Chicken Bones
AN: See first chapter for all pertinent information regarding trigger warnings, genres, and disclaimer.
AN2: My first 'official chapter' of this nonsense that won't leave me alone. One bur down, several more to go. Maybe if this goes well and y'all like it, I can open up the fic for requests. We'll see.
AN3: Roughly edited.
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Darkness had fallen. But not the typical darkness of midnight. This darkness was deeper. Oppressive. Mysterious. The kind of darkness that settles on the land during times of great tumult and suffering. The kind of darkness that oozes all around, forming long creeping shadows from the east, slowing spreading their tendrils north and south, and west, carefully invading the territory of the setting sun. The kind of darkness hidden beneath thick grey clouds, ghosting the sky like racing phantoms.
The wind was silent, but the trees were not. They moaned and creaked, their boughs mourning the coming of such a dangerous night. Their upper branches were the first to be weighed by midnight, throwing shadows so deep, endless chasms covered the Earth around the rough hewn trunks.
Nocturnal predators moved in shadow. They loved nights such as these. The moon remained hidden behind a veil of ghosts. Silence was paramount for respect (and fear) of what hunted the abyss.
The wise would not be out on such a night.
But Goodnight Robicheaux did not always possess sound judgment, hence why the ex-soldier was hurrying along the empty streets on the outskirts of Baton Rouge.
Two days ago, the heroes had ridden into town, Goodnight having worn down his traveling companions with constant whining about returning to the bayou to 'reset his spirit' and enjoy true southern hospitality once again. The group had relented on the short respite, as the seven had been extremely busy since the battle of Rose Creek.
Word had rapidly spread of their exploits, which Chisolm explained would be a good time to capitalize. Thus far, the septet had cashed in on two dozen warrants, (without resistance of any kind,) bolstering their pay quite handsomely, and earning the respect and admiration of most of the citizenry.
Even Red Harvest and Billy were treated with respect and kindness, Billy drunkenly commenting earlier on the extra 'white men to soften normal prejudices.'
But a bounty wasn't why Goodnight was out on such a God forsaken night.
No, what lured him into the night was a gambler. A sneaky one. One that thought he was stealthy, sneaking behind his friends' backs, probably up to no good. Goodnight would bet good money on it.
Faraday was not known for veracity.
If he was skulking about so late at night, his reasons were not noble.
Maybe even a little salacious.
Oh, wouldn't that be delicious?!
Goodnight grinned, gaining the edge of a weathered, faded church. He didn't reflect on its veneer, too eager to discover what Faraday was into. He leaned around the corner, blue eyes narrowed, scanning for his target.
A cold, lonely graveyard greeted him.
"What would you be doing in there?" he muttered to himself, detaching from the shadow of the church and entering the graveyard a short distance away.
The iron gate offered a groan in warning. It was not wise to disturb the dead. Visitation was strictly for somber occasions. Not for stalking a friend for shameful discovery and black mail.
Goodnight paused on the threshold of the dead.
The shadows were heavier here, hiding the long rows of carved headstones, some taller than Goodnight. Statues stood silent sentry, sending disapproving gazes to the one trespassing at midnight.
Goodnight suddenly questioned his wisdom (and his sanity.) What kind of fool would be out here on a night like this?
Faraday. That's who!
And Goodnight was determined to find out why the gambler was sneaking off. In a graveyard, of all places!
The shadows welcomed Goodnight as he carefully picked his way along the overgrown path through the graves. Blackened clouds scuttled across the sky, turning the world into an endless void. The air was cold and thin inside the graveyard. Goodnight had to breathe twice as hard to remain conscious. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, palms sweaty, heart racing. Why, if he didn't know any better, he'd swear he was being suffocated!
He should have turned back, but curiosity was a dangerous thing. He had to know why Faraday chose tonight to do something so crazy.
It was only by chance Goodnight had awoken from a dream, (aka: nightmare) and found Faraday outside his window at the boarding house where the seven were staying. At first, he thought he was still dreaming, but Faraday was standing there, staring through the glass with a vacant, distant look. Goodnight had scrambled up, ready to yell at the gambler for scaring him half to death, but by the time he got out of bed and staggered to the window, Faraday was already across the street.
