Tyler Jones is the author of Criterium, The Dark Side of the Room, Almost Ruth, the story collection Burn the Plans (one of Esquire's Best Horror Books of 2022), Heavy Oceans, and the forthcoming novel from Earthling Publications, Midas. His work has appeared in the anthologies including Flame Tree Press: Chilling Crime Stories, Burnt Tongues (edited by Chuck Palahniuk), 101 Proof Horror, Campfire Macabre, Paranormal Contact, and in Dark Moon Digest, Cemetery Dance, LitReactor, PsuedoPod, Tales to Terrify, and The NoSleep Podcast.
He lives in Portland, Oregon.
He is represented by Elizabeth Copps at Copps Literary Services.
MIDAS by Tyler Jones – First 2 Chapters
Coming from Earthling Publications in October 2023
#18 in the annual Halloween Series
Midas is a limited edition of 500 copies signed by the author and Josh Malerman and is almost sold out. The book includes an introduction by Josh Malerman. Artwork is by Vincent Chong.
1
Charwood, 1859
The preacher who was no longer a preacher awakened while it was still dark, but troubled thoughts kept him from falling back to sleep. He lay with his eyes open, listening to Emma’s breathing stop and start as her body twitched in the grip of another nightmare.
He got out of bed, made some coffee, and went outside. He stood on the front porch and watched as a silver fog crept in from the forest. Smoky fingers moved over the field, stirring the dead grass with tiny shivers. Across the field, the town of Charwood was a black silhouette against a gray sky. All was silent. He could just make out the shape of the church in the distance. It made him cold inside to think of the years he had spent in that building, teaching from a book he no longer believed in. Back when he was known as Jeremiah Pevensie, the preacher, the reverend. Even now, whenever he heard the bell ring it sounded more like a warning, an alarm, than a call to worship.
Beyond the field to the west lay the forest, obscured by fog. The tops of the pines seemed to rise up suddenly out of this fog with no base to support them. A ghost forest that hovered halfway between earth and sky.
From within this silver curtain Jeremiah saw a dark shape moving toward him, growing clearer as it came closer. Soon, the head of a horse broke through the fog, followed by its saddled back with full bags strapped on either side. But there was no rider. Steam trailed from the animal’s nose as it walked with slow, tired steps across the field.
Jeremiah did not move from the porch, expecting to hear the voice of the horse’s owner echoing from the trees at any moment, or to see a human shape running through the fog after the animal.
The horse was so close now Jeremiah could hear the air rushing from its flaring nostrils. Froth dripped from its mouth and its ribs were visible, pushing against the skin with each heaving breath.
Jeremiah opened the door of his house a crack to see if his wife had awakened, but the house was still and quiet.
The horse came right up to the porch and its glossy eyes looked at Jeremiah without blinking. Its hair was a dusty brown, brittle to the touch when Jeremiah stroked its neck, a dirty white diamond between the eyes. Jeremiah took the reins and led the animal around the house to the barn, where his own two horses stood in their stalls chewing hay. Neither made a sound as the new horse entered the barn, they simply watched and chewed.
Jeremiah poured some water into a metal bucket and the horse drank as Jeremiah removed the heavy bags from the animal’s back. After the horse had drunk its fill, Jeremiah led him to one of the empty stalls and put fresh hay in the feeder. He made soothing sounds while stroking the horse’s mane and told him to slow down, but the animal continued eating as if it had not had a meal in many days.
Jeremiah wondered how long the animal had been wandering, and if there was a rider lost somewhere, stumbling through the woods trying to find his way out. Maybe something had spooked the animal in the middle of the night, causing him to abandon his owner. Jeremiah had overheard some of the men in town talking about a wolf that was stalking the forest. That beast had even ventured into town recently. Isaac Cutter, who kept a number of sheep on his farm at the south end of town, bolted awake one night to the sound of frantic bleating, and when he ran outside with a lantern he discovered blood-matted wool, paw prints near the fence, and a missing ewe.
Jeremiah almost said a silent prayer for the poor horse’s owner, wherever he may be. The words formed on his lips, but then he stopped and hit himself in the thigh as hard as he could. The pain was so bright that it scorched the prayer from his mind. Jeremiah shook his head to clear any thoughts of God and man’s ability to change his mind about what he had already decided.
