What Dread Hand

Bodie, California. 1879.

When I was a boy, my mother, God rest her soul, spoke in a quiet, reverent voice about the first time she saw a redwood tree, and how it filled her with dread. Most people, my father and brothers included, laughed at her when she told this story, but I did not; I understood the oppression of majesty. I too felt that dread as a child, and to a lesser extent as a man of nineteen, when out beneath the grand clouds which slide across the vast blue, or at the foot of a stoic mountain. But in this house—the house I’d built with my own hands, out of the trees that so filled my mother with dread, timber brought on barges from across Mono Lake—I realized the majesty was not the redwood, the big sky, or the imposing mountain, but the perspective granted: we are small, fragile creatures.

Before the town of Bodie lifted their head from their pillows, or had gone to bed at all, depending on ambition or profession, I made my way to the only brick building in town, the mortuary, to assist the mortician, my uncle Johnathan. The summer mornings were as cold as the winters in Bodie. I shoved my hands deep down into my pockets.

A man approached and stopped six feet from me. He stared at my face as if contemplating a complex riddle, and when he couldn’t work it out, he squawked, “Hands!”

I removed my hands from my pockets, showing him the fronts, and then the backs.

“Carry on.”

I made my way to the back entrance of the red-bricked building and opened the door. “I hope you have coffee for me.” I rubbed my hands together, blowing hot breath onto them.

Uncle Johnathan motioned to the back of the room with a flip of his wrist.

He was a sharp man, not just in mind but in features, his nose like a saber, fingertips like pikes. He spat out the window.

“Uncle, how do you live like this? It’s freezing. Can we close that?” I stepped toward the window—

He waved me away. “No! My throat is phlegmy, and I won’t be opening and closing it all day long. It’ll warm up soon enough. Your generation—it’s a miracle that we get you out of your cozy beds at all.” His dark hair made his face all the more pale, but his eyes were full of vitality.

Uncle Johnathan believed what he said, yet I never took offense; I knew where we stood, and at the end of the day, that was the best one could hope for in any relationship. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sipped, watching him prepare the body for burial.

He moved about like an elk with a bullet in its haunch, erratic movements that seemed motivated by pain or nerves, but when he touched the corpse, his hands were gentle, and the way he moved its wrists and tilted its head was respectful, as if the stranger were kin.

“Did you see the paper?” he said.

“No. I came right over. All good news, I assume?” I wrapped my hands around my cup and waited for him to go on.

“President Hayes is dead.”

I don’t know why this news shocked me. I suppose there is an unconscious tendency to believe that with power comes immortality, and even though this notion should have been extinguished with the death of men like Lincoln and Cornelius Vanderbilt, I was at a loss for words.

“Why?” I managed to whisper. But I knew the answer: it started with a body pulled from the San Francisco Bay. A group of dockworkers had found the man—said he looked like a yule log dressed in a frock coat. It wasn’t until they saw his sea-green, lifeless eyes, that they’d contacted the police. The man was later identified by his wife as Jon Acho, a businessman who’d recently arrived from Scandinavia. All five dockworkers caught the Treefolk plague that day. Soon after, it spread from the docks to the alehouse, from alehouse to brothel—from there, it cared not about class nor creed. Men and women stumbled about the city, their cheeks burled, their arms and legs like gnarled branches of a dead tree.

James Kelly, a resident of New York City, ironworker, and father of three, was the first of the infected to unintentionally wrought mass destruction. I’d read it in the paper—we all had. He’d been hammering rivets, as he had done a hundred times before, only on that morning, when he placed his hand on the steel cable responsible for suspending the western half of the great East River bridge, it turned to wood, most of it falling to the river below. Hundreds of men lost their lives that day. Unfortunately for James Kelly, he survived long enough to be killed by the state.

“Hayes didn’t stand a chance.” My uncle wiped the face of the corpse with a wet cloth. “It’s like our good Pastor Edwards says, ‘Treefolk are Godless.’ But more than this, men and women who turn metal to wood with a touch of the hand can end progress—and with it, fortunes.”

I helped my uncle move the body into the alcohol and arsenic mix for embalming. The flesh was hard, and the grooves in its arms were so much like wood that it seemed impossible. I could see the poor man’s brains, as pink as a child’s cheeks on a cold day, snuggled within the husk. I wondered what offense this man caused to warrant such brutality.

“Uncle, please look at it from the pastor’s perspective. He needs to maintain control of the hearts and minds of his flock. He’s asked that all infected leave our town, which might seem cruel, but I think he does this for their safety. Now that Hayes has been—”

“Murdered?”

“Yes,” I said, filling my cup with more coffee. “The division will widen.”

