It was a dark and stormy night…I know, I know, that’s how you start a scary story that you’re telling to children, but the fact is, that’s exactly the kind of night it was. Here are the rest of the facts.

It was just me and Skidmark Jim left at the grill when the stranger entered; everyone else had already gone home, and you should thank their lucky stars that they did. Now, for the record, Skidmark Jim got that name in middle school when Frankie Rizzo claimed that Jim shit his pants watching a Freddy Krueger movie at a sleepover at his house. Jim always denied it, and Frankie was pretty much full of baloney himself, so no one ever really believed it. Plus, he tried to say that the poop bubbled up over the top of his pants and slid down his belt loops, which doesn’t even sound possible! The nickname stuck because children are kind of assholes, and since Jim never stopped associating with the same people from school, the name never went away. But this is less an account of Skidmark Jim’s potential pants shitting history, and more of an account of what happened at the Deadlands Grill on the night of August 20th.

It would have been a sleepy business night anyways, but the late night storm was responsible for killing off any hopes I had of making the last few hours profitable before we closed up. I was initially there just to do some bookkeeping, but I sent the hostess home when it started to both look and sound like Mother Nature was having a 4th of July celebration with rocket launchers instead of fireworks. Mary Jo was the only one who seemed upset about leaving early, which was probably because she was trying to save up for something special for her son’s birthday. I told her I’d put any tips I made in her jar, and she was happy enough with my offering. I always figured the owner shouldn’t be taking in tips anyways. I also figured Skidmark Jim and I could handle the zero customers I expected; plus, we hadn’t had a chance to catch up in a while.

“Hey, Jim,” I yelled back to the kitchen, “if no one comes in by midnight we’ll shut this bitch down. I’m not expecting anyone coming in from the bars if this storm keeps pounding away.” He didn’t have any issues with that, and said he would come bullshit with me after he got the grill cleaned up and his kitchen in order. While Jim and I were school mates and ran in some of the same circles in our youth, we hadn’t ever been really close. I went off to business school after high school, and Jim stuck around town not doing much of anything. Two years ago when I was getting ready to open the grill, Jim’s application was one of the first to come across my desk. I hired him without doing an interview because I knew he’d be reliable and put in an honest day’s work, and he hasn’t proved me wrong. Some people would say that he lacks major motivation, but I would say that Skidmark Jim is a good egg.

Half an hour later, Jim and I were sitting at the counter with a cold beer in our hands, observing what we thought was the storm of the century. The wind gushed back and forth at various speeds, moving the pine trees in and out of our line of sight as if they were taking a little ballroom dance lesson. Despite the unsettled nature of this gale, the rain was unchanging and heavy, and sounded like it might pierce right through our skin if we stepped outside the door. Lighting seemed to set the night ablaze every minute or less, and while the thunder wasn’t as consistent as the other forces, it scared the pants off of us every time it snuck in the mix. The deafening clamor sounded like it could be the sky announcing the arrival of God itself, or more appropriate, the devil.

“Hey, Jim, remember back in high school when seven or eight of us were hanging out in Barney Biscuit’s basement and we all tried mushrooms for the first time?” Jim laughed a little as he nodded. You could say he was a man of few words, and I felt I knew his laugh better than his voice. “Remember just as we were all starting to trip balls Barney’s sister turned the basement lights off from upstairs and we were all too scared to even get out of our seats and move around? I think we sat there for three or four hours freaking out in silence until Larry talked Barney into trying to get up and find the lights. But then he ended up falling over that f…”

I was first interrupted by another savage serving of thunder, this one so vehement it paralyzed my lips for a few seconds. We both looked to the window as if we were going to see this ear-splitting sound materialize into something unearthly. Just then, the sky lit up with a mix of sapphire and vermillion so striking, a guy like me couldn’t have dreamt it up if you gave him all the color palettes in the world to paint with. Before I could get back to my juvenile tale, a man, or something resembling one, appeared in the door.

We were so occupied first with dumb stories, and then with the way the sky was illustrated, that we failed to see him either pull up in a vehicle or approach the building by foot from the lot. We didn’t even hear the harsh wind slam the door shut, or the little bell fixed atop of it jingle in the annoying yet purposeful manner it always will when anyone comes in or out. In a way, it was almost like he materialized out of the night.

Jim silently jolted back into the kitchen to attend to his post like the dutiful burger flippin’ soldier that he was. “Welcome to the Deadlands Grill! Quite the Storm we are having, huh? Take a seat wherever you like; I’ll grab you a menu.” I reached towards the stack of two-page laminated full color menus near the register. The man nodded without his face going through the trouble of making any expression, and took the closest seat from the door at the counter. He was a fairly thin man, a few inches taller than Jim or I, and was adorned in nothing but pure black. Black boots and slacks, black gloves, a long black jacket and a black trilby hat. His wardrobe made his pale skin and faded hair stand out more than most people would care to let it. He had no other distinguishable features.

