Chapter 1
The ochre dust of Poverty Gulch seemed to settle not just on Lizbeth’s beat-up sedan, but into the very marrow of her bones. It clung to the threadbare curtains of the parsonage, coated the neglected shelves of the library, and veiled the faces of the townspeople in a permanent, grim film. The initial chill she’d felt after missing Sunday service had deepened, solidifying into an oppressive, palpable presence.
Her days quickly fell into a monotonous, isolated rhythm. She'd rise with the sun, the quiet of the parsonage broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant, mournful lowing of cattle. Breakfast was a solitary affair, fueling a gnawing sense of apprehension rather than sustenance. Her reflections in the cracked mirror above the sink showed a face growing sharper, more drawn, her large glasses seeming to magnify the weary hollows beneath her eyes. Poverty Gulch was stripping her of what little softness she possessed, leaving only angles and a fragile determination.
The library, her supposed refuge, became another battleground. Her efforts to transform the dusty, forgotten space into a vibrant hub for young minds met with a stony wall of resistance. The small, carefully curated collection of children’s books, chosen for their gentle lessons in kindness and understanding, were increasingly viewed with suspicion. One afternoon, a timid mother, clutching her daughter’s hand, approached Lizbeth, her eyes darting nervously towards the “too inclusive” display. The book in question depicted a family with two mothers—a subtle, pastel illustration that Lizbeth had thought innocuous.
"Reverend Thorne," the woman began, her voice a reedy whisper, "he spoke last Sunday on… on what children should be exposed to. He spoke of the dangers of… of untruths. And… and of certain lifestyles." Her gaze, though avoiding Lizbeth's directly, communicated volumes. "My little Sarah, she asked me… about this book. She asked why one family had two mamas." The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusation. Lizbeth felt a cold dread trickle down her spine. The woman pulled her daughter a little closer, as if Lizbeth herself were a contagion. "I think… perhaps it would be best if Sarah didn't come to story hour anymore."
This was the first direct complaint, the first open challenge to her professional judgment. Lizbeth tried to explain, her voice a little too high, a desperate attempt at reason. "It's just a story, ma'am, about love and family in all its forms. It teaches acceptance."
The mother's jaw tightened. "Acceptance of… of sin, Miss Martin? The Church of Righteous Fire teaches us there is one truth. One family. One path to salvation. And anything else… anything else is the Devil's work." She turned abruptly, tugging her daughter away, leaving Lizbeth standing amidst the silence of the shelves, the offending book suddenly seeming to glow with an unholy light.
The incident spread like a prairie fire. What little trickle of children had attended story hour dried up completely. Parents now actively steered their offspring away from the library entrance, their faces stern. Lizbeth found herself working in an almost complete vacuum, the only sounds the rustle of turning pages and the creak of the old building. The silence was deafening, a constant reminder of her utter failure to connect.
Her loneliness became a physical ache. She tried, on occasion, to engage the few women she saw in the small general store, offering a congenial smile, a polite query. Their responses were always clipped, their eyes evasive, their bodies turning away as if to prevent contamination. The men, for their part, continued to ignore her, their gazes sweeping over her too-thin frame with undisguised disinterest. She was an anomaly, an un-woman, and therefore, invisible – or worse, a problem to be circumvented. Yet, the very lack of their attention was itself a source of judgment. An unmarried woman, seemingly unconcerned with attracting a husband, was not just unconventional; she was outright defiant of the natural order preached by the Church.
Her own past, which she had so desperately sought to outrun, began to reassert itself in the suffocating quiet. Images of Eleanor, her dorm mate, her lover, flickered behind her eyes – Eleanor’s quick smile, the warmth of her hand in Lizbeth’s, the soft murmur of affection in the shared intimacy of their college room. Here, in Poverty Gulch, such memories were not just secrets; they were unholy blasphemies, a direct ticket to the fires of damnation so loudly espoused by Reverend Thorne. The shame she’d thought she’d buried resurfaced, amplified by the rigid moral code of the town. She’d fled one kind of judgment only to land in the heart of another, far more absolute and unforgiving.
Reverend Silas Thorne, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with the stern pronouncements of the Old Testament, became an increasingly ominous figure. His sermons, once just background noise to her anxious mind, now felt like direct assaults. He preached of “unnatural desires,” of “women who stray from their God-given purpose,” of “the wolves in sheep’s clothing who seek to corrupt the innocent.” His eyes, like chips of flint, would occasionally sweep over the few congregants, and Lizbeth felt their weight settle upon her. She began to attend services, a desperate, futile attempt to placate the unseen forces arrayed against her. She sat in the back pew, small and insignificant, a silent witness to her own condemnation.
One sweltering Tuesday afternoon, as Lizbeth was meticulously dusting the biographies section, a shadow fell across the sun-drenched floorboards. Reverend Thorne stood in the doorway, a towering, imposing figure framed by the brutal Texas sun. His black suit, despite the heat, was immaculate, his face unreadable.
"Miss Martin," his voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth.
Lizbeth jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. "Reverend Thorne. Good afternoon."
He stepped inside, not bothering to close the door, allowing the oppressive heat and the drone of cicadas to invade the quiet space. He walked slowly, deliberately, past the empty children’s section, his gaze lingering on the now-hidden "offending" book tucked away behind a stack of much older, approved texts.
"I understand," he began, his eyes finally fixing on her, "that you have been introducing… unsuitable material to the innocent minds of Poverty Gulch’s children." His voice held no question, only pronouncement. "And that you have, on several occasions, failed to uphold the standards of modesty and piety expected of a woman in our community."
Lizbeth swallowed. "Reverend, I merely tried to offer a range of perspectives. And as for my conduct, I assure you, I am always respectful."
He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Respect is not merely in the words, Miss Martin, but in the heart, and in the actions. Your absence from the Lord's house, your… choices of literature, your clear disinterest in finding a God-fearing husband to guide you. These are not the actions of a woman respectful of the Lord's will, nor of this community’s sacred traditions."
He paused, his eyes narrowing, drilling into her. "Poverty Gulch is a place of righteous fire, Miss Martin. We hold fast to the old ways. We do not tolerate those who seek to sow discord, or to lead our flock astray with foreign ideas and… unnatural inclinations."
The word hung in the air, heavy and menacing. Unnatural. He couldn't know, could he? Or was it just a fishing expedition, a general accusation meant to encompass her perceived deviance? A cold sweat broke out on Lizbeth’s brow.
"I am merely the librarian, Reverend," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. "I only wish to serve the community."
"Then serve it as God intends," he replied, his voice rising slightly, taking on the timbre of a sermon. "Come Sunday, Miss Martin, I expect you to be in His house, seeking guidance. And I expect you to reconsider the path you are treading. For the Lord's patience, much like ours, is not infinite. And the fires of damnation, Miss Martin, burn eternally for those who refuse to see the truth."
He turned then, a large, dark silhouette against the glaring afternoon sun, and strode out, leaving Lizbeth trembling amidst the silent, dusty shelves, the scent of old paper and the lingering chill of his words her only companions. The judgment she’d fled had found her. It was here, in Poverty Gulch, and it was watching, waiting, its grip slowly tightening
The Ran Tan Man of Poverty Gulch
Re: The Ran Tan Man of Poverty Gulch
Chapter 2
The sweltering heat of Poverty Gulch seemed to intensify with each passing day, pressing down on Lizbeth not just physically, but psychologically. She’d tried to connect, to find a common humanity in the dusty, insular town, but her efforts were met with an impenetrable wall of tradition and suspicion. During story hour, her attempts to gather local folklore had yielded only one consistent, chilling tale: the Ran Tan Man. The children spoke of him with an unsettling blend of fear and reverence, describing a shadowy enforcer who ensured everyone adhered to Poverty Gulch’s unwritten, unforgiving rules. Lizbeth had dismissed it as a crude bogeyman, a parental scare tactic, but the knowing smirks exchanged among the children, their eyes glinting with an ancient wisdom that mocked her outsider ignorance, gnawed at a deeper, unacknowledged fear.
