Veils of the Valley (A Chapel Black Story) pt 2

The shadow of  October cast its dark presence upon the town, flames of the sun snuffed out.

Our unit was no closer to shutting down the manufacturing and distribution of bathtub gin, in the way a sand castle was to stopping the high tide.

 Devout preachers successfully persuaded the local men to yield their hunting weapons. We all clung on to our firearms as talisman and such, much like our forefathers hugged on to their spears and muskets when every shadow spooked them outside of their huts.

my pleas for a curfew fell on deaf ears. The 

But no appeal could sway the city council's decision; they believed repercussions would reach unthinkable levels. The unthinkable is the bottom line of commerce for halloween was more important than a butcher's reckoning.

This drab town, like so many others during these Prohibition years, held its own dreaded secrets within its weary walls. 

The markings etched onto their lifeless bodies no longer sent an icy prong down my spine as if an ancient insignia or cursed sigil had been carved into their very souls. These eerie symbols were said to serve a dual purpose: to ward off vengeful spirits desperate to escape their torment or to ensnare them within an inescapable prison. Speaking of confinement, 

Our informant, stationed in the  Sanitorium, resided in opulence within his towering fortress, gazing down upon the picturesque landscape as he supplied us with a treasure trove, but instead of gems and gold, it was bodies.

Deputies Alvis and Cartwright meticulously tagged and bagged the fallen like grim shadows trudging through the night. Among these casualties were select individuals marked by distinct wine bottles and distinct incisions – those, I took it upon myself to handle personally. 

The nagging suspicion persisted that our butcher was an outcast—someone who operated on the fringes of society and found a coping mechanism where others could not. He was begrudgingly deemed acceptable by criminal circles but never truly integrated into their ranks. This isolation suited his desire.

If he were one of the fortunate souls to survive chemical onslaughts in the trenches he would have that much in common with my father. The shell bombardment tore out his soul an only his physical shell remained .

As this next war ended it would no longer be felons he would feed on. And he wouldn’t be the only one.

 I spent less time at the lodge. The razor in my shaving kit began to collect ring rust.

I sank into the seat of my Ford Model A, I observed the melding of shadows and earth as they formed a hurried union in the darkness of night. The blacktop veins of this tired city slowly transformed, giving way to the lush green and warm amber groves that marked Stanislaus County's rustic borders. It was as if a rural transfusion was taking place before my very eyes, breathing a different life into an otherwise lifeless world. And in this contrast between city and country, between yesterday's sins and tomorrow's promises, I let myself sink into the rabbit hole. 

As I drove  along the desolate road, a faint chill grew like a tumor as  struck me when I spotted the familiar vehicle on the side of the path. It was the same police car that had transported me from the train station just weeks prior. The pungent stench of gunpowder and liquid metal hung heavy in the air, barely hinting at the sinister scene that unfolded before me. It was only the subtle scent of homemade bathtub gin that truly sent shivers down my spine, causing every hair on my body to bristle.

Poor Alvis lay sprawled on the side of the road, his uniform hopelessly marred by crimson smirks and grins which radiated malice, each scarlet tear held a secret. The scene inside the car proved no less haunting. Positioned with unsettling precision, a bag of bills sat ominously in the front seat, as if eager to partake in the madness. His eyes flickered with pain, but there was something else—urgency. He knew his time was short, and if he didn’t tell me now, I might never find it.

"You gotta… follow the old road. Past the fields, where the orchards used to be. Keep going… till you see the chapel. Can’t miss it… it’s still standin’, somehow. But it’s wrong. The place... it ain't right."

His voice rough with regret. “Money was too easy. Town's dry, and the mob? They own every drop. I let 'em move what they needed, turned a blind eye. I figured… what’s the harm? Everyone’s gotta survive, right?”

'

He winced, pain shooting through him, but he forced himself to continue.

“This place… I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve done something. The chapel, the land out there… it’s been callin’ to him for too long

I knelt closer to hear him over the wind that whipped around us. His eyes locked on mine, wide and wild, as if he were trying to pass on more than just directions. Like he was trying to make me understand something he couldn’t say.

You’ll see… a circle. Skulls… they’re all lined up, like they’re waitin’. Watchin’. The wind… it’s like it speaks there. You’ll hear it. Your name. God help you, you’ll hear it."

His hand twitched, as though trying to reach out, to grab my arm, but he was too weak. His voice grew fainter, almost a whisper now, his lips barely moving.

"It’s quiet… too quiet. But the land… it calls to him. He said… the soil… it wants blood. Said it was hungry. Those skulls… they know things… things you don’t wanna know."

I thought I’d lost him. But then he looked at me, his eyes hollow, his voice trembling.

"You’ll feel it… when you get close. The wind… the skulls… they whisper. And when they do… they’ll whisper your name."