Finding it odd, as Faraday wasn't the quickest of God's creatures, Goodnight glanced to the opposite bed where Billy was still passed out, wondering if he should wake him, but decided against it. Billy was most unfriendly when woken from a dead sleep.
Now, out here in the dark, surrounded by the slumbering dead, Goodnight wished he had risked waking Billy.
The silence was unnerving, and Goodnight didn't do well in the silence. Hence why he rarely shut up.
He passed the statues, most of them angels, all of them disapproving. They watched him trespass upon their domain with cold, unseeing eyes. The Angel of Death was among them. They kept a respectable distance though they remained ever watchful.
White slabs, rounded columns, and marble beds were all around, engraved with names and dates, covering the bodies sleeping below. They would awaken with the whisper of an angel, and seek revenge upon those who disturbed their slumber.
Goodnight minded his manners and his tongue, lest he invoke their ire. Especially when he inadvertently found the curling filigree of the "Repos Éternel" mark upon an obsidian grave. Many a night, his momma would tell tales of the black graves, marked with the Repos Éternel by the Christian priests on the graves of those who practiced dark magic. Legends say if one places an offering of bones upon the black sepulcher during a moonless night, the dead will rise and drag unsuspecting souls down into their crypt. The story always terrified Goodnight. He was not eager to test the legends.
Eyes straining through the dark, he hastily checked the top of the crypt. Bare. Save for some lichen and a chipped vase. He crossed himself to be safe, and searched the shadows beyond for his quarry.
The moon gave a glimmer from behind its veil, lighting the way a short distance. There!
Faraday's dingy grey shirt between the trees to the right! Going off the path, Goodnight picked his way carefully over the uneven ground, praying the moon to give him light. And protection.
Faraday's shirt was an ashen specter amongst the skeletal trees about fifty yards away.
So close!
Goodnight blessed the minimal light, weaving between stone markers, hoping to pass without rousing the dead. He offered a prayer as penance for his encroachment, but kept his focus on the flittering of gray straight ahead.
Closer.
Goodnight slowed, trying not to make a sound, though he had exercised extreme stealth in his approach. Most believed him incapable of silence, but he could sneak with the best of them. Learned how to avoid detection when he was a young man. He needed such skills while courting so many young ladies. Ladies whose mommas who didn't approve of the Robicheaux family, nor their 'good for nothing' son. Many a time, Goodnight had crept by fathers with shotguns and suspicious mothers. It was a skill he utilized in the army. Nearly two decades later, it was nice to know he was still top of his game.
Faraday would never know he was being followed.
Goodnight paused at the edge of a disapproving angel. She glared in reproach for disrupting her vigil. The moon hid its face again, blanketing the graveyard in eerie blackness. The air became colder. The wind sighed. The trees whispered amongst themselves. Goodnight held his breath.
He stared, long and hard at the gray floating a few feet away. It took him several moments to realize it wasn't Faraday, but a piece of discarded fabric, probably ripped by a previous visitor, and left behind on the branch. Huffing, Goodnight shook his head. Some sharpshooter.
He had been hunting a torn sleeve.
Well, in his defense, there was no moonlight, the trees were heavy, and he was out here by himself.
He was about to turn around and give up his quest, but movement to his left drew him up. His hand immediately went to his gun, but he had left his weapons by his bed at the boarding house.
In hindsight, that was a stupid thing to do.
What was he thinking?
Oh! Right! Faraday!
And the elusive little shit was suddenly gliding between the gravestones like a man possessed!
Crouching down, Goodnight prayed he hadn't been discovered. He heard the sound of foot steps recede without breaking stride. He sighed in relief, grateful for the deep shadows.
Whatever had Faraday out here on this God forsaken night, it must have been really important. Enough to tempt fate in a graveyard. Joshua Faraday may play the fool, and he may not be able to read and have no book smarts, but he had strong survival instincts. He wouldn't have survived so long in the west without them.
Goodnight's head appeared over the short hedgerow of prickly green shrubs. His eye caught the flap of a shirt tale some distance away.
Darn it! He was on the move!
Not wanting to be idle, or join the dead for a nap, Goodnight slipped from the shadow of the bush and hurried toward the spot Faraday disappeared.