Her perceived transgressions, a growing list of innocent acts viewed through the distorting lens of Poverty Gulch’s rigid morality, had finally reached a critical mass. Lizbeth, with her unconventional appearance – too thin, too bookish, too unadorned – and her quiet habit of staring out the library window, already stood apart. Her past, carefully buried, lingered like a phantom limb, a sensitivity she couldn't quite shake. The town, a single, organismic entity, had begun to turn its collective gaze upon her, and leading that gaze was Deacon Silas Thorne.
Silas Thorne was not merely a deacon; he was the bedrock upon which the Church of Righteous Fire, and thus Poverty Gulch itself, was built. His word was not law; it was divine decree. With a face etched by years of stern judgment and a voice that resonated with the brimstone prophecies of the end times, he embodied the town’s unyielding faith and its unshakeable conviction in its own righteousness. He had watched Lizbeth, a quiet predator observing its prey, and found her wanting. Her very presence, an unmarried woman with an intellect unburdened by domesticity, was an affront. Her perceived lack of piety, her subtle differences, were like a festering wound in the community’s otherwise homogenous flesh. He resolved to act, his decision as cold and inevitable as the coming winter.
The Church youth group, a disciplined and zealous cohort molded by Thorne’s fervent sermons, became his instrument. They were young, impressionable, and steeped in the absolute certainty of the Church’s teachings – especially its strictures against any deviation from the prescribed path for women. Their task: to investigate Lizbeth, to uncover definitive proof of her unsuitability, and ultimately, to set a trap.
The key to this insidious plot lay with Margie Stone. Margie was a wisp of a girl, shy and mousy, her small frame usually hidden beneath oversized denim and her gaze perpetually fixed on the scuffed toes of her shoes. Her reputation, however, was sterling; she was known for an unwavering piety, a quiet devotion that made her a paragon among the Church youth. She approached Lizbeth one sweltering afternoon as the library was about to close, the air thick with the smell of old paper and the oppressive heat.
Margie stood before Lizbeth’s desk, her hands clasped tightly, her head bowed. “Miss Martin?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the drone of cicadas outside. Lizbeth looked up, her thick glasses sliding slightly down her nose, a faint, questioning smile on her lips. She saw a troubled adolescent, a girl clearly wrestling with some inner turmoil.
“Yes, Margie? Is everything alright?” Lizbeth asked, her voice gentle, instinctively softening it for the shy girl.
Margie hesitated, then looked up, her eyes wide and brimming with what Lizbeth perceived as genuine anguish. “Miss Martin, I... I think there’s something wrong with me,” she confided, her voice a barely audible tremor. “I… I don’t like boys. I might even like girls… in that way.”
The words struck Lizbeth with a jolt, a phantom pain from her own carefully suppressed past. She remembered the whispered conversations in darkened dorm rooms, the thrilling, terrifying discovery of her own identity, and the subsequent, brutal rejection and self-exile that had landed her in Poverty Gulch. A wave of empathy, raw and immediate, washed over her. This girl, so young, so vulnerable, clearly believed she was an abomination.
Lizbeth leaned forward, her gaze unwavering, her voice a balm in the quiet library. “Margie, there’s nothing wrong with you,” she said, the words coming from a place of deep, personal conviction. “Everyone is different, and feelings like that are normal. It’s okay to be yourself.” She reached out, a hesitant gesture, and gently squeezed Margie’s arm. “It’s important to understand your own heart, and to know that love, in its many forms, is a beautiful thing. Identity and feelings are complex, and you’re not alone in exploring them.”
Lizbeth, ever the rational academic, then offered carefully chosen, factual information about identity and feelings, drawing on the limited resources she had. She spoke of acceptance, of self-discovery, of the diverse tapestry of human experience. She believed she was a beacon, offering light and solace to a troubled adolescent lost in the rigid darkness of her community. She believed she was helping.
The trap was now sprung.
Margie Stone, her face still carefully composed to reflect a lingering distress that vanished the moment she was out of Lizbeth’s sight, left the library. The sun beat down, baking the unpaved streets and shimmering off the corrugated tin roofs. Margie didn't go home. She walked directly to the parsonage, a grim, austere building next to the Church of Righteous Fire, where Deacon Thorne waited with several members of the youth group.
She recounted the conversation with meticulous detail, her voice clear and steady now, devoid of its earlier tremor. The factual information Lizbeth had shared, intended as enlightenment, became damning evidence. The kind words, meant to soothe, were twisted into an endorsement of sin. Margie even added a small, calculated embellishment, suggesting that Lizbeth had looked at her with an "unnatural" warmth, a certain “knowingness” that confirmed her own depravity.
Deacon Thorne listened, his eyes like chips of flint, his lips thinning into a grim line of satisfaction. The other youth group members exchanged glances, their young faces hardened by righteous indignation. The "unwed schoolmarm" had finally shown her true colours. She was not just an outsider; she was a corrupting influence, a serpent in their Eden.
Lizbeth, back in the library, tidied a stack of returned books, a faint, almost imperceptible lightness in her chest. She had helped someone. Margie's confession, her vulnerability, had resonated deeply, and Lizbeth felt a quiet sense of triumph, a small victory for understanding in a world she feared had none. It’s okay to be yourself. The words echoed, a comforting mantra. She had planted a seed of acceptance, she believed, a tiny sprout of intellectual freedom in the barren soil of Poverty Gulch.
But the seeds that had truly taken root were those of suspicion, diligently sown by a community already primed for judgment. Margie’s report was not just a piece of information; it was the final, irrefutable proof Deacon Thorne had sought. The children’s tales of the Ran Tan Man, dismissed by Lizbeth as mere bogeyman stories, were about to materialize. The unwritten standards of Poverty Gulch, violated with unintentional ease, would soon be enforced.
As dusk began to settle, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange, Lizbeth locked the heavy oak doors of the library. A feeling of disquiet, faint at first, then growing more insistent, pricked at her. The usual evening sounds – the distant hum of crickets, a dog barking – seemed muted, replaced by an unnerving silence. She glanced down the empty street, her gaze sweeping past the darkened windows of the houses, and felt a sudden, inexplicable chill, despite the lingering heat.
A shiver ran down her spine, a premonition of something ancient and terrible stirring in the heart of Poverty Gulch. She didn't know what it was, but the air felt heavy, charged with an invisible current. The trap, sprung so deftly, had sealed her fate. And the Ran Tan Man, no longer a figment of children's imaginations, was preparing to collect his due.
The sweltering heat of Poverty Gulch seemed to intensify with each passing day, pressing down on Lizbeth not just physically, but psychologically. She’d tried to connect, to find a common humanity in the dusty, insular town, but her efforts were met with an impenetrable wall of tradition and suspicion. During story hour, her attempts to gather local folklore had yielded only one consistent, chilling tale: the Ran Tan Man. The children spoke of him with an unsettling blend of fear and reverence, describing a shadowy enforcer who ensured everyone adhered to Poverty Gulch’s unwritten, unforgiving rules. Lizbeth had dismissed it as a crude bogeyman, a parental scare tactic, but the knowing smirks exchanged among the children, their eyes glinting with an ancient wisdom that mocked her outsider ignorance, gnawed at a deeper, unacknowledged fear.