His eyes fluttered, and his breath hitched one last time. Then, nothing. The wind picked up, carrying the dust and the weight of his dying words with it.

I navigated the narrow pathways of a desolate settlement,  an oppressive loneliness crushed down upon me. It was as if I were completely abandoned in a world forgotten by God, left to fend off the darkness on my own. My only companions were my thoughts, which now fixated on the horrors I had discovered earlier that night.

With each passing moment, Ghosts called out to me I could almost sense their twisted presence taunting me, urging me to follow them into this void of sorrow and misery. And so, I continued my relentless pursuit, driven by an unwavering resolve to unveil the truth behind these grisly acts.

In the eerie shadows of the dust bowl's aftermath, the ghostly gazes of the survivors peered out from their tattered tents and the twisted, warped woodwork that served as makeshift shelters. I couldn't help but question if my eyes were once again deceiving me. The state police never seemed to do anything but get a kick out of their plight; they raided these desolate places only for the locals to rebuild with an undying resilience.

Clutched in my hand like a bundled infant, the service pistol offered a sense of security as I navigated this nightmarish landscape. This ordeal was like nothing I had encountered before, far beyond my realm of expertise.

The silence weighed heavily on me, the kind that grips your chest and gnaws at your thoughts. Then, it was shattered—symbols, unsettling and jagged, etched into battered door frames. They reminded me of the ancient Israelites marking their doors with blood, warding off death’s angel. Except here, it felt like something far more malevolent had been unleashed like some dark god had sent an apparition to hunt the faithless.

Amongst the ruins, the roof of an old, forgotten chapel clawed its way through the wild thicket that had overrun the dying orchards. It stood there, a beacon in this forsaken place, while ravens flew out of the trees, black streaks against the sky. My feet crunched over the dead leaves and twigs as I moved toward it. The shadows stretched long and menacing, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

Sigils, carved into rocks stacked around clumps of dirt, made my finger twitch closer to the trigger of my pistol. The air felt thick with something old, something long dead but not quite gone. It wasn’t just bloodlust keeping the killer here—there was something deeper, something almost... ritualistic. I had seen it before, in my father's war journals.

People cling to religion for comfort, especially when things get twisted. Bible verses scrawled in prison cells where madmen hung themselves. Mothers praying to the same God they cursed for giving and then taking away their children. Faith is fickle in a place like this.

A sharp sound cut through the stillness, snapping me out of my thoughts. It was the crows again, their cries leading me, like they always did, toward something darker. The river Styx, I thought. That’s where they were heading. For the first time, I longed for the comfort of their harsh caws, for the distraction they offered. Anything was better than being left alone here with the monster.

The killings in this place must’ve been good. Easy prey. Criminals, vagrants—they all blur together out here. Society doesn’t care about those who slip through the cracks.

Murderers know that. They act with society’s silent blessing as long as they’re picking off the bruised and withered fruit. It’s like this place, this altar, was calling to me, no different than a preacher beckoning his flock to kneel.

Inside the decrepit shacks scattered around the outskirts of the shantytown, I found journals—handwritten and chaotic, the ink smeared with dirt and what looked like blood. They were bound in whatever scraps of material the killer could find: old leather, bits of cloth, even pages torn from books. As I flipped through the pages, the twisted ramblings of the cut throat came to life. These were his confessions, his communion with the land, the soil he believed spoke to him.

Journal Entry – Day 1:

The soil is thirsty. I felt it today, deep beneath my feet. The way it shifts, the way it pulses. The crops are failing, but it’s not the Heat. It’s hunger. The land itself is starving. It needs more than water, more than sun. Blood. It craves blood. The animals I burned at the charred rock before weren’t enough. It whispers to me now—human blood, it says. That’s the answer. It always was.

Journal Entry – Day 13:

The first offering was… exhilarating. His blood seeped into the ground so easily, the soil drank it in. It’s speaking louder now, clearer. I can feel the difference. The land is alive again. I watch the wind move through the trees like breath. The fruit will grow stronger this time, fuller. It knows I will bring more. The soil always knows.

Journal Entry – Day 26:

I was wrong about the animals before. They weren’t enough. But now, now I see. The blood of men, the sinners, the forgotten ones—that’s what it demands. Each one I give to the earth, I hear it sing. It trembles under me, and I know it’s working. The soil needs the blood of those who have sinned. It’s only right. I am the instrument, the yeoman of this land. I will reap what needs to be reaped.

Journal Entry – Day 40:

The mob thinks I work for them. Fools. They see the blood on my hands, and they think they control me. But they are blind to the truth. The soil is my master. It speaks to me in ways no one else can hear. It tells me who to take, when to take them. I don’t choose—they are chosen. And soon, the harvest will be bountiful. They can’t stop me. No one can.

