Ghost Heart Read online

  GHOST HEART

  Weston Ochse & Yvonne Navarro

  FIRST EBOOK EDITION

  Text © 2012 by Weston Ochse & Yvonne Navarro

  Cover art © 2012 by Vincent Chong

  Editor, Norman Rubenstein

  Publisher, Chris Morey

  Cover and Interior Design By Stephen James Price

  www.GenerationNextPublications.com

  Dark Regions Press

  6635 N. Baltimore Ave. STE 241

  Portland, OR 97203

  www.darkregions.com

  FOR

  Ray Bradbury and Clive Barker

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many people helped to make the book you’re holding (or viewing or listening to) and we owe them all sincere thanks. Thanks first to those authors we read growing up who took us on many of our lives greatest adventures. Thanks also to those readers over the years who contributed advice and story ideas, turning Ghost Heart into a full-fledged adventure. Thanks to Norm Rubenstein for asking for the book and for Joe Morey for publishing it. Thanks to you in advance for buying this book; we envy you the journey you are about to take, having taken it so many times ourselves. The first time is always the most marvelous. And thanks to our nephew Tynan for having two invisible friends named Raisin and Jacket. It took us awhile, but as you can see, we finally saw who they were.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I. The Wind Knows All

  PHANTOM INTERLUDE

  II. To Follow the Path of the Wind

  III. Into the Black Hills

  IV. The Campground Where Monsters Dwell

  PHANTOM INTERLUDE

  V. Bad Men in Leather Jackets

  VI. Night of the Zombies

  VII. Ali Baba and His Forty Thieves

  PHANTOM INTERLUDE

  VIII. Dead Men Can’t Drive

  IX. The Christmas Witch of Cleghorn Canyon

  X. Things Are Not As They Seem

  XI. It Rises from the Grave

  PHANTOM INTERLUDE

  XII. To Live Again

  XIII. Deadwood

  XIV. Wild Bill Hickok

  XV. Beaten and Smashed

  XVI. Vampire Kitty Dreams

  PHANTOM INTERLUDE

  XVII. Gigglemesh and Mesopetunia

  XVII. Becoming Part of the Future

  XIX. Mount Rushmore Reality

  XX. Calamity Jane

  XXI. The Power of Belief

  XXII. Phantom Meets Boy Meets Calamity Jane

  XXIII. Ain’t Nothing Badder than the Badlands

  XXIV. The Place Where Legends Come to Play

  XXV. And the Wind Moves on

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Some of the greatest stories are those meant to be read aloud, the spoken word taking on a magic greater than those on the page. When we wrote this book, we thought of those similar books which had come before, especially Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and Clive Barker’s Thief of Always. These books are more than just simple tales; they are adventures of the soul that resonate generation after generation. With Ghost Heart and the story of Matt Cady, we tried to create such a book. Ghost Heart is for young adults and adults alike. It is meant to be read aloud. It is meant to be shared. It is meant to be generational. After all, there is a ghost heart in each and every one of us.

  “Nothing ever begins. There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any story springs. The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and the tales that

  preceded that; though as the narrator’s voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making.”

  ― Clive Barker, Weaveworld

  I

  THE WIND KNOWS ALL

  The wind surged across the Great Plains, each gust creating a golden ripple in the vast ocean of wheat and sage. Up and over rounded hills, down and through cool valleys, the wind sought the hidden places where the people of history still whispered of things forgotten. Gusts swept past antelope leaping into the air, over prairie dogs diving into their catacomb kingdoms, through the thick tangles of fur on the last bison.

  In the nether reaches of the Badlands, however, the wind paused. Even its seemingly unstoppable force was unwilling to disturb the creatures that haunted this forbidding, ancient place. More a tremendous grave than a valley, the pale rock formations remained silent and ominous as their own shadows moved around them.

