The boatman, p.1
The Boatman, page 1
K. Bengston
The Boatman
First published by Jackalope House 2025
Copyright © 2025 by K. Bengston
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
K. Bengston asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
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To my step-dad, who has gone cuckoo but ignited my love for horror and writing.
Oh, and my wife. Love you <3
“No evil is honorable, but death is honorable; therefore death is not evil.”
- Zeno of Citium
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. Deluge | Boone
2. Pale Horse | Sawyer
3. A Whore Doesn’t Mourn | Desiree
4. Final Confession | Boone
5. Obelisk | Sawyer
6. Frog Song | Desiree
7. Drawn & Quartered | Boone
8. Tied to the Music | Sawyer
9. Infectious | Desiree
10. “Father Boone.” | Boone
11. Crumbling | Sawyer
12. Neat Packages | Desiree
13. Damned if you Don’t | Boone
14. Under the Willow | Sawyer
15. No Good End | Desiree
16. Only the Beginning | Boone
17. Cowboy Justice | Sawyer
18. Not Your Town | Desiree
19. Swollen Belly | Boone
20. Down by the River | Sawyer
21. Underfoot | Desiree
22. Meandering | Boone
23. Hanged | Sawyer
24. Greta’s Field | Desiree
25. Goddammit. | Boone
26. The Horns | Sawyer
27. Too Far Gone | Desiree
28. Ten Steps Behind | Boone
29. Company of Corpses | Desiree
30. East of Potter’s Field | Boone
31. Frontier Surgery | Sawyer
32. Cradle | Desiree
33. Boy Boone | Boone
34. Past Due | Sawyer
35. Mercy | Desiree
36. Like a Corpse | Boone
37. Steer Roping | Sawyer
38. Far, Far Away | Desiree
39. Choices | Boone
40. Waiting | Sawyer
41. Death, Probably | Desiree
42. The Middle Space | Boone
43. No Deal | Sawyer
44. Dragged To Sheol | Desiree
45. EPILOGUE
About the Author
Acknowledgments
A brief and quick thanks to the people that inspired me to finally write an honest-to-God novel. Just in time for the market to be flooded. Great timing, huh?
To my wife, who encouraged me to write a smut novel so bad I had to start over and write this instead. Thanks, babe.
No, you cannot have a copy of the smut novel.
To my beta readers and ARC readers who dedicated their time to improving this thing. The messy, scrawled messages of ‘what the fuck?’ in the margins kept me going.
To Bill. You know who you are. Thank you for being my hype man and taking a chance on me. And always being kind.
To the genre, for being fuckin’ awesome.
To my the people who preordered a signed copy of this thing: Bill, Alisa, Rylei, Auguest, Dustin, Rachell, Randi, Hans, Charles, Allan, Barb, Chris, Eric, and Daniel.
Sincerely, thank you.
And to you, reader, for giving this book a chance. I hope you enjoy it.
Now off you go…
1
Deluge | Boone
Before the dead are buried, two silver pieces are placed on the eyes and their mortal sins are read aloud.
That’s what I was taught. And continue to tell myself.
The latch to the bell tower door gave way with a soft click.
A wall of water rammed the door out of my hands, flowing down the stairs and throwing me to the ground. Icy water pounded the air out of me, panic thickening my blood.
The wave crashed over me, the weight pinning me to the ground. It poured over me, filling my mouth. I gagged, choking on the flecks that gathered at the back of my throat.
I was going to drown. In my own church. Right before a funeral.
I choked on the silt, the dirty torrent coating my teeth with sand and limp blades of grass.
It kept coming, wouldn’t let me suck in a breath. I tried to keep my eyes open, but the water scratched them, swelling my lids, the rushing current prying them open.
I thrashed and tried to stand, my nails digging into the soft wood. Splinters bit beneath the bed, peeling my fingernails back.
My head spun, the edges of my vision blurring.
“Father Boone?” A distant voice clipped through. Familiar.
A hand touched my shoulder. I lurched upright, startled, scrambling backward across the floor. My chest burned for a lung full of anything useful.
My stomach twisted, something acrid dying on the back of my tongue. Muddy water sprayed from my stomach, the swamp vomit splashing the chapel’s stage. I gulped down a breath, gasping as I pulled at my collar to get it off my neck.
I snapped my head around the room, still grasping at the collar in my shirt. Nothing was out of place. The driest I’d seen anything in days.
The pressure in my chest shrunk under the rising heat of embarrassment.
The few who’d arrived early sat frozen, eyes trained on my performance. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and groaned to my feet. A wet cough rattled my chest.
“Are you okay?” Reed asked.
He extended a hand out to me without hesitation. He smiled wide despite the spine that twisted him into the ground. Atrophy sucked the meat from his arms and legs, leaving him with the stance of a frail, newborn fawn.