Journal Entry – Day 58:

*I hear it all the time now. The ground beneath my bed whispers through the night. The voices rise with the wind, urging me on, pushing me forward. I see the crops, the orchards—they are waking, but still hungry. More is needed. Always more. But it’s close, so close. Soon, the land will thrive again, lush and fertile.

As I thumbed through the journals, smudged pages full of ramblings and bloodstained ink, something else caught my eye—drawings, crude yet disturbingly precise. The pages were covered with sketches, all centered around a single figure: a looming, twisted statue. It was instantly familiar.

I’d seen it the moment I stepped off the train.

The statue stood just outside the station, watching over the decayed streets of the forgotten town. Its form was unnatural—some kind of hybrid between man and beast, carved from stone so dark it absorbed the light around it.

The thing had a presence, like it was silently watching, waiting. When I’d first passed it, I’d shrugged it off as another relic of a town clinging to its past. But seeing it here, over and over again, in these journals… that wasn’t a coincidence.

The Cutt-Throat had drawn the statue in obsessive detail. His hands must have traced every curve, every symbol engraved into the stone. The drawings weren’t just copies—they were layered, surrounded by more of those strange sigils he carved into the dirt, the doorframes, the rocks.

The statue had meaning to him, something far deeper than just a town landmark.

held my breath as I walked past the  skulls on charred rock. Offerings from a time before Christ’s sacrifice.

“Welcome,” they seemed to say, their ancient wisdom echoing through the desolation.

The chill in the air wrapped around me, urging me forward as the ground crunched beneath my feet. Each skull was a relic of a forgotten past, a reminder of the rituals that once held power over this land.

In that moment, I felt the connection to something larger, an ancient pact between the living and the dead, a cycle of life and death woven into the very fabric of this forsaken land. The whispers urged me on, guiding me towards the chapel and the truth waiting to be unearthed.

The night had descended like a shroud, thick and suffocating, with the air heavy with the promise of a chilling Halloween. Shadows stretched long across the ground as the moon rose high, casting a ghostly glow over the land. The chapel stood there, a dark silhouette against the starless sky, its broken windows resembling vacant eyes watching over the forgotten graveyard of skulls behind it.

This was no ordinary Halloween night.

The air crackled with an energy that hinted at something otherworldly, as if the boundary between the living and the dead had thinned.

The oppressive silence shattered like glass. A sound cut through the night—a low, mocking laughter that chilled me to my bones. It was him.

The Butcher.

He emerged, his figure tall and menacing, cloaked in darkness. He was a living embodiment of the harvest, a macabre guardian of this cursed land, and yet, he had the presence of a shape—not fully real, not fully human. His movements were fluid but wrong, unnatural, like something moving through a fogged nightmare. The way he lurched closer, his limbs too long, his steps too quiet, made my skin crawl.

 His soul was tied with the soil, The moonlight glinted off his butcher’s knife, and for a moment, I was frozen in place, gripped by the fear of what I knew was coming. The heatwave had left the ground dry, but now it seemed to pulse with a malevolent life of its own, the soil thirsting for blood.

The shot rang out, echoing through the night, and the moment stretched as the bullet found its mark. He staggered, shock flickering across his face, and for a heartbeat, the laughter stopped. The whispers quieted, holding their breath. But then, with a guttural scream, he charged forward, the knife aimed straight for me, fury igniting his features.

'

The world around me blurred, and I squeezed the trigger again, a flurry of shots ringing out as I fought to stay alive. The skulls, witnesses to the horror unfolding, seemed to absorb the chaos, their whispers turning into a haunting chant, urging me on. My hands were trembling, and I could feel the weight of the pistol like a stone in my palm. my father’s gun, the one he’d carried through a war that had left him scarred and silent.

But this time was different. This wasn’t the range where I’d practiced, where targets were nothing more than paper silhouettes. Here, it was real. The gun had spilled blood before, but not by my hand. Not like this.

I fired again, the Butcher faltered, his strength fading, and as he fell to the ground, the whispers transformed into a triumphant howl, rising into the night. The ground shook slightly beneath me, as the broken bottles of wine seeped into the dirt. His veins spilled as well as if the land were rejoicing at the sacrifice.

As I stepped forward, panting heavily, I could feel the weight of history bearing down on me—the deaths, the offerings made to the soil, the lives lost to madness that had gripped this land for far too long. The skulls, now silent, bore witness to it all, standing in eerie stillness as the shadows retreated.

This Halloween night had been a reckoning, the culmination of darkness and fear, but it was also a chance for redemption—not just for me, but for the land itself.

The soil, once thirsty for blood, seemed to sigh in relief, as if finally freed from its ancient curse.

As I turned away from the chapel, I could still hear the whispers lingering in the air—a reminder of the past, a warning for the future, and the name that would forever be etched into the heart of this haunted land and those hollow sockets.