The morning wore on and the fog lifted slightly until Jeremiah could see the entrance to the forest. Dark clouds had rolled in and covered the sun so that the morning felt like dusk, and he knew the day would not get much brighter.
Jeremiah returned to the porch where he finished his coffee and continued to watch the forest. After an hour, he decided he would venture into the woods, but not too far, to see if the horse’s owner had set up camp close by. He entered his house and quietly filled a satchel with some venison jerky and bread, in case the journey took longer than expected, and in case the horse’s owner, if found, was in need of nourishment. He strapped on his gun and knife, put on a warm coat, and went back outside, careful to latch the door as softly as he could.
Though the sky was dark the air was warm, charged with electricity that made the hair on his neck stiffen.
Jeremiah made his way across the field, stopping only to move some dry weeds from off a small mound of dirt. A grave he had dug with his own hands only three months earlier. He tried not to imagine the state of decay of the body buried beneath the earth, tried not to picture worms eating holes in the pine box that held his son, but these images developed in his mind and Jeremiah struck himself once in the face to erase them.
His eyes stung as he looked up at the stone-colored sky. “You are a thief,” he said. “A cruel and heartless thief.”
Then Jeremiah spat in the dirt and trekked toward the floating forest, mist swirling around his legs like the smoke of a world on fire. He paused where the field met the trees and turned back to look at his home. The cluster of buildings that made up his small farm were distant and alone. The high whinny of the lost horse traveled the distance and reached his ears.
He hoped Emma’s sleep was peaceful, because it rarely was these days. Sometimes he watched her eyes moving back and forth behind closed lids, her lips forming soundless words, the skin between her eyes folding in pain. He knew what she dreamed about, even though she never told him. He sometimes dreamed the same days, the same moments. Hours filled with so much pain it was a wonder his heart didn’t just stop beating. How could something hurt so much and not kill you?
2
As he crossed into the woods, Jeremiah was struck by how quiet it was—no animals scurrying in the trees, no flapping of wings— only the sound of his boots as they broke twigs and dry leaves.
The sun arced across the sky, a dim light rolling behind gray clouds, casting twisted shadows on the ground. Minutes stretched into hours and the walk became hypnotic. The crunch of his steps, the rush of his breath. A thousand trees surrounded him, and he could almost believe he’d been walking in place and the world was just spinning beneath him.
After several hours, Jeremiah came to a large, moss covered rock. He leaned against it and took out his canteen. His throat was so dry he could have easily drunk all the water, but he stopped himself so he’d have some for the return journey. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves and it carried a smell, faint but familiar.
He stood and kept going along a path between two trees, the trunks of which were so wide three men standing fingertip to fingertip could not have wrapped their arms all the way around.
Smoke.
The smell grew stronger and he slowed down, wincing at the crack of dead leaves under his boots. Someone was out here, but that did not mean it was the horse’s owner. The forest was known to be a place where men on the run went to hide. It was the reason the children of Charwood were not allowed to play in there alone. Sheriff Brennan had arrested, or shot, more than one outlaw within these woods. It was also not uncommon for a gold prospector to come back into town with black eyes, a bleeding gash on his head, and empty bags.
Jeremiah stopped and listened, but heard nothing. He moved forward carefully, stepping only on bare ground, until he came upon a circular clearing where someone had set up camp. A breeze blew through the trees and knocked branches together, moved the flap of a canvas tent with a sound that made him think of ship sails. A campfire lay smoldering nearby.
Jeremiah called out, “Hello?” and waited. No answer. He called again, hiding himself behind a tree in case gunshots were given in response. Still nothing. Jeremiah called one last time then approached the camp, crouched down, fingers touching the gun on his belt. Even as he circled around the back of the tent, Jeremiah knew the campsite was abandoned, could sense it in the stillness of the air.
Jeremiah gave up caution, stepped into the clearing, and saw a man lying on the ground in front of the fire pit. Jeremiah took out his gun and came up slowly from behind. He leaned down and gently pushed on the man’s shoulder. It felt stiff and cold to the touch and he knew, without even seeing the man’s face, that he was dead. One arm was stretched out, the fingers twisted into a claw. The other hand clutched his chest. Jeremiah came around the body and knelt in front of it. He sighed, took off his hat and wiped sweat from his brow.