I set a copy of our modest menu in front of the stranger as I asked what he wanted to drink. “Coffee, black,” he replied in a hushed tone. I assumed if anyone had just come inside from this raging storm they would be shook up to all hell—or even just full of adrenaline depending on what their business being out there was—but he seemed unaffected, like this tempest had been following him around all his life. The gentleman’s listless demeanor was already making me feel uneasy. I glanced back to the kitchen at Skidmark Jim while I poured the coffee. His expression—including raised brows and a lowered bottom lip—signaled hat he was creeped out as well. If anyone had come in to the grill tonight we both would have bet any of our limbs on it being a local, and a regular at that. Not that we aren’t friendly to strangers around here; we were just accustomed to routine and this stranger was anything but.

“Bold choice,” the stranger said slowly, tapping a thin gloved finger toward the top of the menu as I set his coffee down. 

“The Taco Salad? Oh, it’s not that bad,” I replied with a slightly awkward chuckle.

“No, the name, Deadlands.” He paused a bit. “Do folks around here remember?”

“Well, most of the locals know that was the name of the town at the end of the Wild West era, and that it was called something else before that even. I know they made the change to its current name around the time they started paving all the roads and putting up all the modern businesses and residential buildings and whatnot.”

“What do you know of the old legends?” He replied solemnly. Now, I always find it pretty arousing to talk about those with the local eccentrics, but I desperately wanted to avoid any dialogue about that dreadful subject right now. I figured I better not blow the topic off completely, though; gotta keep the customer happy.

“Yeah, I used to be fascinated with those stories when I was a kid. I suppose I don’t know how much of any of those tales I believe could be true as an adult.” I let out another awkward chuckle. “I named the grill out of some weird nostalgia I suppose…maybe a bit of a novelty for anyone passing through as well.”

“Novelty,” he echoed back. I don’t think it was a question. I tried to change the topic. “What can we cook up for you tonight?”

“Just the coffee, but don’t worry, I tip well and I won’t be long. You folks probably intend to close up soon since there’s no one here.”

“Oh, we were planning on staying open until midnight, so don’t go thinking you are any sort of burden.” The second part was becoming a full blown lie at this point.

“Midnight,” he repeated back. “The witching hour.” his face gave off what would be the closest thing to an expression when he said those vexatious words. “So you heard the tale of the Shadow Rider then, when you were a kid?”

Shit. I really didn’t want to talk about that one.

“Yes, of course; that’s one of the more popular myths from the Deadland times, although it’s not very pleasant.”

“What do you know of it?” He interrogated. I knew I wasn’t getting out of this one, so I decided I’d best indulge him. I mustered a little courage to help keep my professional composure and hide any trace of terror I was starting to accumulate towards this stranger and his benumbed sentiments.

“They say the Shadow Rider came into town in the middle of the night during a huge storm, I suppose one much like this one, and…” I paused slightly to avoid choking on my own words. “Well…he slaughtered a dozen or so men and was gone by morning.” I noticed my gaze was adjusting itself to the swirling patterns in the tile floor, so I lifted it back to the stranger. “They say he wore black…looked like death…had a black horse too. They say he carried a long knife and never drew the pistols from his belt…just went into the saloon and, uh, cut everyone up except for the bartender and the working girls. The barkeep claimed all his patrons shot at the rider with every gun and every bullet they had, but no one could hit him. Said he left a trail of blood leading all the way to the next town over. That’s the gist of what I know anyways.”

Another lie. I knew a lot more, but I felt I had already shared more than enough. I had an eerie feeling that the stranger knew even more than I did, though.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Do you know where that saloon was located?”

“Can’t say I do.” The lies coming out of my mouth were really piling up now. Shit.

“Practically right here. Not exactly, but part of it sat where this building sits now.” He turned his head a little to the East wall. “The bar was over there.” I sat silent for what seemed like forever, until he adjusted his gaze back to me. “Most of your story was correct; the storm was a lot like this one. See, back then most of the men would stay at the saloon no matter what the weather, on account of there was a few rooms upstairs to rent for the night and nothing else to do if they did leave, so there were still thirteen men there, not counting the bar keep and the two prostitutes. The rider journeyed in from the Southern trail just before the witching hour.”

I tried as hard as I could not to glance at the clock on the wall as he continued to correct and add to my morbid story.

“He did dress all in black, and rode a black steed, no saddle or reigns. And he did carry a long knife, you got that right too.” He paused to slowly expand his arms out to show me the size of the blade. There was about three feet between his hands.