A solid white tomb greeted the Cajun. Its lid was even with Goodnight's head. The words were too faint to read, but given the size and grandeur, it was probably the final resting place of a founding father of Baton Rouge.
Goodnight offered a nod of respect, hoping the dead understood his plight, and continued on his way, blue eyes sparkling in the darkness, ears strained for any sound.
He stopped at a fork in the path. A hushed noise on the right caught his sensitive ear. Tiptoeing, he crept through the undergrowth of scrubby brush and weathered trunks of old cypress.
There!
Fifty feet straight ahead!
An ashen figure. Shirt loose and billowing past his waist.
Goodnight squinted. Being a sharp shooter, he relied heavily on his vision, however, it was difficult to confirm his target.
Darn it! It was so hard to see! He wished the moon was out. He stared, trying to discern details.
It was definitely a man. Wide shoulders, stocky build. Wearing a stained shirt and brown pants. Boots to the knee. No hat, but his head was bowed. Praying, maybe? He was standing in front of a pearl white sepulcher stained by shadow and age.
But…was it Faraday?
Maybe if Goodnight got a little closer, he could tell. He just had to be careful. Didn't want to give away his presence. If it was Faraday and he was waiting on a lady friend for a secret rendezvous, Goodnight didn't want to spoil the surprise. Or ruin the chance at embarrassing the gambler and maybe getting a little retribution for Faraday's endless jokes and jibes.
Goodnight inched forward. The shadows embraced him. He held his breath. The air stilled, the trees likewise waited with bated breath. A chill ran up the Cajun's spine. His foot collided with a root, nearly sending him crashing to the ground. He caught himself on the pedestal of a frozen angel.
Goodnight cringed, hoping he hadn't made noise, nor offended the winged guardian of the bone yard.
When the man didn't move, Goodnight blessed his luck. He stayed crouched in the shade of the angel, diamond eyes glittering in the dark, fixed upon the figure barely twenty-five feet away.
Closer now, he could smell the fresh scent of turned Earth. The dampness of the bayou. The lightly floral scent of early blooming creepers. The rich, musty odor of thick moss.
There must be a freshly dug grave nearby.
The man lifted his head, suddenly alert. Goodnight tensed. Waiting. Watching. Stomach coiled as tight as a spring. He expected a visitor to emerge from the shadows at any second!
A minute passed.
Two.
Faraday looked left and right, searching. Goodnight did likewise, ears pricked for the slightest sound to giveaway company.
The trees exhaled, their boughs drooping low. The scent of dirt and moss perfumed the air. A shiver crawled through the graveyard.
Faraday's shoulders drooped in disappointment.
Goodnight didn't know why, but he pitied the gambler. Goodnight may have wanted to catch Faraday in a scandalous situation, but he couldn't taunt the man who had his heart broken. Goodnight had a healthy ornery streak, but he wasn't cruel. He was a gentleman, and a southerner at that!
Faraday stepped forward, toward the crypt.
Goodnight wondered if this should be the point he took his discrete exit.
Faraday exhaled a heavy, gusting noise reminiscent of ancient, moaning trees, then walked straight at the tomb.
And disappeared!
Goodnight barked in surprise. Had he not been staring, he would have missed it.
He rushed forward, circling the giant pale monolith several times, searching for Faraday. There was no way he just walked through the tomb! There were no doors or hinges or places for the gambler to hide. He just… vanished!
It was impossible! Yet, Goodnight witnessed it with his own two eyes. There was no Faraday. There was no one. Just a tomb. A simple stone tomb.
Odd.
Goodnight stared dumbstruck, trying to figure out what he had seen. Surely his eyes were deceiving him. There was no plausible explanation for what he witnessed. People just didn't disappear into thin air!
In omen, the clouds parted, washing the world with silver. The tomb became visible, including the small pile of bones in the dead center of the pearly marble.
Bones? On a crypt? This crypt was white, and his momma always said the black crypts were the ones of voodoo shaman and their devilish minions. But, what if his momma got it wrong?
The bones were there. No denying.
There was also writing on the cold stone, letters bold in the shimmer of moonlight. Goodnight could read them clearly.
There was no name or date.
Just the simple epitaph:
Do not go gently into the Goodnight
Goodnight?