The face was sliced open in four diagonal lines from the hairline to the chin. One eye had been punctured and was just a bloody mass. The other eye bulged from the socket. The nose was ripped away and there was a hole in the cheek, open so wide Jeremiah could see the man’s teeth. One ear dangled by a thin piece of skin. The neck and throat were mostly gone, torn skin and shredded muscle covered in dried blood. A dark pool of congealed blood covered the ground in front of the man, spilled from the open throat.
Jeremiah had seen enough injuries to know a bear attack when he saw one, and a quick glance at the nearby ground showed deep, paw-shaped impressions twice the size of his own hand.
Flies buzzed in the air, landing on the bloody dirt. A few crawled through clumps of flesh that were stuck in the man’s beard, their spindly legs moving over his split lips.
Jeremiah sat back, staring at the body. Memories of his son, Samuel, flared up inside his mind. He shook his head to clear them, but it was too late. Specific moments, images and voices, came alive, and pain so fresh it did not feel like it was three months old...it felt like all of it had just happened.
Jeremiah gripped one hand with the other and squeezed until the bones scraped together, and the memories faded. He wiped his eyes and took another look at the body.
The man’s age was impossible to determine because his face was so destroyed, but Jeremiah guessed him to be somewhere around fifty years old by the wrinkles on his forehead, around his eyes, and the streaks of grey in his beard.
Jeremiah stood and shivered, then started collecting wood to rebuild the fire. Once the flames were going, he went over to the tent and stuck his head inside. A bedroll was laid out but not slept on, and other than a satchel the tent was empty. Jeremiah grabbed the bag and carried it to the fire.
As he neared the body he saw tiny flashes of light coming from the dark puddle of dried blood. He crouched down and looked closer. Thousands of small glittering pieces dotted the stained dirt. Even the open wounds on the man’s face flickered in the firelight. Nothing else on the man’s body—not his skin, hair, or clothes—sparkled with this strange substance. Only the blood.
Jeremiah took out his knife and used the blade to scrape some of the dried blood out of the laceration on the man’s cheek. He carried it to the fire, turning the blade first one way, then the other. Something in the blood shimmered with a metallic glow.
An illness? Jeremiah wondered, walking back to the body. He had never heard of any ailment that caused the blood to shine like this. He patted the dead man’s clothing, but the pockets of the shirt and pants were empty except for a broken pencil. Jeremiah was about to go and search the tent again when he saw another flash of light, this time coming from the hand clutched to the man’s chest.
The fingers were stiff and claw-like, grasping at something. Jeremiah managed to move one finger and the object in the man’s hand caught the firelight and reflected it brilliantly.
He moved another finger, and another. His breath caught in his throat when he saw what it was. He pulled back the last finger with a brittle snap, and a large piece of gold tumbled out of the man’s hand.
Jeremiah picked it up, his heart beating so fast his legs went weak. It was more gold than he’d ever seen, and the color and texture were flawless. No impurities. It weighed as much in his hand as a small stone. And, somehow, this gold had been fashioned into the exact size and shape of a morning glory flower.
Jeremiah slipped the flower into his pocket and immediately searched the camp for more gold. He tore through the tent, ran his hands along the stitching of the canvas, overturned the bedroll, dumped out the contents of the satchel, but there was nothing to be found. He wondered if the man had been a prospector, or perhaps a jeweler, and was murdered by a partner in his operation. Jeremiah knew of many men who had left their families and traveled into the mountains in search of riches. But he’d never heard of anyone coming back with this much gold.
He looked back down at the stiff and lifeless body. His eyes moved over the man’s legs, bent and pulled up toward his chest, the one hand curled against his stomach with its broken finger, and the outstretched hand...those twisted fingers, curved and misshapen, the cords beneath the skin pulling it into something deformed. It reminded him of Samuel’s hands near the end. At night, when the boy could not sleep because of the pain that ripped through him, his hands would sometimes contort into such shapes.
But every memory of Samuel was connected to another memory, a whole string of them that went backward in time to when there was no pain. A long black tunnel Jeremiah could not always stop himself from falling into. His chest burned as he fought to breathe, to not lose control over what his mind saw. The memories came anyway, and with them all the sights and sounds of the moments in which they belonged. Each of them sharp.
Jeremiah closed his eyes and hammered a fist into his thigh until the pain overtook his thoughts.
(C) Tyler Jones, 2023