  Free once more of the barren darkness, the wind sprinted up the rising ground as plain gave way to mountain. Pulsating updrafts in the tall, dark branches of the ponderosa pines sent needles to flight. Gusts swirled across the quartz-covered ground, fabricating eddies of winking mica in the crisp, morning air. Through ghost towns of Wild West memories, past tourists with gunfighter dreams, over the craggy presidential faces of Mount Rushmore, and past a mountain-sized carving of the great Sioux warrior, Crazy Horse, the wind blew.

  At the base of these Black Hills, at that space where the Great Plains ceased to be, on the poorer side of Rapid City, a boy ran, waving a shiny forty-five caliber plastic cap gun at his dog Kubla. Named Kubla Khan after the Mongol warlord who almost conquered the world, Kubla was an immense long-haired German shepherd who sped toward the back of a nearby faded blue and white trailer like hell itself was on his tail.

  The wind caught the red dust of the grassless yard and sent a swirl of gritty particles against the boy’s face. Blinded, he ground to a stop then brought his small hands up to wipe his eyes clear.

  “Get back here, Injun!” he yelled. “Get back here so I can shoot you!” But when Matt Cady was finally able to see, his target had disappeared and he had no idea where the dog had gone.

  “That’ll work. Promise to shoot ’em if they cooperate,” came a voice from behind Matt.

  “I ain’t talking to you.” Matt searched the yard, checking behind an old V-8 engine covered with a blue tarp and behind the tall, green garbage can sitting just inside the fence by the front gate. He searched behind anything big enough to hide a large German shepherd. He spun, his black and white vinyl cowboy chaps catching the air and his curly blond hair, overdue for a cut, whipping into his face. His blue eyes scrunched down to slits not only because that’s what real cowboys did in the movies when they were hunting Injuns, but also because they were tearing up from the wind grit. It might seem like he was crying. He wanted to make sure nobody thought he was.

  “Ain’t ain’t a word, Matt.”

  “Is too. My Daddy uses it all the time.” Matt finally turned toward his companion. “Did you see where Kubla went, Jacket?”

  The man Matt was talking to was about five feet tall and in his mid-thirties. He wore a gleaming silver motorcycle skullcap helmet, a leather jacket over a clean white T-shirt, jeans and leather army boots. Beneath short hair, his face was a little punchy and flattened like a boxer’s.

  “Yeah, I saw,” Jacket replied.

  “Well?” Matt placed his hands on his hips like his mother always did when she was waiting for him to clean his room or finish his vegetables.

  “Are you going to keep using the ain’t word?”

  Matt paused for a moment, then he shook his head. “Nu-huh.”

  “I don’t know.…”

  “Come on, Jacket, I promise, I ain—I’m not gonna say that word.”

  “Okay, then.” Jacket turned in a slow circle, his right hand on his forehead. After a complete revolution, he stopped and smiled. “If my canine sense is working, I’d say the dog’s hiding behind the propane tank.”

  Matt spun and loped toward the tank at the rear of the trailer. “You ain’t gonna get away from me, you Injun!” he screamed into the wind.


  As the boy’s whoops and yip-yips faded in the distance, Jacket shook his head. “Back in my day, a child would’ve never treated an elder with such disrespect,” he said grumpily. “And if they did, we’d tie ‘em up for a week or two until they learned their lesson.”

  “Yeah, right,” a voice next to him said. “And I used to have black and white stripes across my body. Used to be called Zebra Cain by all my buddies, instead of Raising Cain.”

  “I’m beginning to think you don’t believe me.” Jacket turned and gave his friend Raisin a baleful glance.

  Even without the benefit of his flaming red Afro, Raisin stood well over six feet. In his early twenties, he didn’t bother with a helmet like Jacket. He wore a sleeveless leather fringed vest over a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, jeans and soft leather boots that went all the way to his knees. His mischievous smile was all but hidden behind a Fu Manchu mustache. “Whatever gave you that idea? Could it be how back in your day kids were some kind of perfect creatures … except when you had to tie them up and lock them in closets?” He paused. “You know what I think?”