Her perceived transgressions, a growing list of innocent acts viewed through the distorting lens of Poverty Gulch’s rigid morality, had finally reached a critical mass. Lizbeth, with her unconventional appearance – too thin, too bookish, too unadorned – and her quiet habit of staring out the library window, already stood apart. Her past, carefully buried, lingered like a phantom limb, a sensitivity she couldn't quite shake. The town, a single, organismic entity, had begun to turn its collective gaze upon her, and leading that gaze was Deacon Silas Thorne.
Silas Thorne was not merely a deacon; he was the bedrock upon which the Church of Righteous Fire, and thus Poverty Gulch itself, was built. His word was not law; it was divine decree. With a face etched by years of stern judgment and a voice that resonated with the brimstone prophecies of the end times, he embodied the town’s unyielding faith and its unshakeable conviction in its own righteousness. He had watched Lizbeth, a quiet predator observing its prey, and found her wanting. Her very presence, an unmarried woman with an intellect unburdened by domesticity, was an affront. Her perceived lack of piety, her subtle differences, were like a festering wound in the community’s otherwise homogenous flesh. He resolved to act, his decision as cold and inevitable as the coming winter.
The Church youth group, a disciplined and zealous cohort molded by Thorne’s fervent sermons, became his instrument. They were young, impressionable, and steeped in the absolute certainty of the Church’s teachings – especially its strictures against any deviation from the prescribed path for women. Their task: to investigate Lizbeth, to uncover definitive proof of her unsuitability, and ultimately, to set a trap.
The key to this insidious plot lay with Margie Stone. Margie was a wisp of a girl, shy and mousy, her small frame usually hidden beneath oversized denim and her gaze perpetually fixed on the scuffed toes of her shoes. Her reputation, however, was sterling; she was known for an unwavering piety, a quiet devotion that made her a paragon among the Church youth. She approached Lizbeth one sweltering afternoon as the library was about to close, the air thick with the smell of old paper and the oppressive heat.
Margie stood before Lizbeth’s desk, her hands clasped tightly, her head bowed. “Miss Martin?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the drone of cicadas outside. Lizbeth looked up, her thick glasses sliding slightly down her nose, a faint, questioning smile on her lips. She saw a troubled adolescent, a girl clearly wrestling with some inner turmoil.
“Yes, Margie? Is everything alright?” Lizbeth asked, her voice gentle, instinctively softening it for the shy girl.
Margie hesitated, then looked up, her eyes wide and brimming with what Lizbeth perceived as genuine anguish. “Miss Martin, I... I think there’s something wrong with me,” she confided, her voice a barely audible tremor. “I… I don’t like boys. I might even like girls… in that way.”
The words struck Lizbeth with a jolt, a phantom pain from her own carefully suppressed past. She remembered the whispered conversations in darkened dorm rooms, the thrilling, terrifying discovery of her own identity, and the subsequent, brutal rejection and self-exile that had landed her in Poverty Gulch. A wave of empathy, raw and immediate, washed over her. This girl, so young, so vulnerable, clearly believed she was an abomination.
Lizbeth leaned forward, her gaze unwavering, her voice a balm in the quiet library. “Margie, there’s nothing wrong with you,” she said, the words coming from a place of deep, personal conviction. “Everyone is different, and feelings like that are normal. It’s okay to be yourself.” She reached out, a hesitant gesture, and gently squeezed Margie’s arm. “It’s important to understand your own heart, and to know that love, in its many forms, is a beautiful thing. Identity and feelings are complex, and you’re not alone in exploring them.”
Lizbeth, ever the rational academic, then offered carefully chosen, factual information about identity and feelings, drawing on the limited resources she had. She spoke of acceptance, of self-discovery, of the diverse tapestry of human experience. She believed she was a beacon, offering light and solace to a troubled adolescent lost in the rigid darkness of her community. She believed she was helping.
The trap was now sprung.
Margie Stone, her face still carefully composed to reflect a lingering distress that vanished the moment she was out of Lizbeth’s sight, left the library. The sun beat down, baking the unpaved streets and shimmering off the corrugated tin roofs. Margie didn't go home. She walked directly to the parsonage, a grim, austere building next to the Church of Righteous Fire, where Deacon Thorne waited with several members of the youth group.
She recounted the conversation with meticulous detail, her voice clear and steady now, devoid of its earlier tremor. The factual information Lizbeth had shared, intended as enlightenment, became damning evidence. The kind words, meant to soothe, were twisted into an endorsement of sin. Margie even added a small, calculated embellishment, suggesting that Lizbeth had looked at her with an "unnatural" warmth, a certain “knowingness” that confirmed her own depravity.
Deacon Thorne listened, his eyes like chips of flint, his lips thinning into a grim line of satisfaction. The other youth group members exchanged glances, their young faces hardened by righteous indignation. The "unwed schoolmarm" had finally shown her true colours. She was not just an outsider; she was a corrupting influence, a serpent in their Eden.
Lizbeth, back in the library, tidied a stack of returned books, a faint, almost imperceptible lightness in her chest. She had helped someone. Margie's confession, her vulnerability, had resonated deeply, and Lizbeth felt a quiet sense of triumph, a small victory for understanding in a world she feared had none. It’s okay to be yourself. The words echoed, a comforting mantra. She had planted a seed of acceptance, she believed, a tiny sprout of intellectual freedom in the barren soil of Poverty Gulch.
But the seeds that had truly taken root were those of suspicion, diligently sown by a community already primed for judgment. Margie’s report was not just a piece of information; it was the final, irrefutable proof Deacon Thorne had sought. The children’s tales of the Ran Tan Man, dismissed by Lizbeth as mere bogeyman stories, were about to materialize. The unwritten standards of Poverty Gulch, violated with unintentional ease, would soon be enforced.
As dusk began to settle, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange, Lizbeth locked the heavy oak doors of the library. A feeling of disquiet, faint at first, then growing more insistent, pricked at her. The usual evening sounds – the distant hum of crickets, a dog barking – seemed muted, replaced by an unnerving silence. She glanced down the empty street, her gaze sweeping past the darkened windows of the houses, and felt a sudden, inexplicable chill, despite the lingering heat.
A shiver ran down her spine, a premonition of something ancient and terrible stirring in the heart of Poverty Gulch. She didn't know what it was, but the air felt heavy, charged with an invisible current. The trap, sprung so deftly, had sealed her fate. And the Ran Tan Man, no longer a figment of children's imaginations, was preparing to collect his due.
Re: The Ran Tan Man of Poverty Gulch
Chapter 3
As Lizbeth was violently wrenched from the library steps, a choked cry caught in her throat. The figure who seized her was broader, stronger than the young men who’d handled her before. His rough white robes, stained with what looked like dust and old wax, billowed around him. The crudely fashioned mask, carved from wood or hardened leather, was a monstrous parody of a human face – wide, leering eyes, a twisted, sneering mouth, and horns that jutted menacingly from above the temples. This was him: The Ran Tan Man.
His grip on her arm was like iron, dragging her forward, her feet stumbling over the worn cobblestones. Two others, similarly robed but with simpler burlap masks, flanked him, assisting in her propulsion. The sudden movement plunged her into the heart of the approaching mob. The low guttural chanting, which had been distant before, now roared in her ears, a chilling, collective voice that stripped her of any remaining dignity.
