that many strong maidens now are there. Now was about that point that people started to get suspicious, it’s no secret we don’t exactly welcome strangers with open arms, and if you’re coming to this town it’s usually for a specific reason, so words started to spread about how the sheriff should go and meet this figure bout halfway and give a little interrogation. ‘Course most of us agreed with this idea, seemed like a sensible plan, gave ease of mind to those of us who were paranoid or worried for our children. Ever since the bandit attack two year prior, everyone always thinks the worst to begin with.

So the sheriff checked his guns, one shotgun, and one colt, titled his hat in our directions and gave the women that slimy smile he was so good at and went on his way. Now the sheriff used to be a good friend of mine before- late thirties, rugged and a good sense of mind, never backed down without a fight and usually came up on top. Always loved to show off his battle scars and brag about how worse his assailants would be – usually right to.

So anyway there’s ‘bout twenty of us in the main square, well we call it the square but it was more a dirt circle situated between this here bar, the bank and houses down at the east. ‘Course you know there’s a monument in the middle now, come to that later. So there’s me, the Garraties, Miss Shelly roper, (she used to work down at tenth before the accident) Blake, Mr Swanson, god rest his soul, and others who didn’t play an important enough role that afternoon for me to remember specifically.” He paused for a moment, poured himself a shot of Jim Beam and downed it; he needed the alcohol for this part.

“So the sheriff makes his way down out past the last house and into the dustbowl, by this time the figure could be seen a bit better and there was a moment where all we could see was vibrant red. ‘Course everyone starts panicking, Miss Roper tossing her locks behind her head and screaming maniacally of how ‘the devil walks towards us’. Blake manages to calm her down which in turn helps ease the nerves of the two Garratie kids, both clinging nervously to their father’s waist - proud man was Mr Garratie, I do miss him a lot. After ‘bout three minutes of a light trot, we see the sheriff stop in his tracks. He must’ve been close enough to see whatever the dammed thing was for he fires a warning shot in the air, turns around on his heels and starts runnin’ back towards us faster than any horse I’ve ever seen or heard about.”

Another shot poured, another shot downed.

“Now at this point I was startin’ to get scared, I got no shame in admitting it. You gotta realise that the sheriff was a brave man to the point of foolishness. His pride was top of his priority list and he often stood up in situations he shoulda’ just ran from. This was the first time I’d ever seen him so spooked by somethin’. When he got back he ran straight to us in that here square and his face, why it haunts me still to this day! Ashen and pale, lips quiverin’ like he just lost an only child; pupils small and timid- if a crow’s ghost would ever exist he was it that day.

Blake was first to react, tall and broad he was, ‘bout twenty five if I recall, a thickset face with deeply rugged features that reminded me of the miners back in the day. ‘What is it sheriff?’ Blake’s question was said in a gruff voice but you couldn’t help but notice the trepidation leakin’ through. Then the sheriff said somethin’ I’ll never forget. ‘Death itself, it knew me’. Then sheriff ran past us and up round the street. We’ve never seen him again to this day. ‘Course his scutterin’ away caused a massive stir, people started scatterin’ away and locking themselves in doors, it’s funny how people think if they can’t see the problem then the problem can’t see them. Mr Garratie calls out to me how he’s gonna see where the sheriff was hightailin’ off to. I nodded in agreement as his children and wife went with – the yearn to be with their dad’n’husband was probably what saved them that day.”

Another shot poured. Another shot downed.



For a moment the barman stopped, hesitant eyes blinking rapidly as he considered ending the story for now, he’d had enough of people thinking he was crazy. However, looking at the young mans eyes he knew his intentions were pure, he should know what happened if he so desired.

“Now as we’d all be focusing on only the sheriff we’d gone and nearly forgotten about the source of the entire commotion, so we turned back almost in unison and there, standing ‘bout twenty paces away was….well to this day I still don’t know what she was.”

“She?” the voice sounded incredulous on the young mans lips, a dash of hope sprinkled within the scepticism.

‘Oh yeah, this demon was a woman alright, I will never forget the figure that stood so tall and leering. She musta been near seven feet tall, a long red coat with the collar all popped up was on top of an equally blood red shirt; if it weren’t for the distinctive bumps on her chest I would never believed it was a woman. She had no hair either, or if she did we never saw it for she wore a big hat similar to my own only that too was red, dulled with age and wear. Disturbingly she had a grubby piece of cloth wrapped across her eyes and around the head, dull white scars littering the area around; I thought she was blind yet she moved like she saw things more than merely physical. She wore long red trousers which were covered in grime, really something ya’know?”

It was starting to get chilly now, and the young man gave an involuntary shiver as the barman continued.

“ But then her hands, Lord help me her hands! They were normal enough ‘till you got to the middle and fourth fingers for there were none. Instead, she had a cutthroat razor that melded out of the skin, a terrifying spectacle of the cold metal emerging from dry and scarred skin; it looked as if they’d grown right out like an artificial embodiment of all that was wrong in this here world – cold and merciless, the hands of the devil himself. The silence upon all us noticing her was louder than the most piercing scream or roaring wind that I’ve ever heard, it was a silence that oozed forbodin’, it was the kind of situation that instinctively told you, ‘something terrible is about to happen’.