“I have something to confess, Robert.” Uncle Johnathan stepped back from the corpse and lowered his head. I thought he might be praying, but then he spoke. “You must keep it to yourself—swear to me?”

“I swear it, Uncle.” I set my coffee down and stepped forward.

Johnathan rolled up his sleeve; there were deep grooves that seemed etched into his arm, some running parallel, others diverging and swirling around warts and knots. The skin around this newly grown shell sagged; his entire arm would soon resemble wood.

“I am dust—I am destined for Boot Hill.”

I knew this day would come; we worked closely with the bodies of those inflicted with Treefolk. My heart sank. This man who reminded me often of stone would soon turn to wood. I embraced him and he stiffened, unaccustomed to physical displays of affection.

“Okay, that’s enough—I’m not dead yet.” He pushed me away and went back to the corpse. “Let’s finish this body and move on to the next.”

I shook my head and closed the window. “You need not die at all! We should leave town at once!”

Uncle Johnathan pushed me aside and flung the window back open. “Fearful men are everywhere—are you going to help me with this body or not?”

I found Pastor Edwards at the church working on his sermon. It was a moving plea for strength within our community, and I could not help being swept up by his words. He looked around the room as if it were Sunday morning and the room was full of worshipers. His hair flung about as passion took hold, and his dark eyes swallowed up the phantom congregation. After he’d finished, he bowed his head in silent prayer.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I said, stepping forward. “but I watched you practice your sermon. This town is lucky to have such guidance.”

He motioned for me to join him at the podium with a broad, exaggerated sweep of the hand, as if his imagined Sunday worshipers still looked on.

“You are too kind. How are you, Robert?”

“I’ve brought you a gift, Pastor.”

He kept his eyes on me while he unwrapped the package, slowly at first, then quicker as the contents were revealed to him. His smile was wide, and his teeth were whiter than I knew teeth could be.

I smiled with my mouth closed.

He put the gift down on the pulpit and clasped his hands.

“This is beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“Aunt Mary picked it up for me in San Francisco. I requested a Bible that would make your face light up, and I see she has not failed.”

“The binding is wonderful—I’ll use it during my sermon tomorrow. Thank you, Robert. And please, thank your good aunt.” He stepped down from the pulpit.

I extended my hand but he did not take it, instead he handed me the paper that the bible had been wrapped in.

I nodded awkwardly. “Pastor, there is something that I wish to speak with you about, if you have time?”

He smiled and waved me on. “Every man is a friend to him that giveth gifts.”

I followed him to his office, a small room in the back of the church that smelled of dust, leather, and wet wool. The shelves were crowded with books of all shapes and sizes.

“Quite the library you have here. Have you read all of these?”

“I have, many times over. What did you want to talk about?”

The room was warm from the day’s heat; I watched a bead of sweat fall from the pastor’s brow to a paper on his desk. I considered retreating, making up some mundane reason for speaking with him, but his kind face drew me in—he seemed a reasonable man, so I did not mince words.

“The world is against those inflicted with Treefolk.”

The pastor raised a brow and nodded in agreement. Encouraged by this reaction, I continued with more conviction than I’d started.

“I’ve been thinking about why these God-fearing people, these children of the Lord, would be ravaged this way. And do you know what I came up with?”

The pastor’s face did not change.

“Well, I believe this is a test. Not just a test for the individuals inflicted, but for the world.”

The pastor sat down and placed his elbows on the desk. It was so quiet in the room I could hear the pastor breathing.

“Like the parable of Job but for the world?” he said. “Interesting.”

“Yes—yes, Pastor. Like Job! God is testing us to see if we are worthy. How we treat these poor souls will be a testament to our love for God almighty.”

The pastor arose from his desk, walked to a small window overlooking the main road, and watched the men returning from a long day in the mines. He lowered his head for several minutes.

The light came through like a divine ray from God himself, and I felt a surge of hope through my breast. I believed God was infusing the pastor with holy wisdom.

He turned to face me. His top lip quivered like a leaf caught on a rock in a stream. His hands were balled into fists.

“When I look out across the congregation, do you know what I see?”

He waited until I answered him.

I shook my head, unsure of what was going on. “What do you see?”

“I see fear. I see hatred. But we should not be afraid of these poor wretches. No. But we should pity them. For when they get to those pearly gates, clutching their hats in their splintery palms, they shall be refused entry.”

He walked over and stood with his nose inches from mine. His breath smelled like buttermilk.

“They have given their soul to the devil—it’s clear as day to me. Not to you, though. Is it? That’s alright. So now, what shall we do here? Pity them, sure, but we cannot let them overcome our town. No. We cannot.”

“But Pastor, do you not—”

“We cannot let them destroy Bodie and it’s God-fearing men and women! We must drive them and their wickedness from our home! We must drive the devil from our home! We must do God’s will! And we must drive the devil from Bodie!”