“Come gather round neighbors at setting of sun.
The sound of the Ran Tan, come join the fun,
” the crowd bellowed, their voices a discordant symphony with the cacophony of the "rough music." Horns blared, not in celebration, but in a mocking, jagged rhythm. Pans clanged, a relentless metallic shriek that burrowed into her skull.
Her spectacles, still perched precariously on her nose, became a tunnel, focusing her terror on the immediate horror. Children, their faces painted with primal excitement, surged around her. They shrieked, a high-pitched, gleeful noise, as they jabbed at her calves and ankles with sharp sticks, the points tearing at her stockings, stinging her skin. Each prod was a fresh jolt of humiliation, a reminder of how utterly powerless she was, a toy for their malicious amusement.
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Ran Tan Tan.
We’ll drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan
the chorus swelled, a wave of condemnation washing over her.
She tried to look back, to see if the library door was still open, a phantom escape route, but the Ran Tan Man’s grip was unyielding. Her head was forced forward, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. It was a macabre parade, a dark mirror of the town’s cherished Memorial Day celebration, but instead of flags and marching bands, there were torches, and instead of heroes, there was her, the pariah.
The torches had been lit, casting dancing, demonic shadows that stretched and shrank with every step the mob took. The sunset, once a bruised purple and blood orange canvas, now bled into a deep, unforgiving twilight, painting the faces of her tormentors in shifting hues of malevolence. She saw them, dozens, then hundreds, their eyes glinting in the flickering light, their mouths open in the chant, a terrifying mask of collective fury.
Then, she saw Margie Stone. The girl was still at the head of the mob, now walking with an almost regal air, her small, youthful face illuminated by the torchlight. There was no terror there, no guilt, only a peculiar mixture of pride and self-righteousness. An older woman, her face stern and approving, squeezed Margie’s shoulder. It hit Lizbeth then, with the force of a physical blow – the whispered question she’d heard earlier, “What are they going to do to that poor girl?” wasn't about her. It was about Margie, the true victim in their twisted narrative, being comforted, being rewarded for her testimony, for her adherence to the Church’s strictures. The cold dread that had settled in her bones now turned to icy horror. Margie wasn't the victim; she was the priestess of this inquisition.
When we find a maid who thinks she’s a man,
we drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan,
the mob roared, their voices resonating with righteous anger. The words were a direct arrow, poisoned and barbed, aimed at the hidden shame Lizbeth had carried for so long, the memories of a dorm room, of shared whispers and forbidden touches. They knew. Somehow, they knew. The humiliation burned hotter than any torch.
She stumbled, but the Ran Tan Man's arm tightened, yanking her upright. His masked face turned slightly, and she felt the weight of his gaze, though his eyes were hidden. It was a look of cold, impersonal judgment, devoid of human empathy. He was not a man; he was an embodiment, an ancient, dark spirit of the Gulch.
The procession wound its way down Main Street, past the darkened storefronts, each one a stark reminder of the businesses that had closed their doors to join the spectacle. The general store, the feed and grain, even Mrs. Gable’s bakery, all shuttered, their proprietors among the chanting throng. The very fabric of the town had conspired against her.
Sergeant Miller, still leaning against his patrol car, now watched with a wider grin. He raised a hand in a casual salute to the Ran Tan Man, a gesture of camaraderie that solidified Lizbeth’s terrifying realization: every institution, every individual, was complicit. There was no escape, no refuge.
Her breath hitched in her chest. The air was thick with the smell of cheap kerosene from the torches, the dust kicked up by hundreds of shuffling feet, and the faint, unsettling scent of unwashed bodies. Above it all, the insistent, deafening clamor of the rough music hammered at her eardrums, erasing all thought, leaving only raw, animal fear.
A mannish maid we can’t abide.
With a Ran Tan Tan we’ll tan her hide,
the mob chanted, their voices growing louder, more fervent. The children’s sticks grew more insistent, their shrill giggles piercing the din. Lizbeth’s ankles burned, and she could feel the trickle of blood beneath her torn stockings.
They were heading towards the town square, the traditional gathering place, now bathed in the lurid glow of the flickering torches. A makeshift platform, crudely constructed, stood in the center, catching the light. A wooden stake, thick and stout, was driven into the earth nearby. Her stomach churned. What new horror awaited her there?
The Ran Tan Man tightened his grip, pulling her up onto the first step of the platform. The mob roared its approval, a triumphant surge of sound that thrummed through the soles of her feet. Lizbeth felt a cold dread seep into her bones, heavy and inescapable. This wasn’t just a parade; it was a ritual, and she was the sacrifice. She was about to learn her place.
Set her a running and pick up the pace.
From the Ran Tan Man she’ll learn her place.
The final verse echoed in the square, a chilling prophecy of the ordeal that was just beginning. The crowd surged closer, their faces alight with a disturbing zeal, their eyes fixed on her, waiting for the Ran Tan Man to complete his dark work.
As Lizbeth was violently wrenched from the library steps, a choked cry caught in her throat. The figure who seized her was broader, stronger than the young men who’d handled her before. His rough white robes, stained with what looked like dust and old wax, billowed around him. The crudely fashioned mask, carved from wood or hardened leather, was a monstrous parody of a human face – wide, leering eyes, a twisted, sneering mouth, and horns that jutted menacingly from above the temples. This was him: The Ran Tan Man.
His grip on her arm was like iron, dragging her forward, her feet stumbling over the worn cobblestones. Two others, similarly robed but with simpler burlap masks, flanked him, assisting in her propulsion. The sudden movement plunged her into the heart of the approaching mob. The low guttural chanting, which had been distant before, now roared in her ears, a chilling, collective voice that stripped her of any remaining dignity.
“Come gather round neighbors at setting of sun.
The sound of the Ran Tan, come join the fun,
” the crowd bellowed, their voices a discordant symphony with the cacophony of the "rough music." Horns blared, not in celebration, but in a mocking, jagged rhythm. Pans clanged, a relentless metallic shriek that burrowed into her skull.
Her spectacles, still perched precariously on her nose, became a tunnel, focusing her terror on the immediate horror. Children, their faces painted with primal excitement, surged around her. They shrieked, a high-pitched, gleeful noise, as they jabbed at her calves and ankles with sharp sticks, the points tearing at her stockings, stinging her skin. Each prod was a fresh jolt of humiliation, a reminder of how utterly powerless she was, a toy for their malicious amusement.
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Ran Tan Tan.
We’ll drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan
the chorus swelled, a wave of condemnation washing over her.
She tried to look back, to see if the library door was still open, a phantom escape route, but the Ran Tan Man’s grip was unyielding. Her head was forced forward, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. It was a macabre parade, a dark mirror of the town’s cherished Memorial Day celebration, but instead of flags and marching bands, there were torches, and instead of heroes, there was her, the pariah.
The torches had been lit, casting dancing, demonic shadows that stretched and shrank with every step the mob took. The sunset, once a bruised purple and blood orange canvas, now bled into a deep, unforgiving twilight, painting the faces of her tormentors in shifting hues of malevolence. She saw them, dozens, then hundreds, their eyes glinting in the flickering light, their mouths open in the chant, a terrifying mask of collective fury.
