Short Story: “Redcaps”

This is a little weird horror tale with a Western vibe. Originally written as a submission to an anthology, it was not selected. However, it’s still a lot of fun. If you like the Fae, that is.

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“Redcaps”

Somewhere in the territory between Texas and Mexico…

The old man handed me the lantern. My hand shook a bit as I took it from his wrinkled grasp. We were both shaking. Him from age, me from nerves.

“It’s not a hard job, kid. Just keep a light on things and if you hear stumblin’ in the dark, shine it on whatever is creeping around out there. They’ll go away.”

I didn’t believe the old man but his experience sold me. How could he get to be this old from telling lies about this job? He looked as if a breeze could knock him on his ass. There was nothing to worry about.

The old man kept talking.

“It’s been twenty years, kid. Ain’t had an issue in nearly as long. Had a near miss about two years after I started watchin’ the graves, but quickly learned my lesson and ain’t had a problem since.”

“Yeah, but goblins? Honest goblins? Yer yankin’ my leg, aintcha?”

The old man’s face sank. His cheeks drooped and his eyes were wide.

“I’d never. Too many of the old ways come back out here in the desert. Followin’ us around and waitin’ to jump out.”

The lantern suddenly felt heavier in my hand now. My arm drooped until the lantern was just above my waist.

The old man continued.

“Ya see, those folks from the old countries bring those places with ‘em in their heart, right? Imps an’ goblins and those winged ones, what ya call ‘em?”
“Fairies?”

“Ah, yeah. Them. Yer a pretty smart kid there, how’d ya know?”

My thoughts drifted to my mother, telling my sister and me a story about the little winged ladies who granted wishes or played tricks. It all depended on how we acted.

“Momma told me ‘bout ‘em.”

“Mm, still alive?”

“Nah.”

“Pity ya?”

“Mm.”

The old man hobbled over to a tombstone – M. Rutherford B. 1799 D. 1846 – and leaned against it to keep himself upright. He puffed a bit as he dipped into his coat pocket and plucked a pipe from within. He beckoned me over and I held the lantern up. He flicked up the latch, slipped the open pipe of packed tobacco over the open flame, and waited for it to smoke before he pulled it out again upright and placed it between his lips, just under a shock of tangled white hair.

After a few puffs, he continued.

“Honest to God, kid, I seen ‘em. Little sons of bitches. They come here for the new ones.”

He slapped a hand on the gravestone and toed the fresh dirt at the foot.

“Ya see, back in the old place I guess they used to kill people outright for the bits they needed, rocks an’ spears. But with our irons these days they’re more the scavengin’ types.”

“Scavengin’ what, sir?”

He took a dramatic puff and stared at the edges of the cemetery. The sky was unusually dark with barely a sliver of the moon and almost hidden stars. He coughed a bit and wiped a little phlegm from the corner of his mouth.

“Blood an’ leather.”

I glanced around and held the lantern aloft to shine a little more light around me. It was a calm night, but I couldn’t help but think of a storm. I never liked stillness.

“What do ya mean, sir?”

The old man thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter why, just matters that we chase ‘em off. Comprende, kid?”

I nodded.

“Y’all ain’t taking care of the bodies before you buryin’ ‘em? Like, that embalmin’ stuff?” I asked.

“Kid, ya know our undertaker also shoes the horses.”

I nodded.

“Anyway, best you get yourself one of these too.”

He pulled out a small bible from another coat pocket. He flashed it for a second and pocketed it again.

“I got ya tonight. It’s yer first watch. Yer gonna do fine. We have everythin’ we need.”

A chorus of crickets and a distant howl rang out in the surrounding valley. There was no wind, but the air was cool. Crisp. Comforting.

The old man slid behind the marker on shaky knees. I made my way to a scrubby tree and slid down to the foot on a tuft of dried grass.

It would be a long night. I was exhausted already.

…

The fire in our small cabin was always burning. As bad as things were, I was never cold as a child. My sister and I sat and talked to our mother, waiting for our father to return from the hunt.

Mother would sew. We’d ask questions. She knew everything.

“Ma, what are goblins?”

“They’re all kinds. As many as there are people in the city. All of them wanting something different.”

My sister looked up from her doll.

“Are any of them good?”

“No. They’re tricky and dangerous.”

We sat in silence and Mother continued to sew.

I stared up at her, the warm glow of the fire lighting what I see now as a tired and worn face.

“What do you do when you see one?” I asked.

“You pray, son.”

…

I awoke in the darkness of the desert night – the lantern still burning beside me. The sky was still pitch and starless. I was propped up against the old tree a dozen feet from the grave of M. Rutherford.

I scrambled to my feet, embarrassed at falling asleep the first night of the job. How could I let that happen?

I tried to shake the haze. I had nearly forgotten the lantern on the ground next to me. I stooped down to grab it and in the silence of the early morning hours, I heard something I hadn’t heard out here before.

The sound of laughter.

Not a child’s laugh, or the laugh of an adult, but something else. Horrid. Raspy. Like a tin pan scraped across a rock. A chitter.

I peered around, lantern in hand.

Where was the old man?

The chittering continued and I felt sweat pour down my back. My shirt was damp all over. I adjusted one of my suspenders as I glanced around me, peering into the veil of darkness beyond the halo of the lantern’s glow.

The chittering continued as I approached M. Rutherford’s grave. I saw the dirt appeared disturbed. Maybe a coyote had begun to dig? I saw a stick as well, curiously sharp at the tip. I hadn’t seen it earlier tonight. There weren’t a great many sticks in the dirt, rocks, and scrub.