Reed suffers from the crook. Only a couple per generation get it. Doctors had been called in, but all they offered were variations of shrugs or snake oil. Generations of families in Potter’s Field had to watch as their children’s bones twisted. Forced to watch as they suffered.
Most don’t make it past the tenth year. None did, if you ask the older folks of the town.
Reed was an exception. He made it to fifteen, but I worried how much longer he could make it.
I gripped his hand and stood up, careful not to pull him down in the process. “Yeah, I’m—I’m good.” I met the mourner’s eyes, forcing a smile that no doubt landed flat. “I just—I need a moment.”
He frowned and took a step. I clapped his shoulder, a little harder than I meant to. “Thank you, Reed. Finish things up here. I’ll be right back.”
I turned back to the tower stairs that dumped the spectral flood on me. My skin prickled, the choking itch still lingering in my throat.
The water-damaged stairs waited ahead, a reminder of all the bad luck bestowed on the town. Arched, open windows surrounded the bell, letting in all the rain the wind could push.
It hadn’t let up for more than a month now, barely allowing the roads time to dry up before turning them into slop.
The railing was cool and slick under my grip, the humidity collecting on the polished rail. Each step distanced me from whatever that was, but I could still feel the water scratching at my lungs.
At least all those eyes were off of me now.
I needed to focus. Needed to make sure Larry could cross over to Sheol.
First, ring the bell. Call the Boatman. Then the funeral and grave-side confession.
Only then can we cover him with dirt.
My hands shook. Reed and the others just watched as their strong, revered preacher collapse in a fit.
Worst case, they thought I was possessed. Best case, I’d finally gone crazy. But the water still itching in my lungs convinced me otherwise.
A sign from God? The Boatman?
I shook my head.
You’re delusional, Boone.
Ducking under a beam, I cracked the hatch and stepped into the tower.
Four walls, each arched and open to the heavens. A dull, brass bell sat in the center. A thick rope dipped from its center, the end capped by a copper medallion. A rabbit’s skull had been etched into it. Orin said it’s a recurring symbol linked to the Boatman.
Long, stretching shadows poured over the bell and the whittled birch bench across the far wall.
Beneath the bench, a tin box I prayed would never be found. I crossed to pick it up. Opened it.
A small flask laid on top of a leather-bound notebook. I set aside the flask and grabbed the book.
I would return for the flask after the last shovel-full is dumped on Larry.
The notebook, which I use to log Potter’s Field’s secrets, had started to fill with the scrawled notes of my people’s darkest deeds. It was my biggest betrayal, scratched in shorthand.
I logged them due to my failing memory. Messing up the ritual has consequences; if I can’t properly perform the last confession, then the Boatman won’t take them.
Sometimes I wond
I’m taught that if I even stumble on the ritual, the dead get left on Earth, aware of their bodies. Cursed to feel the worms take their eyes; to age and decompose as the town crumbles above you.
Could only hope Father Orin taught me enough.
I started keeping the ledger last year after I mixed one man’s sins with another. Laid him to rest, did the ritual without hiccup. To the ‘T’, as they say.
It dawned on me during a game of poker that I’d mixed up Gerald and Geoff.
I swear I can hear him cursing me through the ground. That it’s my fault he wasn’t ushered off this plane. How he’s forced to spend eternity staring at the back of his stitched eyelids. Because of me.
What God would trust such things to man, when men are so flawed?
For all I could tell, He abandoned Potter’s Field and left His work to the Boatman.
Nothing about that in King James’ Version.
Larry was a drinker, a fighter, a gambler. The usual.
An adulterer.
I’d forgotten. Reading that aloud with his wife in the room? Might as well light the match myself.
Returned the book to the tin and slid it under the bench.
I grabbed the rope and pulled—
Once, twice.
Paused.
Then once again. That was the pattern to call the people in.
To summon the Boatman to collect.
It took me a while to let go of the rope. Burden throbbed behind my eyes, dull and grinding.
Between my short-comings and the town’s penchant for sinning, it’s a miracle any of them made it to Sheol at all.
* * *
When I returned the sanctuary was already filling. Leather soles shuffled in through the front doors, soft murmurs echoing among the parishioners.
Red light filtered through the stained glass above my head, stretching its long fingers across pews and hard faces.
I pulled my collar straight and wiped my palms on my cassock. Dream, vision, curse. Whatever the hell it was, I had to leave it behind. For them.
“Keep it together, Boone,” I muttered.
The pews groaned as Potter’s Field sat to mourn. To listen to me. They brought with them a curling stench of mildew, stale smoke, and gin.
This town bled loss, but Larry’s passing had brought a sort of released breath to everyone. No one felt good about it, but most would be lying if they said they’d miss him.
I didn’t think he was all bad. He came to my confessional every week and laid his sins bare. Occasionally repented.