Then, she saw Margie Stone. The girl was still at the head of the mob, now walking with an almost regal air, her small, youthful face illuminated by the torchlight. There was no terror there, no guilt, only a peculiar mixture of pride and self-righteousness. An older woman, her face stern and approving, squeezed Margie’s shoulder. It hit Lizbeth then, with the force of a physical blow – the whispered question she’d heard earlier, “What are they going to do to that poor girl?” wasn't about her. It was about Margie, the true victim in their twisted narrative, being comforted, being rewarded for her testimony, for her adherence to the Church’s strictures. The cold dread that had settled in her bones now turned to icy horror. Margie wasn't the victim; she was the priestess of this inquisition.
When we find a maid who thinks she’s a man,
we drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan,
the mob roared, their voices resonating with righteous anger. The words were a direct arrow, poisoned and barbed, aimed at the hidden shame Lizbeth had carried for so long, the memories of a dorm room, of shared whispers and forbidden touches. They knew. Somehow, they knew. The humiliation burned hotter than any torch.
She stumbled, but the Ran Tan Man's arm tightened, yanking her upright. His masked face turned slightly, and she felt the weight of his gaze, though his eyes were hidden. It was a look of cold, impersonal judgment, devoid of human empathy. He was not a man; he was an embodiment, an ancient, dark spirit of the Gulch.
The procession wound its way down Main Street, past the darkened storefronts, each one a stark reminder of the businesses that had closed their doors to join the spectacle. The general store, the feed and grain, even Mrs. Gable’s bakery, all shuttered, their proprietors among the chanting throng. The very fabric of the town had conspired against her.
Sergeant Miller, still leaning against his patrol car, now watched with a wider grin. He raised a hand in a casual salute to the Ran Tan Man, a gesture of camaraderie that solidified Lizbeth’s terrifying realization: every institution, every individual, was complicit. There was no escape, no refuge.
Her breath hitched in her chest. The air was thick with the smell of cheap kerosene from the torches, the dust kicked up by hundreds of shuffling feet, and the faint, unsettling scent of unwashed bodies. Above it all, the insistent, deafening clamor of the rough music hammered at her eardrums, erasing all thought, leaving only raw, animal fear.
A mannish maid we can’t abide.
With a Ran Tan Tan we’ll tan her hide,
the mob chanted, their voices growing louder, more fervent. The children’s sticks grew more insistent, their shrill giggles piercing the din. Lizbeth’s ankles burned, and she could feel the trickle of blood beneath her torn stockings.
They were heading towards the town square, the traditional gathering place, now bathed in the lurid glow of the flickering torches. A makeshift platform, crudely constructed, stood in the center, catching the light. A wooden stake, thick and stout, was driven into the earth nearby. Her stomach churned. What new horror awaited her there?
The Ran Tan Man tightened his grip, pulling her up onto the first step of the platform. The mob roared its approval, a triumphant surge of sound that thrummed through the soles of her feet. Lizbeth felt a cold dread seep into her bones, heavy and inescapable. This wasn’t just a parade; it was a ritual, and she was the sacrifice. She was about to learn her place.
Set her a running and pick up the pace.
From the Ran Tan Man she’ll learn her place.
The final verse echoed in the square, a chilling prophecy of the ordeal that was just beginning. The crowd surged closer, their faces alight with a disturbing zeal, their eyes fixed on her, waiting for the Ran Tan Man to complete his dark work.
Re: The Ran Tan Man of Poverty Gulch
Chapter 4
The cold granite pressed into Lizbeth’s arched spine, a brutal counterpoint to the searing pain that radiated from her stretched limbs. Every nerve ending shrieked, protesting the unnatural curve of her body, bound tighter than a bowstring across the ancient millstone. The last vestige of her private dignity, her pubic hair, had been scraped away, the dull knife leaving a trail of raw, burning skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the flickering torchlight still danced behind her lids, mocking her. The air, thick with the scent of pine smoke and the metallic tang of fear, felt heavy, suffocating.
A low murmur rippled through the gathered crowd, a tide of anticipation that made Lizbeth’s skin crawl. The Ran Tan Man stood over her, his shadow an enormous, monstrous thing in the firelight. He held the dull hunting knife, its blade now catching the light with an unsettling gleam. He surveyed his work, a satisfied, almost clinical expression on his face.
Then, from the outer edges of the crowd, a voice rose, a single, reedy tenor that quickly swelled, joined by others.
“Out in the meadow, by light of the moon,
they chanted, their voices a dissonant, low hum,
We’ll force her to dance to the Ran Tan Tune.
The words were a physical blow, each syllable hammering home the utter helplessness of her situation. She was no longer Lizbeth Martin, library science graduate, no longer a woman with hopes and fears. She was an object, a spectacle, an instrument for their perverse ritual.
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Ran Tan Tan,
the chorus roared, the sound swelling to fill the clearing.
We’ll drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan.
Her teeth clenched, tasting blood from where she’d bitten her lip. She willed herself to disappear, to dissolve into the cold stone beneath her, but the ropes held her fast, each knot a testament to their unwavering will.
The Ran Tan Man raised a hand, and the chanting died down to a low thrum. He then produced a small, leather pouch from his belt. He uncorked it, and a pungent, musky oil filled the air. Slowly, deliberately, he poured the dark liquid over Lizbeth’s taut belly. It was cold at first, then warmed against her skin, a sickeningly intimate touch. He spread it with his fingers, coating her distended abdomen until it glistened in the firelight, like an offering.
Over the Mill Stone, bend her back,
a new voice, older, more gravelly, rasped, and the crowd echoed it. Lizbeth felt a fresh wave of shame wash through her as their eyes, bright and hungry, fixed on her.
On her belly go wickety wack.
The Ran Tan Man stepped back, his gaze fixed on her belly. He handed the dull knife to one of his acolytes and instead picked up a thin, polished stick from a nearby bundle. It looked like a drumstick, smooth and dark. Lizbeth’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, desperate bird caught in a cage. She knew, with chilling certainty, what was coming.
He approached her again, his movements precise, almost delicate. He held the stick poised above her belly, a conductor before his orchestra. The crowd held its breath, a collective gasp swallowed by the vast, open night.
Then, he struck.
Thwack.
A sharp, surprisingly loud sound echoed across the meadow. Pain exploded in her abdomen, a bright, fiery blossom that stole her breath. Her body convulsed, a silent scream tearing through her throat, but the ropes held her rigid.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
He struck again, and again, a terrible rhythm beginning to form. Her belly, stretched tight as a drumhead, reverberated with each blow. It wasn’t the blunt, crushing pain she might have expected, but a stinging, burning agony that resonated deep within her, shaking her very bones. Tears streamed from her eyes, hot trails on her cold cheeks, blurring the faces in the crowd into monstrous, flickering masks.
Stretched on the stone, with ropes we bind,
the crowd sang, their faces now alight with a fervent, almost delirious joy.
She begs for mercy, no mercy she’ll find.
Each strike was punctuated by the collective voice, a chilling harmony of torment. She choked on a sob, her head lolling back against the stone, praying for unconsciousness, for oblivion. But it never came.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The blows continued, relentless, methodical. The Ran Tan Man’s face remained impassive, his eyes fixed on her belly, as if in a trance. He was not looking at Lizbeth, the woman. He was looking at the instrument, the canvas, the focal point of their ritual.
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Rum Tum Tum,
the chorus surged, their voices growing louder, more fervent.
We play on her belly like beating a drum.