  “What do you think?” Jacket sighed, knowing he’d hear about it even if he didn’t want to.

  “I think it’s been so long, you’ve forgotten what it was like to be a child.”

  “Oh, yeah? Know what I think? I think you need to attend to your own child. Looks as if she isn’t doing so well.”

  Both Jacket and Raisin looked over at the teenage girl fiddling with her motorcycle on the other side of the yard. Her name was Regina Running Deer, and she was using a wrench to alternately hammer and pound the wheel of a sidecar into place. Like the motorcycle, the sidecar was painted in a green and brown camouflage pattern. She paused and turned her head at the end of their words, as if she thought she’d heard something. Beneath coal-black hair, her pretty face was covered with grease and dirt … except for the two tracks of clean skin that led downward from her eyes. Not seeing anything, Regina turned her attention back to her motorcycle and began tightening the bolts attaching the sidecar. They were always rattling loose, making Matt’s infrequent rides perilously exciting.

  Jacket saw that she’d been crying and was immediately sorry for what he’d said. The girl was definitely in trouble, and with Raisin beginning to fade, it was doubtful she’d make it.

  “Bang-bang-bang-bang!” Matt shouted from somewhere out of sight, punctuating each pop of his cap pistol. Suddenly he appeared from around the back of the house, chasing Kubla. The dog had a Sioux headdress tied around its head. The multicolored feathers had slipped, and the band meant to cover a human forehead was now covering the dog’s eyes. Kubla Khan, Injun to Matt’s cowboy, plowed headfirst into the chicken-wire fence that surrounded the small yard, bounced back, then took off again, this time heading straight for Jacket.

  But little Matt had made up lost ground and was within a giant step of being able to latch on to his Injun’s tail.

  “So what’s he going to do if he catches it?” Jacket asked.

  “The dog?”

  “No, the Injun.”

  “I don’t honestly know. It’s never happened before.”

  Jacket watched calmly as the dog ran toward him at full speed. Suddenly, as he passed through the Guardian Spirit, every hair on Kubla’s body stood on end. He yelped, then stumbled into a ball of twisting, rolling fur, all feathers and fangs as he snapped madly at the air.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Raisin said, giving his companion a sidelong glance.

  “I know,” Jacket said. He grinned. “But it’s too much fun not to.”

  “Jacket,” Matt said reproachfully as he skidded to a stop in front of his guardian. “I almost had him. Now we got to start all over.”

  Before Jacket could respond, Matt’s mother called from the top of the trailer’s stairs. “I don’t think so, young man. It’s time to come in for lunch.”

  “Aww, Mom—”

  “Don’t aww Mom me. Come on now. Before your food gets cold.”

  Matt looked at her hopefully. “What about Jacket and Raisin? Can they come, too? Do you guys want to come in for lunch?”

  For a moment, Matt’s mom stared in the direction Matt was facing. “I don’t think so, Matt,” she finally said. “After lunch you need to do some reading. Anyway, I’m sure your pretend friends have better things to do.”

  “She’s got that right,” Raisin said.

  “Shut up,” whispered Jacket.

  “They aren’t pretend, Mom. Just invisible.”

  “Whatever, son. Come on inside.” The door was almost closed before she stuck her head back out. “And get that headdress off Kubla. It looks like he ate a peacock, for gosh sakes.”

  Matt turned to see what his mother was talking about. Sure enough, the dog was lying on his back, staring at where Raisin and Jacket were leaning against the fence post and talking to each other. Kubla’s teeth were bared and the headdress had fallen free of his eyes; now it hung under his lower jaw like a beard, or worse, just like Matt’s mom had said—the back end of a peacock.

  He knew the dog couldn’t really see him, but Raisin picked up his foot and stomped it at him anyway, not really threatening but enough to make him claw away the headdress and scramble back to his feet. He chuckled as the German shepherd leaped to a spot midway between himself and Matt, determined to protect the boy from the thing he could sense but not see, that unknown presence he could only perceive as a threat.

