The Sin-Eater of the Hollow (Part 4 of The Ash-Hound)
By Paul Koontz
The ash-hound led them off the high ridge just as the grey winter sun dropped behind the hemlocks, plunging the deep notch into premature twilight. The timber road turned slick with frozen clay, winding down into a hidden pocket of the mountain that maps had long forgotten.
Through the skeletal branches of the oaks, Liam saw the settlement. It was a wretched, impoverished place tucked against the limestone wall, consisting of an unpainted frame church with a crooked steeple, half a dozen smoke-stained log cabins, and a couple of sagging barns built from hand-hewn chestnut. A thin plume of blue smoke drifted from only one of the chimneys, suggesting a community huddled together against the cold and the dark.
At the edge of the clearing, marked by a low ring of weathered river stones, the ash-hound stopped.
It did not cross the boundary. The massive grey beast planted its paws in the frozen mud, its pale eyes fixed intently on the dark silhouette of the church.
Liza slowed her pace, pulling her wool shawl tighter around her shoulders as she looked down at the hound. "He won't go in, Liam. Whatever lives in this hollow, he doesn't trust."
"We can't freeze out here on the road, Liza," Liam replied, his voice raspy with fatigue as he adjusted the strap of his Springfield. "We need shelter, even if it's just for a few hours."
Leaving the hound to pace the perimeter like a silent sentinel, they walked into the clearing. The villagers who stepped out to meet them were gaunt and hollow-cheeked, dressed in coarse homespun dyed with walnut hulls. They didn't ask about the Union blue trousers Liam wore, or the Confederate grey remnant of a coat Liza had patched together; they looked at them with tired, hollow eyes that had seen too many winters and too many horrors.
A tall, gaunt man with a beard caked in wood ash stepped out from the church porch to meet them, his eyes traveling over Liam's worn uniform and Liza's thin shawl.
"Peace to your steps, strangers," the man said, his voice deep and raspy as dry leaves. "I am Brother Tom. You look as though the ridges have tried to break you."
Liam stepped forward, keeping his grip loose on the sling of his rifle. "Private Liam O’Shea, Brother. And this is Elizabeth. We’ve been traveling through the gaps since yesterday, and the cold is settling into our bones. We’re only asking for a small bit of shelter and a spot by a fire to dry our boots before we move on."
Brother Tom looked past them toward the edge of the woods, his gaze lingering for a moment on the shadow of the ash-hound pacing the boundary stones, though he said nothing of it.
"A warm fire and a roof are not things we deny a traveler," Tom said softly, stepping back to gesture toward the church doors. "Come inside. The sanctuary is warm enough, and we have some soup to share."
He guided them into the warmth of the unpainted building, pointing them toward a spot near a sputtering iron stove. He fetched two wooden bowls, handing them each a tin cup of steaming broth and a slab of salted ham.
Liam swallowed the broth gratefully, feeling the heat creep back into his chest. But as his breath steadied, his eyes drifted toward the front of the sanctuary, where a body lay stretched out on a rough pine board resting across two front pews.
"That man up front," Liam said, his voice low as he motioned with his tin cup. "Has he been dead long?"
Brother Tom paused, wiping his dirt-stained hands on his apron. "He passed at sundown, soldier. That man on the board is Frank Rose. Eighty-two winters he saw in this notch. Built the first log cabin down by the creek and buried three wives in the rock patch above the timber."
Liza stepped closer, her gaze fixed on the corpse. A small wooden plate sat directly on the center of the old man's chest, holding a thick slice of unleavened corn bread and a heavy pinch of coarse rock salt.
"He looks peaceful enough," Liza said softly. "But why lay bread and salt upon his chest?"
Brother Tom wrung his wool cap between his raw, chapped hands, his red-rimmed eyes darkening. "Frank lived a long life, ma'am, and a man doesn't reach eighty-two in these mountains without accumulating a heavy ledger. He carried things in his heart he never spoke to God nor neighbor. Old grudges, stolen timber, blood spilt back before the county had a name."
"So you put bread on his heart?" Liam asked.
