The Skinwalker Conspiracies - 02 Read online

  Dead Eye- The Skinwalker Conspiracies by Jim Bernheimer

  My name is Mike Ross and I’m a Ferryman - like the Greek Myth. I didn’t ask for or really want the job, but I’m trying to make the best of it. Most ghosts are okay and just need a little help to get where they need to go. Unfortunately, there are lots of exceptions like power mad psychopaths, spirits still trying to fight battles long since lost, and the worst of the lot - the Skinwalkers. They live vicariously by possessing people and controlling them like puppet masters. Then they toss them aside when they’ve outlived their usefulness.

  One of them stole my father fifteen years ago and I’m going to make that ghost pay.

  Works by Jim Bernheimer

  Dead Eye- Pennies for the Ferryman

  Dead Eye- The Skinwalker Conspiracies

  Spirals of Destiny- Rider

  Confessions of a D-List Supervillain

  Horror, Humor, and Heroes 1

  Horror, Humor, and Heroes 2

  Horror, Humor, and Heroes 3 (forthcoming)

  Dead Eye- The Skinwalker Conspiracies

  Copyright 2011 by Jim Bernheimer

  Published by Gryphonwoood Press

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  Contents

  Episode 14: Alabama Mercy

  Episode 15: Saving Jesús in Twenty Minutes or Less

  Episode 16: Old Flames and Mushrooms

  Episode 17: Dallas, Texas - Paranormal Population: One

  Episode 18: Walking the Walk

  Episode 19: Trying to Forget the Alamo

  Episode 20: A Helping Hand

  Episode 21: Crossing Certain Lines

  Episode 22: The Dirty Dillo

  Episode 23: The Wrong Impressions

  Episode 24: Dog Days of Summer

  Episode 25: Barking up the Wrong Tree

  Episode 26: The Dogs of War

  Episode 27: What Happens in Phoenix

  Episode 28: A Life Worth Living

  Episode 29: A Pair of Crazy Cellmates

  About the Author

  Recommended Reading

  RealmShift by Alan Baxter

  Misty Johnson, Supernatural PI Dick in Capitol Hell by R.P. Steeves

  The Zombie-Driven Life by David Wood

  Episode 14: Alabama Mercy

  “Amos!” I screamed. “I need help!” I was wrestling with a maniac – a ridiculously strong one in fact. Damn, I hated ambushes!

  To say chaos ruled my life would be a gross understatement. A year before this, I was newly discharged from the army and trying to restore some semblance of order to my existence. The big adventure I foresaw? Starting community college in suburban Maryland, but things changed.

  “Hang on, Mike. I’m coming!” Amos bull-rushed my attacker, receiving a straight arm to the face for his effort. The attacker dropped like a sack of potatoes, and melted into the ground.

  Yeah, Amos Sweet was a ghost, and the crazy man trying to kill me was one as well. Other than the blind holy man sitting in the car, I was the only living guy around. I’d gotten used to it - funny how twelve months could change a person’s perspective. Instead of enjoying a Maryland summer, I was in a graveyard near a small church in the middle of Nowhere, Alabama, in the midst of a downpour, getting my butt whipped something fierce.

  The spirits of the dead had the ability to touch me; it brought a whole new meaning to the phrase “making contact with the other side.” Good thing I could touch them back, or in this fellow’s case, jam my thumb into his eye.

  He grunted, but wasn’t bothered too much.

  Less than a year ago, I discovered - the hard way - that I, David Michael Ross Junior, was a Ferryman, descended from other Ferrymen. For those interested in applying … don’t. In short, the job blows chunks. The pay, which didn’t come often, sucked. Work locations included cemeteries (in the middle of the night in this particular instance) and other assorted places where I hope I don’t get charged with trespassing. There was always the bonus of idiotic looks from people who don’t believe in the supernatural. It doesn’t get much better than that.

  Besides, most living folks can’t see ghosts. That limited the pool of available applicants to lucky souls like me-- who can also help spirits cross over. On the plus side, my great, great illegitimate grandfather just so happened to be Edgar Allan Poe. Assuming I survived this conflict, I’d have to try that as a pickup line in college bars. I think it’d be a hit with the English majors.

  In addition to being a noted writer, and a tortured soul, Edgar and his brother were probably the most powerful Ferrymen ever to live in North America, and they waged a war with the ghost population on the east coast. The spirits who, for lack of a better word, survived that battle refer to it as “The Great Cleansing.”

  Then again, it didn’t end well for Edgar or William either.

  Some ghosts were glad to see me, others ignored me, and a few tried to put an end to my not-so-fantastic life. They were already dead and didn’t have much else to lose. I, on the other hand, was very much alive and was trying to stay that way.

  The ghost currently trying to kill me had a vice-like grip. It relented just enough for me to deliver a hard strike with my elbow and dig the fingers of my left hand into his neck. Amos slammed into us and rolled the attacker off of me. My buddy wasn’t much in a fight, but he soaked up the damage like no one’s business.