My eyes drifted from the curious stick to the pile of dirt. There were small tracks on the soil. But the toes seemed wrong for coyotes. I focused on them and noticed they were about the size of a child’s feet, but the impressions of the toes were much longer, twice or maybe three times. These weren’t delicate dots in the dirt but something foul.

I’d seen tracks of kids in the dirt. The ball of the foot appeared all wrong in these tracks.

Goblins weren’t any more real than they were when I was a kid, I told myself.

Where was the old man?

I suddenly remembered my Mother’s advice. Pray. But I hadn’t been in a church in a long time.

I slumped over to old Rutherford’s marker and pulled a shillelagh from the small of my back, tucked into my pants. Couldn’t afford a gun, but this would do. Always did.

The air was still and silence was all I sensed as I slowly swung the lantern in an arc ahead of me.

The old man’s boots crept into view, lying on the ground, toes up and slanted. I followed the boots and saw his legs. I traced the rest of his body by lantern light and saw the old man lying in the dirt, blood pooling beneath his head from a trickle at his temple.

I yelped and began to push forward. The halo of the lantern exposed more of the space around him – a patch of dust and grass.

Then, a rock. A bloody rock.

Then two small feet, just near the old man.

I stopped. I followed the feet, up to a small torso that lept back into the dark as soon as I saw it.

Whatever it was was now cloaked in shadow again. Just beyond the ring of lantern light, I saw two pinpoints of light, shining. 

Then four. 

Then six.

The chittering resumed, shriller and more menacing. I took a deep breath and stepped closer to the old man and thrust the lantern forward again. The tiny feet and bodies caught up in the halo began to hiss and shift.

They were all distinct enough but of a certain character. Each was about the size of a child, but impossibly adult in appearance, with thin, craggy faces. Long reddish whiskers, beards, and hair jutted out from their heads. Their fingers were long, pointed, and black, almost like claws.

The child’s hand, but with even longer fingers that were painted black.

And they all wore some variation of small leather boots, more like moccasins, a cloth sack for their bodies, and curious red caps made from rotting wool.

Immediately they scattered from the old man’s body. I couldn’t follow the three, but I turned my attention to the old man and set down the lantern. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead, but the blood worried me. I began to frantically drag him to our charge for the night, the grave of M. Rutherford. I would swap between him and the lantern, never dropping my club.

Behind me, I heard the frantic sounds of digging and those horrible chitters. I stopped dragging the old man toward the grave and snatched up the lantern again, throwing my body toward the sound, screaming, hollering, and crying at the goblins. I went wild and flailed as I stumbled toward the dirt pile.

The light caught the tail end of one as it lept back into the darkness. I practically fell face-first into the loose soil but steadied myself on the stone as I slammed my shoulder into it. It hurt, but I quickly threw the arm forward and thrust the lantern ahead of me like a shield, my back sliding against the headstone. I put all my weight against it. I kept hollering.

I barked and swore, waving around my club as I rose to my feet against the headstone. In the darkness, just beyond light’s reach, I saw the shining eyes. Behind them, the first glimpses of dawn, and pointed, horrid goblin silhouettes framed against early purple and red bands on the horizon.

Silhouettes that split up to surround the grave. Surround me.

The three moved closer, seemingly desperate. I whipped the lantern around, trying to shine as much light on each of them as I could, but they would skitter closer when my lantern was away from them. Each swing brought two more toward me, ever slightly.

“Shit. Go away!”

They said nothing. All I heard was a chittering from all around. Tin pan laughs.

I gripped tighter at the shillelagh with my free hand and raised it. I readied my swing.

The first stick hit me on the thigh and dropped me to the ground. I glanced down to see my blood streaming down my trouser leg. My lantern had dipped, but I raised it aloft again as I heard them shift and scurry. I crawled to the dirt mound that covered M. Rutherford and began swinging. I knocked away a second stick that was heading right for my neck.

I heard them chitter as I swung desperately. I heard their sticks clatter.

A raspy voice began to call “Deliver me from my enemies, O God; be my fortress against those who are attacking me” and the chittering grew into strange, piercing screams. Screams like a wild critter being torn apart by wolves.

I watched as these goblins scampered off, their red, wild hairs streaming behind them. They fled into the rapidly vanishing dark as the sun continued to creep over the horizon. One dropped its cap.

The old man hobbled over. Blood trickled down from the side of his head and soaked the thick starched jacket collar.

“If ya ain’t a god fearin’ man, this certainly probably pushed ya to it.”

I nodded and began to inspect my leg. I set the lantern on the dirt next to me. The wound was small. Just a knick, all things considered.

“I wasn’t expectin’ three of ‘em,” I said.

The old man slid to the ground next to me. He put his weight on my shoulder to set himself down easy.

“Well, ol’ Rutherford was a big fella. Plenty of blood and leather to go around.”

I rubbed a dirty hand across my face to clear the sweat. I felt tainted by the night.

“Hey kid, look at that.”

The old man gestured a few feet away. On the dusty ground was a woolen red cap, tangled, frayed, and blotched with all manner of filth. It appeared stiff in spots.

I held the lantern aloft again, and at the edge of the late morning’s darkness, I saw a stick, gnarled, sharp, and a little crimson. The stick dug into the hat and scraped it out of the light.

The old man and I sat, hearing the chitters in the dark fade into the distance.

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