The sound of the stick hitting her skin filled the clearing, mingling with the chanting, a perverse melody of cruelty. Lizbeth’s vision swam. Her entire body throbbed, a single, excruciating pulse. The humiliation was a physical entity, crawling over her skin, worming its way into her very soul. She was stripped bare, literally and figuratively, exposed, violated, and forced to endure this monstrous performance.
And though she beg and though she plead,
the crowd chanted, their voices now a fervent roar, a wave of sound that threatened to drown her.
The Ran Tan Crew will pay no heed.
They were right. She had no voice, no agency, no hope of mercy. Her pleas, if she could even utter them, would fall on deaf ears, swallowed by the Ran Tan Tune. All that was left was the rhythm of the stick, the ache in her bones, and the horrifying, echoing sound of her own body being played
The cold granite pressed into Lizbeth’s arched spine, a brutal counterpoint to the searing pain that radiated from her stretched limbs. Every nerve ending shrieked, protesting the unnatural curve of her body, bound tighter than a bowstring across the ancient millstone. The last vestige of her private dignity, her pubic hair, had been scraped away, the dull knife leaving a trail of raw, burning skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the flickering torchlight still danced behind her lids, mocking her. The air, thick with the scent of pine smoke and the metallic tang of fear, felt heavy, suffocating.
A low murmur rippled through the gathered crowd, a tide of anticipation that made Lizbeth’s skin crawl. The Ran Tan Man stood over her, his shadow an enormous, monstrous thing in the firelight. He held the dull hunting knife, its blade now catching the light with an unsettling gleam. He surveyed his work, a satisfied, almost clinical expression on his face.
Then, from the outer edges of the crowd, a voice rose, a single, reedy tenor that quickly swelled, joined by others.
“Out in the meadow, by light of the moon,
they chanted, their voices a dissonant, low hum,
We’ll force her to dance to the Ran Tan Tune.
The words were a physical blow, each syllable hammering home the utter helplessness of her situation. She was no longer Lizbeth Martin, library science graduate, no longer a woman with hopes and fears. She was an object, a spectacle, an instrument for their perverse ritual.
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Ran Tan Tan,
the chorus roared, the sound swelling to fill the clearing.
We’ll drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan.
Her teeth clenched, tasting blood from where she’d bitten her lip. She willed herself to disappear, to dissolve into the cold stone beneath her, but the ropes held her fast, each knot a testament to their unwavering will.
The Ran Tan Man raised a hand, and the chanting died down to a low thrum. He then produced a small, leather pouch from his belt. He uncorked it, and a pungent, musky oil filled the air. Slowly, deliberately, he poured the dark liquid over Lizbeth’s taut belly. It was cold at first, then warmed against her skin, a sickeningly intimate touch. He spread it with his fingers, coating her distended abdomen until it glistened in the firelight, like an offering.
Over the Mill Stone, bend her back,
a new voice, older, more gravelly, rasped, and the crowd echoed it. Lizbeth felt a fresh wave of shame wash through her as their eyes, bright and hungry, fixed on her.
On her belly go wickety wack.
The Ran Tan Man stepped back, his gaze fixed on her belly. He handed the dull knife to one of his acolytes and instead picked up a thin, polished stick from a nearby bundle. It looked like a drumstick, smooth and dark. Lizbeth’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, desperate bird caught in a cage. She knew, with chilling certainty, what was coming.
He approached her again, his movements precise, almost delicate. He held the stick poised above her belly, a conductor before his orchestra. The crowd held its breath, a collective gasp swallowed by the vast, open night.
Then, he struck.
Thwack.
A sharp, surprisingly loud sound echoed across the meadow. Pain exploded in her abdomen, a bright, fiery blossom that stole her breath. Her body convulsed, a silent scream tearing through her throat, but the ropes held her rigid.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
He struck again, and again, a terrible rhythm beginning to form. Her belly, stretched tight as a drumhead, reverberated with each blow. It wasn’t the blunt, crushing pain she might have expected, but a stinging, burning agony that resonated deep within her, shaking her very bones. Tears streamed from her eyes, hot trails on her cold cheeks, blurring the faces in the crowd into monstrous, flickering masks.
Stretched on the stone, with ropes we bind,
the crowd sang, their faces now alight with a fervent, almost delirious joy.
She begs for mercy, no mercy she’ll find.
Each strike was punctuated by the collective voice, a chilling harmony of torment. She choked on a sob, her head lolling back against the stone, praying for unconsciousness, for oblivion. But it never came.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The blows continued, relentless, methodical. The Ran Tan Man’s face remained impassive, his eyes fixed on her belly, as if in a trance. He was not looking at Lizbeth, the woman. He was looking at the instrument, the canvas, the focal point of their ritual.
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Rum Tum Tum,
the chorus surged, their voices growing louder, more fervent.
We play on her belly like beating a drum.
The sound of the stick hitting her skin filled the clearing, mingling with the chanting, a perverse melody of cruelty. Lizbeth’s vision swam. Her entire body throbbed, a single, excruciating pulse. The humiliation was a physical entity, crawling over her skin, worming its way into her very soul. She was stripped bare, literally and figuratively, exposed, violated, and forced to endure this monstrous performance.
And though she beg and though she plead,
the crowd chanted, their voices now a fervent roar, a wave of sound that threatened to drown her.
The Ran Tan Crew will pay no heed.
They were right. She had no voice, no agency, no hope of mercy. Her pleas, if she could even utter them, would fall on deaf ears, swallowed by the Ran Tan Tune. All that was left was the rhythm of the stick, the ache in her bones, and the horrifying, echoing sound of her own body being played
Re: The Ran Tan Man of Poverty Gulch
Chapter 5
Then, as if on cue, the crowd erupted. A low rumble, a shared intake of breath, and then the chilling Ran Tan chant rose from a hundred throats, a primal chorus that burrowed into the very bones of the night. It was a rhythmic, relentless engine of hate, verses describing transgressions and the justice meted out, each repetition a hammer blow against the last vestiges of Lizbeth’s hope.
The Ran Tan Man, a hulking shadow against the dying bonfire, stood over Lizbeth’s splayed, vulnerable form. Her gaunt frame was stretched taut, bound unnaturally to the cold stone, her thin belly, illuminated by the flickering flames, a stark, pale target. With a guttural grunt, he began to slap it, a sickening thwack resounding in time to the rhythmic chant.
Out in the meadow, by light of the moon.
We’ll force her to dance to the Ran Tan Tune.
Thwack.
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Ran Tan Tan.
We’ll drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan.
Thwack. The volume and pace of the chant increased, reaching a fever pitch, each voice a shard of glass in the night. The Ran Tan Man matched it, the cadence and force of his blows escalating. Lizbeth was unable to move, a living sacrifice on the altar of their vengeance. She could only toss her head from side to side, screaming in helpless agony and terror, her voice a thin, reedy wail lost in the cacophony. Each stinging smack on her glowing, tortured belly was amplified by the roar of the crowd, the communal hatred beating upon her with a force equal to the physical blows.
Out in the meadow, strip her bare.
With a rusty blade we’ll crop her hair.
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Over the Mill Stone, bend her back.
On her belly go wickety wack.
The enthusiasm of the crowd reached an orgasmic pitch, their collective fervor a wave crashing against the helpless body of their victim. It was a shared experience of torment, fueled by righteous indignation and ancient, dark tradition. Children, eyes wide and mesmerized, clung to their parents’ legs, absorbing the lesson of communal justice.
Her belly flat, no babe inside.
No righteous man to be her guide.
