Beneath the dust

Cowboy boots crunched on the desert ground, creating a cloud of dirt. Saguaro cacti rose high to the blistering sun above, their spines protruding from their arms. Closer to the ground, prickly pear cacti pads give life to ruby fruits and barrel cacti loomed dangerously close. Heat rose from the ground creating distorted ripples through the eyes of brave passersby. The desert was a barren place, birds hid in scabs of cacti while the fiercer animals reserved their energy for night. Beneath the cracked surface, something stirred. It felt as though the tectonic plates had begun to shift.

Rusty shifted his hat, attempting to block the sun and swung his leg over his trusty mustang. He adjusted the worn leather reins and stroked his horse’s mane.

“That a boy Bullseye,” Bullseye whinnied and began to trot through the desert

Hooves beat a steady rhythm on the dry, cracked earth. The heat pressed in, thick and suffocating. Rusty was used to this land testing him but each time he came back stronger, grittier. Rusty steered Bullseye around a cluster of Cholla cacti, then halted.

Bullseye’s ears flicked in agitation and Rusty hopped off the saddle. His boots shuffled through the dirt as he looked below the cliff into the valley. Something was down there.

Rusty squinted against the sun, his eyes traced the landscape below. Jagged rocks, twisted cacti arms, and prickly bushes littered the desert floor below. Then he saw it. There was a slight depression in the earth as if it had sunken. It was too symmetrical to be natural erosion. What could it be?

Curiosity grabbed control of Rusty’s arms, and he led Bullseye down a steep path toward the bottom of the mountain where the indentation was. Suddenly, the wind picked up causing dirt to sting Rusty’s eyes. Unease began to rise in his chest, strange and unfamiliar. Rusty got about three feet from the weird depression and dismounted.

His boots once again crunched against the dry earth as he got close enough to inspect the area. He crouched down and brushed the surface with his hand. It was unnaturally cool for this time of day. He began digging with his hands, dirt clung to the inside of his fingernails as he clawed and scraped the hard dirt away. His hand brushed against something that was smooth and retrieved it from the ground.

It was a small box that looked as though it was carved out of bone. Rusty’s pulse quickened at the sight of it. Bullseye shifted nervously behind him. His hand hovered over the lid of the box, anticipation building as he looked at the inscribed symbols around the box. In this moment, Rusty felt the weight of a thousand horses on his back, something was odd with this artifact. The wind picked up once more, emitting a low growling that seemed to rise from the desert floor itself. Rusty’s weathered hand lifted the lid on the box revealing an ancient mask.

He pulled out the mask looking at the intricate detail of feathers and beadwork sewn into the hide of some large animal, perhaps the same animal that’s bone was used for the box. There was a presence that accompanied the mask. This didn’t belong to a Native tribe; it was much more sinister in appearance. Rusty got the strange suspicion that he should not have touched this box.

Bullseye snorted and began to back away. The ground beneath his feet began to rumble as though something had just been awakened. Rusty lowered the mask and looked across the valley. The fiery sun had begun its descent casting an orange glow across the desert. Rusty felt the air change, it felt charged with electricity which was not uncommon in places this dry. But there was a smell that encompassed Rusty and his steed. It smelled of iron and burnt sage. Rusty had been in enough gunfights to know that blood smelled richly of iron as well. Getting uncomfortable with the rapid changes in the atmosphere, Rusty pulled out a bandana and wrapped the artifact in it before gently placing it in his saddlebag.

“Let’s not lose our damn minds Bullseye,” Rusty mounted Bullseye and began the trek up the mountainside.

Bullseye’s hooves were unsteady and he was skittish around every whisper of wind or bird call. Rusty glanced back toward the shallow valley and a chill cascaded over his entire body. Rusty kicked his spur in Bullseye’s side prompting him to gallop faster to camp.

By the time they reached their campfire and lean-to, the sky had darkened. Shadows stretched along the desert floor, the chill of the air began to creep in where the warmth had been, and coyote cries could be heard from down in the valley. Rusty wasted no time starting the fire. A little light would ease his anxiousness a bit. He fed Bullseye and began to heat a can of beans over the fire.

The beans turned to putty in Rusty’s mouth and, as he reached for his canteen near Bullseye, a garbled whisper emanated from the saddlebag. Warning bells rang off in Rusty’s head as he strode to Bullseye and went to grab the mask from the bag. His hands fumbled around for a while before he pulled out his bandana.

The mask was gone.

Rusty looked all around thinking he must’ve dropped it along the way. He couldn’t have though, below the saddlebag lay fresh tracks. Bare feet with talons protruding from them dampened the dirt and led away from the campsite.

Bullseye stomped, nostrils flaring. His skin twitched like flies were landing on him, but there was nothing there. Rusty approached to untie him, but the horse lurched back, yanking the reins out of his hands. He took off in a panic, galloping blindly into the dusk.

Rusty didn’t follow. He couldn’t.

Something had shifted. Not just in the earth—but in the air.

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was hollow.

He crouched down trying to make sense of what was happening. His hands trembled. Dirt clung to his fingers from earlier. He wiped them on his jeans, but the feeling remained. Like he was still touching that box. Still holding that mask.

Then, from somewhere behind the ridge came a sound that paralyzed Rusty.

Not an animal.

Not a man.

Something in between.

A low, rasping breath, wet and uneven. Followed by the unmistakable snap of a bone bending the wrong way. Rusty rose, slow and careful, he grabbed his rifle from the ground beside him. He turned toward the sound.

And there it stood.

Half-covered in shadow. Impossibly tall. Draped in something that looked like fur and feathers, but pulsing, moving. The face—was masked. The same mask that was stolen from his bag.

It had black voids where eyes should be. The beadwork on the mask twinkled in the light of the fire. Feathers adorned to the mask danced macabre in the wind. This creature didn’t move naturally. It was although it was formed from sinew.

Rusty raised his rifle, “You best stay put or I’ll shoot!” His voice trembled as he issued the warning. His finger unsteady on the trigger.

The creature tilted it’s head as if studying Rusty. Then opened it’s mouth letting out a guttural screech. Rusty fired a shot at the thing. The bullet sped through the air before passing through the thing. It looked irritated Rusty would try such a thing. Then it became to move towards him faster.

Rusty backed up, his heel catching on a rock that sent him to the ground. His rifle clattered just out of reach.

He looked up as the creature closed in.

It moved like it was wearing a body not made for it. Skin too tight, limbs too long, the mask pulled low over a face that wasn’t human anymore.

Rusty had heard stories. Old ones. About cursed ground and spirits that could wear the skin of a man. About creatures that weren’t supposed to exist—only whispered about in the dark. Stories folks said were just superstition.

But now, staring into the black voids of that mask, Rusty knew better.

The thing leaned close, its breath foul with rot and blood. It didn’t speak, didn’t need to.

The land had warned him.

This wasn’t just a myth. It was a truth buried beneath the desert, beneath bone and ash and silence.

Rusty had dug too deep.

The mask didn’t want to be found.

Now that it had been unearthed, the desert would demand blood to bury the truth again.

And Rusty knew—it would start with his.