Goodnight shuddered. Blood ran cold. Bones rattled.
He took a step back. Something touched his foot then caressed his ankle. A…hand? Fingers? Reaching from the grave? Ready to drag him down into the depths of the Earth? Is that why the scent of freshly tilled ground filled his senses, clogging his throat? Why, he could practically taste the dirt crumbling into his mouth!
His momma had been right!
The legends were true!
The bones had summoned the dead!
He had to get out of here!
Screw this! If Faraday wanted to joke around, Goodnight was not going to be a party to it any longer. The gambler could keep his secrets! Goodnight didn't care anymore. He had had enough. Quickly, he turned, intending on retracing his steps.
And found his path blocked by a shrouded demon with coal black eyes and a curtain of obsidian hair.
"EEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHH!" Goodnight shrieked like a little girl.
Frozen in terror, Goodnight Robicheaux screamed until there was nothing left in his lungs. Fright kept him immobile. It took an eternity to gather his wits and recognize the man standing three feet from him. (How in the hell did he not hear him approach?!)
"Billy?! The hell you doing!? Sneaking up on me in a graveyard?!" Goodnight half growled, half shouted, hand clutching his chest to calm his pounding heart threatening to break his ribs. "Give a man a heart attack!"
Billy canted his head, peering behind shaggy hair. His voice rumbled, cracking like a whip. "What the hell you doing out in a graveyard in the middle of the night in the first place?"
Goodnight recovered some of his wits, and a most of his pride. Not wanting to admit he was hoping to embarrass Faraday, (and his intentions were purely self serving,) he came up with a lame excuse.
"Thought I saw something. Came to investigate."
"Uh huh," Billy muttered, not believing a word the Cajun spouted. He had known Goodnight a long time. He could easily see through his bullshit. But, it was late, and Billy was tired, and Goodnight's scream had probably woken every single person within the parish….and surrounding states. Who knew the man could reach such decibels? It was unnatural for a man to reach that pitch. And a little scary. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
The small branch Goodnight was standing on gave his ankle another tap like a forgotten child begging for attention. He cleared his throat, raw and aching after such an impressive scream, and smiled in that charming southern way Billy learned meant his best friend was totally lost.
As always.
Honestly, Billy wondered why he stuck around. Goodnight was as flighty as a kitten. And as curious as one. Finding trouble in the most unlikely of places and then relying on looks and charm to get out of the situation.
Billy jerked his head. "This way." He muttered colorful Korean that made the dead cover their ears as he led Goodnight out of the cemetery.
As the two entered town, folks were gathering on porches and sidewalks, women wrapped in shawls and flowing nightdresses while the men hastily tugged on pants and suspenders. A murmur of concern and inquiry drifted through air to Goodnight and Billy they passed.
"Nothing to worry about folks," Goodnight answered confidently, waving an airy hand. Now that he was among the land of the living, his flair for the dramatic reared. The southern storyteller was granted an audience, and as was his nature, he relished the attention. "Just an ol' swamp cat. Probably got caught unaware by a gator. You know what they say about curiosity."
Goodnight waved and flashed his most charming smile, putting the skittish residents at ease.
"Meow," Billy mumbled.
Goodnight ignored him.
Chisolm, Horne, and Red Harvest were on the porch of the boarding house, half dressed but fully armed. Poised for battle, they waited on Goodnight to shed some light on the source of the deathly howl that had woken every one and made hair stand up on end. Even Horne was spooked, eyes wide and wild, beefy hands gripping his rifle so hard the metal was threatening to bend.
"What were you doing out there?" Chisolm asked.
Voices floated through the open door a second before a grouchy Mexican and a half conscious gambler joined the group.
"Thought I saw our Mr. Faraday here," Goodnight lied smoothly, sending the attention to a guilty Faraday, "following someone and wanted to back him up."
No one bought it.
Chisolm regarded his friend for a long moment, then muttered, "In the middle of the night?"
Goodnight was spared any further exercises in truth by Faraday speaking up.
"Wasn't me," Faraday said around a yawn. He scratched his head, making his hair stick straight up. "Ain't dumb enough out to be out on a night like this. 'Specially in this neck of the wood. Too many crazy people… then there's that voodoo shit…"
Faraday trailed off around another yawn.