I could feel a few beads of sweat forming on my brow, and just as I tried to casually wipe my forehead, I noticed that the stranger was not even wet! There weren’t even any watery footprints or muddy messes near the door where he walked in. Shit.

“He didn’t have any pistols, though. Never needed them. The men, how did you say it? Slaughtered them? There’s no doubt about that. He gut most of those men from stomach to sternum. Cut a few of their heads clean off too. Did you ever hear that?”

“Can’t say I have,” I stammered in shock. I had always thought about keeping a shotgun under the counter when I first bought this place. Seemed kind of risky, though, since I’m not the gun type, so I never did. I found myself regretting it now. I wondered what Skidmark Jim was up to in the kitchen, but was too petrified to turn around and look. At least he has all the good knives back there, I mused. I doubted he would leap over the counter with a steak knife clenched between his teeth and pull some Rambo-like antics to save me if this whacked out stranger tried to cut my head clean off. He might have even snuck out the back door by now and ran like hell. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. Shit. Double shit. 

The stranger continued his unnerving tale. I kept listening because I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? “Oh, it’s true. The saloon patrons all dug for their cannons after the first of them lay on the dirt floor all sliced to hell. They unloaded every bullet they had, just like you said, but it was like trying to shoot the wind.” As he was saying this, he made the fingers on his right hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it to the ceiling, motioning his thumb like the hammer after a shot is fired. He repeated the motion a few times, his face remaining expressionless. “They even threw their mugs and tried to hit him with liquor bottles; hell, some of them even chucked their eatin’ irons at him. None of it did any good.” He took another sip of his coffee. I didn’t know if I should be anticipating or fearing the end of his story.

“The prostitutes hid behind the counter with the barkeep, but you were right that none of them were harmed. By the time the clock struck midnight, all thirteen men were eviscerated, beheaded or both. Guts were strung around the overturned stools and heads rolled around the flipped up tables.”

“Sounds like it was quite the sight to behold,” I chimed in timidly, hoping he might lose his place and wrap things up. I wasn’t so lucky.

“It was. You could have gone for a nice swim in the blood. They could have considered burning the place down and starting a new bone orchard right there. Maybe they did. That’s when they changed the name to Deadlands, though, I believe. You were wrong about the Shadow Rider leaving a trail of blood all the way to the next town. He left a big tip for the bartender and them whores before he rode off, but a trail of blood? That sounds downright silly if I do say.”

Sure, I thought to myself, real fucking silly. Right up there with Bozo the Clown and the Three Stooges. I finally relaxed enough to check out the clock. It was 11:59pm. I tried to casually wipe a little more sweat from my soon-to-be-murdered face. I hoped I would still get an open casket funeral so my friends could see that I still looked pretty decent for my age. Shit. Double shit. Triple shit.

“You know…” He trailed off, and the prospect of what his next words were going to be started to dissolve when I noticed he was putting his right hand into his coat. Shit. I had zero clues about how to react in this situation. Was he going to pull out a three foot knife? Was he going to eviscerate me or behead me? Or both? Should I start running now? Should I try to use my soft body with hardly any core strength to tackle him? Thankfully, before I could have a full blown panic attack, he withdrew his arm. The only thing he produced in his hand was a hundred dollar bill, which he gently placed on the counter. “It’s a shame there wasn’t any other customers in here tonight.” Those were his last words as he rose up and turned for the door. 

“Do you need some change?” I questioned in the voice of a man who was sure he just had a near death experience and was ecstatic to be the exact opposite of worm food. He never answered me, of course.

Just as the door shut behind him, all the sights and sounds of the storm withdrew. No more gushing rain. No more wild bursts of wind. No more ear-splitting thunder. There was one more burst of lightning that lit up the parking lot. I hoped to see the direction the stranger was heading in, or see what kind of vehicle he was driving, but I saw nothing. I swear to any God you want that I heard the sound of a horse neighing and clip-clopping away, but it’s also possible that I was just driven insane. I turned to the kitchen to see if Skidmark Jim heard it too, but he wasn’t there. Shit.

“Hey, boss?” Skidmark Jim’s voice rang out in the direction I just turned away from, and my heart skipped a beat as I twitched back around.

“Holy underwear, Jim! You almost scared the piss right out of my junk just now!”

“Sorry, boss. Say, everything is all cleaned up on my end, so I’m gonna head home.” I could tell he was pretty rattled and didn’t want to discuss anything that just happened. He might never want to, and I wouldn’t blame him.

As I was stuffing the hundred dollar bill in Mary Jo’s tip jar, I noticed Jim was waddling to the door clenching his legs together. 

I’ll be damned! I thought. It really can bubble out over the top of your pants and slide down your belt loops!