"The bread draws the sin out of the flesh," Tom explained, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that barely carried above the crackle of the stove. "The salt keeps the dark from leaking back into the corpse before the hour strikes. If we put Frank into the ground with all that unrepented debt still inside his skin, the hills will sour around his grave. The crops will turn black, and the things in the timber will smell the rot from two ridges over."
Liza looked at the dead man, then back to the Brother. "So what becomes of the bread?"
"We wait for the Sin-Eater," Tom said simply. "He comes down from the high gap when the valley goes dark. He eats the bread, and takes Frank's heavy ledger into his own flesh so the old man can lie quiet in the dirt."
"A Sin-Eater," Liam said, his brow furrowing. "My grandmother spoke of such things back in Ireland, but I thought it was just an old country tale."
"It is no tale in this hollow, soldier," Tom replied firmly, stepping toward the entrance to bolt the heavy oak doors, though he left them unlatched at the center. "It is the only law that keeps the mountain from swallowing us whole. When he comes, you must stay silent in the back pews. Do not look upon his face, or the bargain is broken."
Midnight arrived with a sudden, suffocating drop in temperature. The iron stove hissed and went cold as the draft from the unlatched doors swept through the aisle. Every villager in the church dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads against the rough wooden floorboards in absolute, trembling silence.
The heavy oak doors swung inward with a slow, unoiled screech.
A figure stepped into the sanctuary. It was not a normal hermit or an outcast wanderer from the hills. The thing was massive and stooped, its frame wrapped in rotted rags held together by dried mud. As it moved toward the front of the church, Liam saw through the gloom that its skin was coated in a thick, glistening layer of black, oily tar that seemed to pulse and shift under the rags like a living skin.
The Sin-Eater shambled down the aisle, its breath a wet, whistling rattle that echoed off the timber rafters. It ignored the kneeling villagers entirely, climbing up onto the pews with the jerky, unnatural grace of an insect.
It reached the pine board where Frank Rose lay. Instead of simply lifting the bread, the creature lowered its distorted head. A long, black, tar-coated tongue slid out of its mouth, greedily licking the rock salt and the corn bread off the wooden plate. The wet sound made Liam's stomach turn.
Having consumed the old man's sins, the entity paused. Its head snapped upward, its sightless face turning toward the back pews where Liam and Liza crouched in the shadows.
It had caught the scent of the ash-hound lingering on their wool coats, a sharp smell of clean woodsmoke and mountain salt that clashed violently with the oily stench of the creature's domain.
The Sin-Eater let out a high, whistling shriek. Its limbs began to lengthen and crack, the joints popping like green wood under an ax as it unfolded its bulk and turned its full attention toward them. The kneeling villagers began to chant in low, frantic tones into the floor, believing the sacrifice was merely taking a double portion.
Liam raised his Springfield, but before he could cock the hammer, the heavy oak doors burst completely off their iron hinges with a deafening crash.
A grey shadow flew into the sanctuary.
The ash-hound had broken its own rule, leaping past the threshold to stand directly between the Sin-Eater and the two humans. It did not lunge to bite the creature. Instead, it planted its massive paws, reared its head back, and unleashed a single, earth-shaking roar from the depths of its chest.
It was a wall of sound so violent that the glass in the narrow church windows shattered outward. The wooden floorboards vibrated beneath Liam's boots, and the sound waves struck the tar-covered entity like physical blows. The Sin-Eater shrieked in agony, its black, oily flesh sizzling and bubbling wherever the hound's thunderous voice washed over it.
The creature recoiled, clutching its head as it stumbled backward off the pews and crashed through the open doorway into the night.
The ash-hound did not pursue it. It turned its pale eyes back to Liam and Liza, its chest still heaving with residual power.
"Get up," Liam whispered, grabbing Liza by the hand as the villagers remained paralyzed in prayer on the floor. "The dog gave us a window. Run."
They bolted from the ruined church into the freezing dark, following the ash-hound past the boundary stones and back up the steep, winding trail into the safety of the dark hills. As they climbed higher into the ridge, looking back down at the dim lights of the wretched hollow, Liam knew the terrible truth. The people down there had not survived the dark by the grace of God; they had survived because they fed it, and he and Liza were fortunate to still have their souls.