Spittle flew onto my cheeks, but I did not flinch. There was no love of God filling this house of worship. My stomach churned and my body felt weak. I thanked the pastor for his time and left, walking through the phantom flock and out through the chapel doors.

Uncle Johnathan did not leave the mortuary. He slept there, took his meals among the corpses and, knowing that death was near, told me story upon story of his life.

I asked him why he had became a mortician. He lowered his head and talked in a low voice.

“Whether they had money, power, or generosity of spirit, their bodies eventually ended up in front of me and their souls in front of God. In some ways, I felt closer to God because of that—partners in the business of death.”

We had tea, and I witnessed my uncle turn from stone to something softer. Then, as night descended and our breath rolled out to meet our words, a crowd clamored outside. My uncle ran to bolt the door, but when he touched the metal, it turned to wood. Minutes later, the mob cracked the pinewood lock.

We leaped out of the window and ran toward Boot Hill, but it was not long before they caught up, forming a circle around us, their eyes wild and full of an evil togetherness. Through the mob, which swayed back and forth, drunk with bloodlust, emerged Pastor Edwards, brandishing an axe; a lumberjack in a dusty suit; a pious madman intoxicated with ordained power.

The pastor pointed at a couple wild-eyed men. “You two—hold the young one.”

The two men grabbed my arms and sneered, one of them smelled of whisky and vomit, the other of soap and coffee. No matter how I struggled, I could not break free from them. Uncle Johnathan stood perfectly still in the middle of the mob. He looked taller than he normally looked, like a cousin of the redwood—majestic.

“I have been thinking about our conversation, Robert.” The pastor looked up at the stars and exhaled, a plume of steam from his breath rising up to meet God’s ears.

Uncle Johnathan did not look at me.

Pastor Edwards stepped forward and put his hand on my cheek. “You helped me. I dug deep—I prayed to God! Do you know what he told me? The Lord God Almighty said, ‘This is a test!’ Just like you said, Robert—this here is a test. I prayed and God responded. He said to me, ‘What will you do to save this town?’ And I’ll tell you, Robert, the question scared me. But I said I will do whatever I must.”

Before I could respond to him, he pivoted, and walking swiftly up to Uncle Johnathan, lifted his axe and brought it down between his shoulder and neck where the Treefolk had yet to spread. My uncle’s hot blood sprayed on my cheeks and lips.

I watched in silence as my uncle’s blood pulsed from his body like a freshly dug well.

I gave one terse shout to God to voice my opposition to His madness, one terse shout for the Devil for the rusty taste on my lips, and one terse shout in defiance of a world made up of dull men.

The pastor bowed his head. “Let us pray together.”

My blood boiled, mixing with the hot bile in my throat. I wanted to take that axe and strike him down, but I knew the pastor was but a hair on the head of the monster.

“Heavenly Father, we beseech you to continue your guidance and shelter us from the evil men of this world. We do your bidding. And Heavenly Father, please watch over Robert Nell and help him understand the sacrifice we made here today—under Your command. Bless this town, Father. In Jesus’ name, we pray, amen.”

“Amen,” the men around me mumbled.

“Let him go, he’s our brother.” The pastor tossed the axe to the ground.

Tears let loose and streamed down my face, but no sound escaped my lips. I looked at my uncle’s body, a pool of black ever-expanding in the dirt below him like a large black period on the end of a taut sentence. I brushed my hands over his eyes. With them closed, he looked like a felled tree in dusk’s dim light.

In the distance, I saw the men of Bodie pouring from the mines on their way home for supper—the lifeblood of this boomtown was a golden vein feeding a corrupted city of false worshipers.

I picked up the axe the pastor had discarded, his work for the day done. My body was shaking. I stood over Uncle Johnathan’s lifeless body, and said a prayer. A simple request for forgiveness, and when I’d stopped shaking, I hoisted the axe over my shoulder and brought it down hard just below the joint at the elbow, severing Uncle Johnathan’s arm from his lifeless body.

I fetched a gold dollar from my trousers and placed it on the ground before me, picked up my uncle’s arm, the white sleeve now bathed in blood, and touched the coin with his sharp, sticklike fingers. The coin became wood.

I threw the axe into the tall grass and walked toward the mines.

Thank you for reading, What Dread Hand. I wrote this one back in 2024 as part of a historical fiction contest. It was a fun challenge!

If you enjoyed this story, I have a folk horror story in Give Us This Day, which you can purchase through Dylan at Drek Death and Doom!

Other books available:

Blood in the Yolk. (Bird Horror!)

The Midnight Vault (The hit anthology!)

Beneath the Valley Oak. (Old West Grit)

Coming Soon - Cherry Kills (Novella)