"Did you see anything?" Chisolm asked.
"Nothing," Goodnight lied again, though he couldn't hide the involuntary shiver that rattled his teeth. "Must have been swamp gas and gators making sport of an unsuspecting pole cat." He grinned at Faraday, "Unless you made that God awful noise then hurried back here to play the role of innocent?"
Faraday's hair resembled a rooster. He regarded Goodnight through crusty lashes. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was dead asleep before the Mexican woke me up. Inconsiderate jack ass."
Vasquez chuckled, muttering Spanish embroidery to rival Goodnight's French.
Goodnight refused to believe he had seen a ghost at the white tomb of bones. It had to have been Faraday. Or a local. Yeah. That was it! Just an ordinary man. Out for a walk maybe? Enjoying some peace and quiet to clear his head. Or hoping to meet with a lady friend for a secret tryst?
Yes, that explained it. A living, breathing, man had been the subject of Goodnight's scrutiny. Even if he did apparently walk through solid rock tombstones.
Probably just a trick of the light.
That was it.
There was no such thing as ghosts.
"Well, since we aren't under attack, I see no reason to stay awake," Chisolm said, yawning and stretching. His loose shirt waved with the heavy exhale of the bayou. "Let the swamp keep its gators. We'll stick to warm beds."
The others murmured assent. Horne and Red Harvest offered no argument as they went to their room. Initially, the two had adamantly refused to sleep indoors, as they were more content under the stars, but a hasty reminder that they were in a big city, with wild animals, (gators, swamp cats, bigots) they would be easy targets. It was wise to seek shelter indoors, close to their brothers in arms.
Hence why Goodnight and Billy were in one room, Vasquez and Faraday in the room next door, while across the hall was Horne and Red. Strangely enough, Horne was the only one patient enough to deal with Red's skittishness with being indoors. And he was the only one with enough patience to keep Red from starting a fire and burning the furniture. Chisolm got a room to himself at the end of the hall. It was a small room. No bigger than a closet. Didn't even have a window. But it had a bed and wash basin, and that was all the bounty hunter needed.
Doors closed. Gun belts were hung on bed posts. Boots kicked off. Shirts tugged off to hang on a drying rack to air them out for the next day.
Goodnight lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The small oil lamp on the nightstand offered minimal light, barely enough to allow the occupants to see in the dark in case they needed the chamber pot or to hastily dress. (Like when one hears a bone chilling scream coming from a graveyard.)
Billy stretched on his own bed, face down, one boot hanging off his foot, balancing on its tip. Within minutes he was sound asleep, face hidden under a downy curtain of hair.
Goodnight couldn't sleep.
He kept thinking about the graveyard. The man. The man who walked through a tombstone. A tomb with an offering of bones. And the epitaph.
Do not go gently into the Goodnight
He shivered again.
Movement in the window caught his attention. His heart stopped.
"Faraday" was looking in the window again. Only, now that Goodnight was fully awake he could see the subtle differences. Mainly, the fact that the man was pale, with black unblinking eyes, and faded around the edges, gray shirt floating like smoke.
"Forget this!" Goodnight hissed, dashing from his bed like a scalded cat. He tiptoed across the hall and rapped on the door several times.
Sam Chisolm answered after the fifth knock.
"Goody?" he slurred, still drowsy from being woken. Again.
Goodnight didn't respond. Just brushed past his friend and laid down, pulling the blankets over his head and creating a lumpy mountain in the middle of the narrow bed.
"Dare I ask?" Chisolm said to the living mound on his bed.
"You're the only one who doesn't have a window," Goodnight explained from under the blanket.
"Fine," Sam said, too tired to deal with Goodnight's idiosyncrasies any more. Resolute, he grumbled at the lump and shut the door, going across the hall into Goodnight's room. Billy snored softly. Sam barely hit the pillow before he was sound asleep.
The man at the window stayed until dawn.
Sam Chisolm was none the wiser.
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So, how was it? Goodnight (the big chicken) in a bone yard late at night. Seems plausible. *snickers* I have a feeling he'd be like Shaggy from Scooby Doo.
Thanks for reading and if you liked it, or found an error, please click the button and let me know.