The real trouble was Larry coming back for the same things. Week after week.
The rest of them were no different. Their repeated indiscretions nagged at me. Each compounding sin was a jab at my ability as a Father. I wasn’t enough to fix them.
The warped, mud-streaked floorboards at the entrance creaked, the last of the mourners filing in.
Anyone who gave a damn about Larry, or at least pretended to, sat before me. No doubt waiting anxiously to hear how I would spin this web of a eulogy.
Someone tapped my shoulder.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Father?” Reed asked. I gave him a disarming smile.
“I’ll manage, son. Thank you for your concern.”
The look on his face said he didn’t believe me, but I didn’t need him to.
I gave him a final nod and he hobbled off, taking his spot next to Larry.
A knot formed in my throat. I tried to swallow it but it went down sideways. Esther, the widow, sat in the front row, right side of the aisle. Her eyes were locked on the floor, face obscured by a gauzy veil.
I gripped the pulpit tighter, knuckles blanching against the smooth wood. My shirt pasted itself to my skin, the itchy wool making my teeth itch.
The last stragglers sat. A lone cough rattled the still air, anxious for me to fill the space.
I cleared my throat, the remaining murmurs dying down. Familiar faces littered the benches.
Spun, eyes landing on the plain pine box. Larry lay inside, pale and bloating. We were short on embalming fluid, to Larry’s detriment. A neatly folded note stuck out of his breast pocket. It hadn’t been there this morning.
Frowning, I faced Potter’s Field:
“We gather here today to mourn Larry Hamboldt. A local since birth, he carried our burden the same as you. Sometimes more. Sin wore him as a coat and he slighted many of us over the years. Even me.”
I gripped the altar tighter, willing the slick rails not to slip from my hands.
“But he came to confession every week. Sure, he prayed when it suited him. But he surely wasn’t a devil.”
The people shifted uncomfortably. Even for Larry, a eulogy this heavy was hard to listen to.
Clearing my throat, I continued: “He worked in the mines his whole life. Same as many of you. Drank with us, fought with us. Helped us through many hard years and droughts.”
I nodded to Esther. She stayed stoic but met my eyes.
“He wed Esther and treated her well. Built her a house on the ridge, despite our warnings.”
The congregation chuckled. Pressure lifted off my shoulders. I leaned from the altar, smiling soft.
“When it rained heavy and the house fell into the river, like we said it would, we came together and helped rebuild. He thanked us by carving that cedar bench by the lake. Many of you courted your wives there.”
A few heads nodded.
“Before the cough took him, he found us another vein of Sheolite. We’ll be able to build the bridge to New Haven because of him.”
I crossed, stopping before his casket. He was ashen, arms crossed neatly over his chest. I had stitched his mouth shut using the last of our ligature thread. One corner of his mouth peeked open. Black smudges stained his lips. A sure sign of Sheolite poisoning slowly crawling over his skin.
Something shimmered from the tiny gap in his lips. Blood or water oozed up his throat and now pooled behind his teeth.
I continued, holding my voice steady. “We thank him for his contributions to Potter’s Field. We forgive his debts and consign him to Sheol.”
Scattered, indiscernible murmurs bounced from pew to pew as I approached the altar. I slipped my Bible out from the lower shelf, cracking it open.
“I know it’s unorthodox, but I find it relevant to read a passage from Scripture.” A few mumbles from the elders that were so rooted in the practices of our town. I knew that we weren’t supposed to during death rites.
Scripture offered paradise or damnation.
Potter’s Field offered Sheol, a middle space where all souls go to wander.
Reading from Scripture gives the people hope, Father Orin would say.
This is the way we have to do it here. Alienating them is a direct failure on you, on their souls.
He was right.
I was doing the best I could. Admittedly it didn’t make much sense. Either way, they would deal with it.
If reading from the Bible at a funeral was a problem for Larry’s crossing, then the Boatman could speak to me directly.
I flipped to Matthew and read the verse I found relevant to Larry’s passing:
“And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him. So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses.” I closed the book gently.
“Matthew eighteen, thirty-four through thirty-five.”
The silence held strong, their judging eyes tugging at my cassock. A few jaws hung wide, but the anxiety of it wore thin.
“If anyone would like to say anything about Larry, now is the time.”
The silence stretched. No one wanted to speak, good or bad. I shifted on my feet, the old floor popping from the stress. I gave the room some space to breathe.
I continued. “That’s okay, the—”
A wet cough erupted from my lungs. I covered my mouth, trying to play it off, but my eyes started to water. Tasted like mud and a bit fishy.
A voice from the far row, quick and clipped, but I was sure it was Old Richard Platt:
“Let the widow speak!”
Heads turned. A few accusatory and even fewer agreeing grumbles whispered through, tailed by gasps.
I curled a lip. “Richard. Now is not the time.”