Thwack-thwack! The blows were harder now, leaving angry red marks on her alabaster skin. Lizbeth’s screams had begun to fray, fraying into ragged gasps. The pain was absolute, overwhelming, but it was the humiliation, the sheer public spectacle of her body being used as a drum for their twisted rhythm, that truly broke her.
From Sodom’s ways, she tried to flee.
But Ran Tan justice sets her free!
An hour dragged by, then two. The chant continued, relentless, though voices grew hoarse and the rhythm occasionally faltered before being violently reasserted. The Ran Tan Man, his face a mask of grim satisfaction, showed no sign of tiring, his arms moving with mechanical precision. Lizbeth’s body, once vibrant with the nervous energy of her escape to Poverty Gulch, had become a flaccid puppet. Her head lolled, her eyes fluttered, then finally, mercifully, she lost consciousness.
The crowd’s chant briefly faltered, a murmur of discontent rippling through the throng. They hadn't finished. This wasn't how it ended.
With brutal efficiency, two burly women, their faces set in hard lines of purpose, stepped forward. One knelt, delivering a sharp pinch and twist to Lizbeth’s nipple, a jolt of exquisite pain. Lizbeth gasped, her eyes snapping open, dilated with terror, her body arching against the ropes. The other woman, with a cruel smile, thrust a finger between her legs, ripping her back to the horrifying reality with a savage intimacy. Her small, pained cries were the only sound that pierced the renewed thwack of the Ran Tan Man’s hand and the quickly revived chorus.
Her secret sin, she tried to hide.
Now Ran Tan truth flows like a tide.
Thwack!
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Ran Tan Tan.
We’ll drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan.
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Three hours stretched into four. Lizbeth's screams had long since evaporated, replaced by whimpers and then silence. Her consciousness flickered in and out, each forced return a fresh descent into a private hell. Her skin was bruised and inflamed, her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and her eyes, when open, showed only a vacant, animal terror. The Ran Tan Man’s blows, though still delivered with force, now landed on a body that offered little resistance. Even the cruel twists and prods from the women failed to rouse more than a shudder. When her body finally lay slack against the stone again, broken and unresponsive, no amount of pinching or probing could bring her back.
A few more perfunctory choruses of the chant, now sounding tired and hollow, faded into the night. The crowd, their bloodlust sated, began to wander home, murmuring their satisfaction. It had been a good night. Justice had been meted out. Their faith reaffirmed.
But before leaving, the men lined up, a ragged queue emerging from the shadows. One by one, they stepped forward, unbuttoning their trousers. Streams of urine hissed on the dying bonfire, an acrid steam rising, and splashed grotesquely upon the unconscious, defiled body of their victim. Lizbeth lay there, a pale, violated silhouette under the indifferent moon, an object lesson in Poverty Gulch’s harsh, unyielding justice.
Then, as if on cue, the crowd erupted. A low rumble, a shared intake of breath, and then the chilling Ran Tan chant rose from a hundred throats, a primal chorus that burrowed into the very bones of the night. It was a rhythmic, relentless engine of hate, verses describing transgressions and the justice meted out, each repetition a hammer blow against the last vestiges of Lizbeth’s hope.
The Ran Tan Man, a hulking shadow against the dying bonfire, stood over Lizbeth’s splayed, vulnerable form. Her gaunt frame was stretched taut, bound unnaturally to the cold stone, her thin belly, illuminated by the flickering flames, a stark, pale target. With a guttural grunt, he began to slap it, a sickening thwack resounding in time to the rhythmic chant.
Out in the meadow, by light of the moon.
We’ll force her to dance to the Ran Tan Tune.
Thwack.
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Ran Tan Tan.
We’ll drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan.
Thwack. The volume and pace of the chant increased, reaching a fever pitch, each voice a shard of glass in the night. The Ran Tan Man matched it, the cadence and force of his blows escalating. Lizbeth was unable to move, a living sacrifice on the altar of their vengeance. She could only toss her head from side to side, screaming in helpless agony and terror, her voice a thin, reedy wail lost in the cacophony. Each stinging smack on her glowing, tortured belly was amplified by the roar of the crowd, the communal hatred beating upon her with a force equal to the physical blows.
Out in the meadow, strip her bare.
With a rusty blade we’ll crop her hair.
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Over the Mill Stone, bend her back.
On her belly go wickety wack.
The enthusiasm of the crowd reached an orgasmic pitch, their collective fervor a wave crashing against the helpless body of their victim. It was a shared experience of torment, fueled by righteous indignation and ancient, dark tradition. Children, eyes wide and mesmerized, clung to their parents’ legs, absorbing the lesson of communal justice.
Her belly flat, no babe inside.
No righteous man to be her guide.
Thwack-thwack! The blows were harder now, leaving angry red marks on her alabaster skin. Lizbeth’s screams had begun to fray, fraying into ragged gasps. The pain was absolute, overwhelming, but it was the humiliation, the sheer public spectacle of her body being used as a drum for their twisted rhythm, that truly broke her.
From Sodom’s ways, she tried to flee.
But Ran Tan justice sets her free!
An hour dragged by, then two. The chant continued, relentless, though voices grew hoarse and the rhythm occasionally faltered before being violently reasserted. The Ran Tan Man, his face a mask of grim satisfaction, showed no sign of tiring, his arms moving with mechanical precision. Lizbeth’s body, once vibrant with the nervous energy of her escape to Poverty Gulch, had become a flaccid puppet. Her head lolled, her eyes fluttered, then finally, mercifully, she lost consciousness.
The crowd’s chant briefly faltered, a murmur of discontent rippling through the throng. They hadn't finished. This wasn't how it ended.
With brutal efficiency, two burly women, their faces set in hard lines of purpose, stepped forward. One knelt, delivering a sharp pinch and twist to Lizbeth’s nipple, a jolt of exquisite pain. Lizbeth gasped, her eyes snapping open, dilated with terror, her body arching against the ropes. The other woman, with a cruel smile, thrust a finger between her legs, ripping her back to the horrifying reality with a savage intimacy. Her small, pained cries were the only sound that pierced the renewed thwack of the Ran Tan Man’s hand and the quickly revived chorus.
Her secret sin, she tried to hide.
Now Ran Tan truth flows like a tide.
Thwack!
With a Ran Tan Tan and a Ran Tan Tan.
We’ll drive her out with a Ran Tan Tan.
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Three hours stretched into four. Lizbeth's screams had long since evaporated, replaced by whimpers and then silence. Her consciousness flickered in and out, each forced return a fresh descent into a private hell. Her skin was bruised and inflamed, her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and her eyes, when open, showed only a vacant, animal terror. The Ran Tan Man’s blows, though still delivered with force, now landed on a body that offered little resistance. Even the cruel twists and prods from the women failed to rouse more than a shudder. When her body finally lay slack against the stone again, broken and unresponsive, no amount of pinching or probing could bring her back.
A few more perfunctory choruses of the chant, now sounding tired and hollow, faded into the night. The crowd, their bloodlust sated, began to wander home, murmuring their satisfaction. It had been a good night. Justice had been meted out. Their faith reaffirmed.
But before leaving, the men lined up, a ragged queue emerging from the shadows. One by one, they stepped forward, unbuttoning their trousers. Streams of urine hissed on the dying bonfire, an acrid steam rising, and splashed grotesquely upon the unconscious, defiled body of their victim. Lizbeth lay there, a pale, violated silhouette under the indifferent moon, an object lesson in Poverty Gulch’s harsh, unyielding justice.
