An Acquired Taste

From the archives of The Tennessee Star. The interviewer is identified as W.R.H. and the interviewee as “T, First National.” Dated July 24, 1896.

T: Nobody by the name of Tennessee Morgan worked here. We had a Samuel Morgan, but hard to think he could possibly be the same man. He was a clerk here for many years. Respectable, clean, always kept a cool head...

Me: Even on the day your bank was robbed?

T: Yes, sir. We kept a Pax in the drawer for just such an emergency. The robber was waving his rifle and shooting into the ceiling. When he charged the counter, Samuel shot him dead.

Me: Did Mr. Morgan seem like a practiced shot?

T: No, sir. It took a few bullets. He had a funny look, afterward: wide-eyed, but happy, and he stared at the body until the police arrived. Boss let him have the Pax. He took his family down to Louisiana pretty soon after that.

Administrative records, Charity Hospital, Louisiana.

Patient: T. Morgan Admitted August 10, 1896, 3:24 pm

Morgan shows signs of advanced sepsis stemming from an avulsion on the right hand, 2 in x 2 in. Gangrene has progressed as far as the elbow, and the ring finger is broken. Carbolic acid administered to wound, amputation recommended if the dead tissue spreads further. Patient is reluctant to talk about the wound’s origin, but hinted at an encounter with a “creature” in the woods. I highly doubt the local deer are to blame. He will not allow the nurse to take his firearms.

August 11, 7:22 am. Sepsis has spread past the shoulder. Temperature 105. Amputation recommended. Schedule room fumigation for Saturday, the flies are intolerable.

August 11, 11:47 am. Temperature 95. Patient is conscious, but raving. His mouth and wound were caked with blood and crawling with flies. Carbolic acid readministered. Patient continues to refuse amputation and has asked for the chaplain.

August 11, 6:47 pm. Reverend Gird is truly a miracle worker! After his visit, Morgan walked out of his room looking stunned, but able. His hand was completely healed. He has been released into the Reverend’s care.

Page torn from a journal.

I’ve found my calling. The Reverend Gird explained it all. He set his Ranger against the doorpost, sat at my bedside, and held my hand as I confessed my sins. He wasn’t afraid of the rot. And he wasn’t afraid when I told him about the darkness in my heart. I confessed to the joy I felt the first time I shot a man. And I confessed to the joy I have felt with every kill since. I refused the amputation because my rotten hand was the black mark of my sins. I would accept my punishment.

But The Reverend said that the men I’d killed were infected with a terrible sickness, and the wound in my hand was a mark of their Corruption, not mine. The world has need for men like me. I could put my dark desires to work for good and make my Rebecca proud. If I agreed to join him, he would initiate me. It would hurt, but my hand would heal, and I would be protected from further Corruption. I agreed, crying, and he injected something into my arm. I don’t remember leaving the hospital. When I came to, the Ranger was on my person. TM

Letter dated October 1896, Tear-stained

Samuel,

I can’t put this off any longer. The images eat away at me, heart and soul. My grief soars on poisonous wings of rage. Who is this Tennessee? What happened to my dear Samuel?

As you clearly have secrets of your own, I don’t mind revealing one of mine: I saw you a few days ago, though you didn’t see me. I barely recognized the man I saw through the window of that disgusting cabin. I saw you kill that poor man and watched you add his body to the pile against the wall. It was noble to shoot that robber. But these others? What imagined sins did they commit?

But it was you. You who stood over that wretch on the floor, his legs impossibly tangled in razor wire. You who raised your rifle and shot him directly in the head, sending his blood sprawling over the walls and the filthy floor. You, smiling in the aftermath.

Let me make this clear to you: Samuel Morgan had a wife. Tennessee Morgan does not. I’d tell you to rot in Hell, but I see you are already there.

-Rebecca