  Having backup, even a lightweight of a Civil War soldier like Amos, had a certain appeal. It was more than I usually had to work with. The heroes in the movies or on the tube always tried that “go it alone” crap which definitely didn’t fit into my plans.

  My life didn’t resemble the movies, or I’d be getting paid big money instead of the chump change I received every month from my medical discharge. So, no cool plasma packs or any of the other toys the guys in Ghostbusters used when they were battling the bodiless. Old fashioned iron constituted the best weapon against a spook. My arsenal included a pipe wrench, a bottle of filings, and even a frying pan. I wasn’t terribly picky, and in a scrap, I was open to anything.

  Hell, I didn’t know why this guy attacked me in the first place. This whole episode should’ve been another unpaid “courtesy call” for Pastor Duncan. He’d been nice enough to loan us his Caddy for my little road trip to the southwest. All he asked in return was that I run a few errands along the way. In this case, it meant stopping by his sister’s grave and making certain she had moved on or was otherwise resting in peace.

  Simple, right?

  His sister’s ghost informed me that no one around these parts rested, thanks to one extremely agitated spirit. She encouraged me to go have a talk with him. Like an idiot, I listened. Though I was a big fan of irony, it didn’t mean that I wanted another firsthand experience.

  My attacker towered over me. Had he still been alive, he’d have had a shot at playing pro ball – in the position of his choice. He was huge! Of course it didn’t help that I was only about five foot six on a good day. Still, if I wanted to complain about my genetics, I’d start with the cornea transplant that gave me this ability with ghosts rather than my vertical shortcomings.

  Most spirits were simply lost souls looking for help crossing over to the other si
de. Those were the easy ones who just need to pass a message to someone or finger their murderer. I actually liked the latter, because sometimes those included cash rewards.

  Others, such as the one trying to pulverize me, were just plain nasty. Vindictive, murderous spirits who weren’t moving on because … well, I had no clue. Maybe he feared what came next. Perhaps he was as nuts in this life as he’d been in the previous one – or he just didn’t like me. I’d given up caring about his motivations.

  “Lynchin’ me wasn’t enough for you bastards! You coming back for more! Not this time!” I guess the irate ghost didn’t die on a positive note. This scuffle was an ugly reminder of a time in this country when someone wouldn’t get a job or a loan because of their skin color. Instead, a person was killed.

  “Get off!” I shouted. The ghost remained uncooperative and pinned me against a slick, granite tombstone. I could barely wiggle around. Fortunately, my left hand was still free and I shoved it into my pocket. Fumbling for a little plastic cylinder of iron filings, I popped the top on it and spilled the contents all over my damp fingers. Most wouldn’t think ground up bits of iron could be very useful, but it was what I needed.

  The same energy that allowed me to interact with these spirits also charged the iron. Pulling my hand out, I grabbed the spirit’s hand, grinding the bits into his ghostly skin. Unlike my failed poke in the eye, he felt this attack.

  “What the hell!” The ghost shouted, jumping backwards like he’d been burned. I used the break to rub my hands together and spread some of the filings to the right one as well. His eyes darted back and forth, no doubt seeing the fiery glow.

  I growled and stepped forward, saying, “Got your attention now, don’t I? Ready to be reasonable?”

  He responded by reaching into a nearby tree and pulling out a thick, knotted rope – a hangman’s noose. My thoughts drifted back to Fredrick, Maryland and a beating I got at the hands of a bitter Supreme Court Justice with a bullwhip.

  “We don’t have to do this,” I cautioned. “Let’s try talking this out.”

  “You know who else wanted to talk? The deputy who said to meet him here and he’d help me. When I showed up, there weren’t nothing but a dozen men in sheets waiting! That’s what I think about talk!”

  I guess he didn’t like ambushes either.

  Amos came up alongside of me, looking pretty haggard. “I’m sick of this! Let’s get him!”

  He headed left while I went right. The slick, damp grass made traction difficult and, unlike Amos, I needed to dodge the headstones instead of running right through them. Okay, I probably arrived slower than Amos on purpose; he didn’t bleed like me. Sure enough, the big man went for my ghostly companion and was in the process of giving him a good thumping when I got there. One hand held Amos to the ground and the other forced the noose down over my panicked friend’s head.

  Some of the filings had been lost due to the rain, but I still had plenty on my hands.

  He sensed my approach and spun, tossing Amos aside like a rag doll. I closed the gap before he brought the rope around and plowed into him. His meaty paw glanced off my shoulder – and by glanced I meant damn near knocked me on my ass – but I grabbed onto his shirt with one hand and gave him some sizzle.