  If only Kubla could understand the truth.

  PHANTOM INTERLUDE

  From the depths of an endless night, the thing creeps along the ocean of imagination, pulling itself with talons jagged from too much murder. Hunger fuels the hunt as it searches for the light. Its hiss is drowned out by the rock and roll music that thunders from man-sized speakers. A human throng sways to the primal rhythms. Here and there are the lights it craves. With a cry, it launches from the back of its human host and falls upon the crowd, enveloping a being of light.

  The dancing continues as it feeds. And the murder goes unnoticed.

  II

  TO FOLLOW THE PATH OF THE WIND

  Matt slid out from under his quilt and stepped into the cool shadows dappling the floor. He stood, still a little wobbly from running the fields of his dreams, then wiped away the last of the nap from his eyes and padded out the door and down the hallway. His mother had fallen asleep in the old rocking chair in front of the television, a crossword puzzle book folded against her chest.

  The blinking of the message button on the answering machine caught Matt’s eye. The flashing was a beacon, teasing him. His father had probably called to check on him again, or see if his mother wanted to talk about things. Matt wanted to press the button and play the message, but he hesitated, knowing that if he gave into the temptation, the sound of his father’s voice would wake his mother. Then she’d be angry and any chance of playing outside would be lost. It seemed like all his mom and dad did now was argue anyway. Every time Matt walked into the room the words I love you had been replaced by not in front of the kid.

  He went to the answering machine on the kitchen counter, but at the last second dodged his hand toward the plate of cookies beside it. He grabbed a fresh oatmeal cookie and bit into it. He didn’t like them all that much—he’d rather have chocolate chip—but the sweet oatmeal tasted better than the hatred.

  His father could wait for awhile. He’d call later on, anyway, and if there was one thing Matt could count on, it was his father.

  Matt allowed himself a quick smile as he slid out the front door. Kubla sprang to attention, ready for more play. Dust and gravel rattled from his fur as he shook himelf. Over by the fence, Jacket was talking to Raisin. Matt waved and the old biker winked at him and grinned. Raisin grinned as well, but his grin was sad. He was disappearing, after all. Reggie was growing up. Too bad that she was losing her belief right at the time it seemed she needed him most.

  “What’s the matter, Reggie?” Matt stuck his tongue out at Jacket and vaul
ted over the fence. Kubla followed easily, the fence never a problem.

  Reggie was sitting on the steps of her trailer, staring into the hills. Matt knew that a long time ago, her tribe had been afraid to venture there, fearful that it held gods both terrible and true. He wondered what she saw up there now, and if she still believed in those things of old.

  “Reggie?”

  “What?” Her voice sounded like his mother did sometimes when she was fed up with his father.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Life.”

  “Is it your dad?”

  She sighed. As Matt waited for her to answer, he saw a tear fall to the block step next to her foot. It left a small dark circle on the concrete.

  “He’ll come back. You’ll see.”

  She turned and regarded him carefully with her dark eyes. She’d been crying long and hard enough so that her mascara had smeared, making her eyes look like a raccoon’s. She smiled grimly and shook her head. “You have no idea, Matt. Life isn’t a storybook. There is no happily ever after.”

  “There could be.”

  “Not in my family.”

  “My daddy calls me every day.”

  “Just you watch. That’ll change. Pretty soon it’ll be once every two days, then once a week. Then he’ll start forgetting to call you.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, no?”

  Matt felt his eyes begin to burn as tears threatened. He swallowed twice and hunched his shoulders.

  “You’re probably right,” she said suddenly, giving him a quick glance. “Your dad’s not the same as my dad.”

  “My dad loves me.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “And your dad loves you too.”

  “Just because he loves me doesn’t mean he’s gonna hang around.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. They signed the divorce papers today and my dad’s leaving for California tomorrow with some woman he met. He didn’t even have the courage to tell me.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “My mom told me.”