I remember my heart was racing like a cricket on the plains, I didn’t know what I was gonna do. Couldn’t just turn round an’ run, that would make you an individual rather than a mass. Blake was first to act, he pulled out his gun that his old papa had given him and unlatched the safety, running at this horrible thing, screaming the Lords name and cursin’ that of the devil. He fired three times into her chest, I’d forgotten how loud guns can be in deafening silence, an explosion of heat and anger, all our emotions poured into one single moment yet she didn’t go down; she didn’t even flinch.”

Another shot poured. Another shot downed. Trembling hands now.

“Next thing we know she’s suddenly on him, she moved so quick, horribly quick, an’ well she spins round an’ her hand goes up. The blade caught Blake straight in neck and cut through it like it was fresh butter. His head dropped from his shoulders to the floor, his body still standin’ up before the demon or whatever it was kicked his poor body to the ground with ferocity unrivalled by anything I ever seen. It all happened so fast I couldn’t even comprehend what was happenin’, the strangest part was there were no blood, the few folks who dare to talk about Blake these days reckon it was the fires of hell in that blade that cauterised the wound instantly. I dunno whether I believe that, all I do know is that she started stridin’ towards use as the crowd screams in a frenzied orgy of fear.

Everyone flees yet the thing does nothin’, just waits for all to leave until there’s simply me and Ms Roper standin’ there. Now me, I was so petrified I gone and soiled my pants, the terror had kept me routed to the spot and as for Ms Roper well I don’t know what kept her there, all I know is it was the last thing she would ever do. The thing stopped a few paces from us, Shelly was ‘bout five paces adjacent to me and I could see the mounting horror gatherin’ in those poor eyes of hers.”

A final shot poured. A final shot drank. Hands gripping the wooden bar worryingly.

“The thing reached into its coat and pulled out a long piece of black string and held it tight in one hand. I don’t know such a simple object could scare me but the sight of that string sent chills running down my spine as I hear they say. Well Shelly Roper she just stands there and stares like some sorta human statue, there aint a soul in sight save us and poor Blake lyin’ there dead on the floor.

Then the thing spoke to poor Shelly, a surprisingly womanly voice filled with desire and what almost sounded like lust or something, not sure, never was one for big words. She said ‘Shelly Roper, for your life-force has been judged, now it has come to an end’ and before poor Shelly could even open that frail and innocent mouth of hers, the thing slashed the string with her right cut-throat razor. Shelly fell to the floor. The sight of the poor girl laying on the floor brought me back to the ground, I ran over to her as the wind started to blow more violently. I remember vividly the sand blowing up to my face and I shielded my eyes as I crouched down to look at Shelly. She was stone cold, dead as you could get with eyes wide open yet not a mark on her. I closed her eyes with my palm and then look back to see the figure standin’ over me, looking down with those covered eyes if it even HAD eyes.

‘Listen ma’am I don’t know if the good Lord sent you or you be the right hand man of Lucifer himself, if it’s the good Lords grace to take me now then so be it, if not then please leave me to bury these poor souls.’. I have no idea why I said what I did, it just came to me like the words had already been written by my tongue, no sooner had they came out then I felt foolish, tryin’ to justify myself to this thing. And all it did was simply stare with its sightless face as it slowly reached into its pocket and took out another long string. I closed my eyes and prayed to the good lord to take me into his kingdom with ease.

Then nothing. Nothing for a good five minutes for I dared not to open my eyes for to see my own demise would be too much. After ‘bout ten minutes I finally dared. The womanly monstrosity was gone and the long string lay at my knees blowing lazily in the breeze. The silence was broken only by the wind but this time it was a forlorn silence, a silence that mourned the dead.”

The barman had finished his story, or at least all the details he was willing to share. The sun was starting to set and a ripe sun spilt violently over the horizon and stained the sky a bloody mixture of vibrant orange and red.

“Wow” said the young man, his face a conflicting pile of emotion, furrowing eyes juxtaposed the content mouth, small flickers of muscle causing numerous movement in the otherwise still body.

“So what happened next and where is the string?”

The barman sighed deeply, now was not the time to talk of the aftermath in meticulous detail. “Well we buried the dead, I was pretty shook up, thought I was goin’ mad as no-one wanted to talk ‘bout what happened, not even Blake’s own mom.” A weathered hand reached up and wiped a tear that was forming; he had always been an emotional old timer.

“The image of that demon sticks in my mind like it was yesterday, I’ll never forget the looming shade of a figure, the deathly woman in red, those three words when spoken in that orders are now taboo round here.

“Do you think she will ever return? I mean, why did she come here in the first place?”

The barman contemplated this for a moment.

“I dunno son, I would like to think so, she gave me my string for a reason and I always keep it on me, waiting for the day that the lonesome figure returns from the hills. All I know is when that day comes I’ll be happy. For I’ll know that my death is coming, thus I do not need to fear death anymore. She gave me peace of mind son, the woman in red is my personal grim reaper now- God, not the devil, that dwells somewhere within this desolate country.”

The barman’s words faded in the air until they were but reverberations dissolving into the air, each syllable struggling to reach the window and escape into the cool, crisp air of the oncoming night…