  Six years ago, I was a pretty decent high school wrestler. I might have even earned a scholarship somewhere if I’d been able to stay on the team. The US Army added to my “short, tough guy” image before a roadside bomb sent me home to be patched back together and discharged. After that, I’d received some dubious martial arts lessons which helped toughen me up quite a bit. They weren’t as useful as I would’ve liked when I had to destroy the ghost who taught me. Not surprisingly, I hadn’t found another instructor since.

  In close like this, I had an advantage - considering my palms were still coated with tiny bits of metal. To a phantasm, they might as well have been burning coals. If I’d been thinking, I would have brought the cotton gloves that had four or five times the amount of iron worked into the fabric. Planning ahead wasn’t one of my strong points. The gloves, along with all the other useful metal things, were sitting in a duffel bag in the back seat of Pastor Duncan’s Caddy.

  He swung again, but I performed a textbook high-block to deflect it and then snapped my wrist around, grabbing his arm as his fist sailed by my noggin. He burned in two places now. Amos Sweet jumped on the guy’s back and had one arm wrapped around his neck. Amos pounded on the assailant’s head with the other. The rope slipped out of the angry ghost’s hand and fell to the ground.

  I started feeling good about our chances until the bear of a ghost reached back and yanked Amos forward, flipping him into me and caused several words, most not suitable for the nearby church, to come out of my mouth.

  Pushing Amos off of me and burning him a little bit in the process, I rolled out of the way before the big ghost pounced. Whipping my leg around, I got it tangled up in his legs and sent him sprawling. He fell half-through headstone and struggled to get up, but I was faster. Scampering around the grave marker, I drove my size eight sneakers into his ribcage and he fell back down. Leaping on his back, I put him in a headlock. It wasn’t one of those “friendly” holds either. If my old wrestling coach just happened to be walking by, I’d be off the team again.

  The ghost tried that same weak crap that he used on Amos, but this time, I possessed leverage. There couldn’t be much iron left on my hands and the burning didn’t seem to injure him anymore, but I had him well under control.

  “Amos, go back to the car and get the knife.” I said wondering if this ghost was too powerful for my phantom dagger to hurt him. Still, I was more than willing to find out. The pipe wrench would be better, but Sweet didn’t have the ability to carry real objects.

  “Do you want talk now?” I demanded, scanning the grounds for that thick length of rope. “You’ve got about two minutes to convince me why I shouldn’t cross your ass over.”

  “Don’t matter what I say, you’re gonna do it anyway!”

  He deflated, but I didn’t ease up on my hold and yelled for Amos to hurry up. Staying in contact with a powerful ghost for too long worried me. It seems I have a bad reaction to that and I’m not just talking about a rash, though that occurred. In the worst cases I explode — some sort of energy overload as far as I can figure. It has happened twice before. The first instance knocked my heart out of rhythm and leveled a historical landmark.

  Believe it or not, that was the more pleasant of the two experiences. The second time a few city blocks of Baltimore lost power, dozens of windows were blown out, and I had a heart attack; that wasn’t nearly as much fun.

  “Amos, what’s taking you so long?”

  “He was helping me,” a deep baritone voice answered. I looked up into the disapproving face of Brother Silas Parker, a tall gaunt man with short salt and pepper hair. Unlike me, he had the good sense to carry an umbrella.

  “I’m a bit busy here, Silas.” The blind man saw ghosts and me as well, which unnerved me to no end. Sadly, Silas couldn’t hear them. Sometimes meaning I played interpreter.

  “So what have you learned about this particular spirit, Michael?” Silas asked.

  “Well, he’s not much for talking, but his actions speak pretty clearly. He tried to kill us.”

  “Yes, I saw he was carrying a noose for a weapon. The gentleman might not be interested in speaking with you; however I hope he would consider having a conversation with me.”

  “He’s with you?” The ghost said, dumbfounded.

  “Yes, he’s with me,” I replied. “You see, he’s the brains of the outfit and I’m the one who does the dirty work. Are you ready to be calm?”

  He nodded as I released him, brushed some of the mud away and said, “Amos, the knife please.”

  Sweet hesitated, but I walked over and took it. To the large black ghost, who had finished standing, I said, “Make a move I don’t like, and I won’t hesitate.”

  Normally I’d joke about how Brothe
r Silas has too much “blind faith” in people, be they living or dead, but I really wasn’t in the mood. Colonel Strong Vincent created this knife as a bon voyage gift for me, which kind of made up for the times he tried to kill me.

  Yeah, I had an odd assortment of friends.

  Silas gave me another sour look and said. “How about we start with introductions? I am Silas Parker. The Union private is Amos Sweet and you’ve already met Michael Ross.”

  “Morris Solomon Jeffries.” The ghost growled.

  I repeated the ghost’s words to Silas and explained that Silas couldn’t hear him. We were treated to the life and death story of Mr. Jeffries. It went down pretty much as I expected – ignorant, bigoted, people didn’t like change and did something about it. They killed a man for nothing more than trying to make his way in the world.