Wrath of the Widowed

Short Story | Western, Horror | First published in "Along Harrowed Trails" by Timber Ghost Press

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Anyone who’d ever meant anything to Elia Worthington had died in her arms. Even the son who had yet to become a man was lost to disease. Some said the Lord had called him to his new home for a better purpose, but she didn’t believe that. Her loved ones had been taken, not called. Death was in the business of stealing life, ripping it away indiscriminately to leave those who remain to live on and suffer.

Elia knelt down by the graves at the edge of the ranch to pay her respects. The sun had dipped low, half-concealed behind the flat-topped mountains on the other side of the river. Four wooden crosses marked the graves: her father, brother, son, and—

A horse whinnied and halted next to the small graveyard. A man unsaddled and stepped down. He wore a white hat and a black button-up shirt. There was a revolver at his hip. He was handsome, even with the crows' feet at the edges of his eyes. His beard was twice as long as it had been in his youth. It was her husband, and he was alive.

“How are you doing, hon?” 

She raised herself to stand before him. His eyes failed to meet hers.

“I’m okay, Cole. Still doing okay. How are you?”

Cole Worthington stepped forward and passed through Elia to kneel by the fourth grave. 

“Sorry I’m late. The cattle were unsettled. Not sure what had ‘em riled up, but they’re calm now.”

Tears streamed from her translucent eyes. Elia’s shoulders slumped, her weightless form gliding a few inches off the ground. She hated that she would never get a chance to embrace him again, that she could only see him, not be with him. Was this yet a curse, or perhaps a blessing to live on like this?

Cole kissed his fingers. Then he touched the cross that marked Elia’s grave. “I sure do miss you, El.” 

“I miss you, too.”

Cole rose, went to his horse, and climbed back into the saddle. He seized the reins and guided the horse back to the house. Elia knew she’d appear back at her grave in the morning but returned to the ranch with her husband every night. Even as the horse reached a high-speed gallop, she moved swiftly and effortlessly beside him. It was nearly dark.

Cole secured the horse in the stable and went into the ranch house. The house consisted of two stories. There was a porch that ran along the perimeter of the house covered by an overhang. Not much had changed since Elia’s death, except maybe the addition of a layer of dust. She didn’t blame him for his untidiness, though. Running a ranch and caring for such a large property would be difficult for anyone. Elia had hated cleaning but would have given anything to have a few more hours to interact with the real world.

After eating a can of cold beans, Cole retired upstairs to the bedroom and undressed. He’d grown skinny and had lost much of his muscular tone. Elia slipped into the large bed on the side once reserved for her. Her spectral head lay on the undisturbed pillow. Cole opened a window to let in the cool night air. He lay atop the sheets since he hadn’t bathed. He stared at the ceiling in silence and then turned to Elia. This was her favorite part of the evening, the moment that felt the most real. 

His steely eyes melted as he looked at her pillow. He blinked out tears and placed his hand where Elia’s cheek would’ve been. She closed her eyes. His fingers hovered over her, and she could almost feel his touch.

“I wish you were here, hon,” Cole said.

“I am here.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Good night, El.”

“Good night, Cole.”

Cole’s hand relaxed on the bed, passing through Elia’s phantom midriff. She laid her hand over his. She swore she could feel the heat emanating from him. Elia had tried to tap into that strange energy, but after a nightmarish shock that had startled Cole out of his sleep, she hadn’t tried it since. Elia couldn’t sleep as she had when she was alive. If she lost focus, she simply faded away and returned to her gravesite.

Nights on the ranch were quiet, serene. The Worthington Ranch was ten thousand acres, nestled between the river and mountains on the west side of the property and the vast desert wilderness bordering the east. They were two hours' ride from Cheyenne, and other than the Union Pacific railroad tracks that crossed over the northeastern side of their property, no other signs of humanity marred the pristine landscape.

Elia kept watch over Cole through the night. That’s when it felt most normal, like nothing had changed, like the incident at the bank had never happened. Time passed differently when one couldn’t find rest. The torment periodically took its toll over the past two years. It was a period of unending distress that caused her to wail and rage about the house some nights in an attempt to cross over.

As she felt that rage build inside her even then, Elia recognized the warmth spilling out from Cole’s chest like a light at the end of a mountain tunnel. She reached out and laid a hand on him. With her eyes closed, she could see his dream, the dream of a haunted man, alone and aimless. Cole stood nearly naked at the center of a parched, cracked wasteland. Buzzards circled overhead. The sky was red like blood and the sun unrelenting in its fury. Elia saw it as if she were there but had refrained from manifesting herself within the dream lest he be awakened.

The spectral landscape warped and blurred. The sun was eclipsed by the moon, and the world was cast into utter darkness save for the fires that floated around Cole’s head. The six fires illuminated six Kiowa men. They chanted as they circled him at a staggering pace, faster than he could turn about. Elia had heard stories of the Ghost Dance, a ceremony that reunited the living with the dead.

Cole stopped turning and focused intently on something in the distance. Elia followed his gaze. It was her, or a version of her. Her skin had rotted, and there were empty sockets where her eyes had been. Her mouth hung open in a silent scream, one arm outstretched toward him.

“El? Hon?” Cole whispered, then much louder, “Elia!”

The Kiowa men dissolved, and the fires fell to the ground and burst like lanterns. The flames engulfed Cole’s feet and rose over his body. He screamed.

“Elia!” he yelled again, jerking upright in his bed.

“I’m here, my love. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it. I just can’t stand no longer being with you.”

Cole panted, wiping sweat from his brow. The sound of a train whistle pierced the night. Even though she knew he couldn’t hear her, she felt compelled to explain what had gone wrong.

“I had to feel you. I had to—” Elia cut off as a strange boom rattled the house. The mirror attached to her desk in the corner wobbled back and forth before settling into stillness. The rumble faded into a low quake, but somehow, she knew it wasn’t of the earth.

Cole scrambled to the window and leaned out to look north. Flashes of yellow flared against the black canvas of night, and the moonlight reflected off rising smoke. “It’s the Union Pacific,” he said. “It’s derailed—my God!”