Re: The Ran Tan Man of Poverty Gulch
Chapter 6
The weak dawn light, a watery grey, seeped through the swollen slits of Lizbeth’s eyelids. Her body was a symphony of protest, each shattered bone and bruised muscle screaming in a discordant chorus. She felt herself being lifted, a sudden surge of movement displacing the cold, unyielding stone that had been her bed. Rescue? The word, a fragile, desperate whisper, flickered in the dark recesses of her mind, a spark in the overwhelming abyss of her agony. Could this be the end? The sweet, blessed cessation of her torment?
The hope, a tender, vulnerable thing, was instantly, brutally extinguished.
Her arms, unceremoniously yanked, were pulled taut, then her legs, a rough binding tearing at her already raw wrists and ankles. She was not being placed on a soft stretcher, nor lowered into the gentle embrace of a waiting ambulance. Instead, the crude fabric of ropes bit deep, digging, chafing, anchoring her to an unyielding surface. Her eyes, fighting through the fog of pain and terror, fluttered open.
The grimy, scratched surface of a pickup truck hood filled her vision. She was splayed across it, face-down, bound like a freshly killed deer dragged from the woods, its carcass displayed for all to see. The metallic tang of rust and oil filled her nostrils, mingling with the earthy scent of dust and the faint stench of stale beer. The vibrations of a rumbling engine began beneath her, a deep, unsettling thrum that reverberated through her broken body.
Gruff voices, thick with the drawl of the Texas hills, reached her ears from the cab of the truck. Laughter, coarse and unfeeling, punctuated the low murmur of conversation. Then, horrifyingly, the voices rose, coalescing into a ragged, off-key chorus.
The Ran Tan Tan has just begun,
they sang, the words slurring, laced with a crude, almost manic glee.
Tonight our good neighbors will join the fun.
A cold dread, more piercing than any physical pain, seized Lizbeth’s heart. Her blood ran colder than the dawn itself. No. It couldn’t be. Not again.
From village to village we send her along,
the chorus boomed, louder now, the men in the truck bed joining in, their voices rough and eager.
So all our good neighbors can join the song.
The words were new, twisted, adapted from the old Ran Tan chant she had come to know, to fear, to despise in the depths of her soul. They were singing about her. About this journey.
Through the haze of pain, through the throbbing agony that pulsed from every inch of her battered flesh, a horrifying clarity dawned. She was not saved. She was not rescued. This was not the end. This was merely a brutal continuation, a new, more expansive chapter in her unending purgatory.
The truck lurched forward, rocking her abused body, sending fresh jolts of pain through her. Dust, fine and gritty, kicked up from the unpaved road, coating her face and hair, clinging to the dried blood and grime. She heard them talking, their voices clear now above the engine’s growl and the rumble of the tires on the dirt track.
“—reckon Jebediah’s bunch in Harmony Spring will be mighty pleased to get her. Been chawin’ at the bit, they have.”
“Aye, and after them, it’s Widow’s Peak. They got a right to their turn too, don’t they?”
“Gotta keep her goin’ though, ain’t no good if she don’t make it to the county line. Last few towns down there, they’ll be mad as hornets if they miss out on the fun.”
Laughter, hot and cruel, followed the words. Lizbeth squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness offered no solace, only the vivid, horrifying images of what these words meant. Harmony Spring. Widow’s Peak. The county line. A procession of shame. A traveling circus of communal hatred, her body the main, wretched attraction.
The sun climbed higher, relentless and unforgiving, beating down on her back. Her skin, already raw and blistered, began to burn anew. The ropes chafed with every jostle, every bump in the road, digging deeper into her flesh. She could feel the blood, sluggish but present, seeping from her wrists and ankles, mixing with the dust and sweat. Her thirst was an inferno, her throat a parched desert. Each breath was a shallow, painful gasp.
She tried to fight it, a phantom struggle against the ropes that held her fast. A whimper escaped her lips, quickly stifled by the coarse fabric of her gag, which had been replaced, tighter than before. She pressed her cheek against the cold, vibrating metal of the truck’s hood, seeking some small point of contact that wasn't pain. But even the metal seemed to hum with the cruel intention of her captors.
The voices of the men continued, a macabre soundtrack to her suffering. They discussed crops, the price of feed, local gossip, and then, inevitably, circled back to her, to the “witch” they carried, to the “lesson” she was to provide.
By moonlight and torch light her belly will burn,
they sang, the verse a new, chilling addition that twisted in Lizbeth’s gut.
For all our good neighbors are waiting their turn.
The thought of more nights, more strangers, more hands, more indignity, sent a wave of nausea through her already ravaged body. Her stomach cramped, protesting the emptiness, the dehydration, the sheer terror. She felt herself fading, consciousness flickering at the edges like a dying flame. But even in the encroaching darkness, the truth remained: there would be no escape, no easy oblivion. They needed her conscious, needed her to feel, to suffer, for the "fun" to truly begin anew in each successive village.
She’ll dance to the Ran Tan, night after night,
another voice chimed in, more verses spilling out, seemingly improvised, yet perfectly capturing the malice of their intent.
The wages of sin it will only be right.
Lizbeth tried to remember her life before Poverty Gulch, before this hell. The library, the quiet sanctuary of books, the smell of old paper and dust motes dancing in sunbeams. Her college dorm, the soft lamplight, the whispered conversations, the tentative, illicit touches with Sarah. A life so far removed, it felt like a dream belonging to another person entirely. A person who was not broken, not bound, not being paraded across the countryside like a condemned animal.
The memory of Sarah, her gentle hands, her understanding eyes, became a torment. Sarah, who would never comprehend this medieval horror, this twisted justice. Lizbeth had fled her past, seeking anonymity, a fresh start, in this remote, God-fearing town. She had found damnation instead.
Hours blurred into an agonizing eternity. The sun climbed, peaked, and began its slow descent. The landscape shifted, subtly at first, then more noticeably. The scrub brush of Poverty Gulch gave way to slightly greener pastures, dotted with more substantial farmhouses, signs of a prosperity Poverty Gulch had long forgotten. The air grew heavier, the scent of distant woodsmoke mingling with the ever-present dust.
The truck slowed, then turned onto a wider, somewhat better-maintained road. The engine’s roar lessened, replaced by the crunch of gravel. Lizbeth could feel the subtle shift in the terrain, the slight incline. And then, she heard it: distant voices, a murmur that grew steadily, a low hum of anticipation.
“Looks like we’re almost there, boys!” one of the men in the back yelled, his voice thick with excitement. “Harmony Spring, comin’ right up!”
Another verse, sung with renewed vigor, erupted from the cab:
Her body a lesson, we post as a sign.
Each village from here to the far county line.
Lizbeth felt the shift, the gathering momentum of a new dread. The truck was slowing down, the anticipation among the men palpable, almost electric. She could hear the distinct sound of more vehicles, approaching or parked, and the rising tide of human voices. A crowd. Another crowd.
She braced herself, a futile, pathetic attempt to steel her shattered nerves. Her body was a ruin, her spirit a tattered flag fluttering in a gale. But something deep inside, a tiny, defiant spark, refused to be entirely extinguished. It was not hope, not anymore. It was a dark, venomous anger, a primal surge of hatred for these men, for this system, for this never-ending ordeal.
The weak dawn light, a watery grey, seeped through the swollen slits of Lizbeth’s eyelids. Her body was a symphony of protest, each shattered bone and bruised muscle screaming in a discordant chorus. She felt herself being lifted, a sudden surge of movement displacing the cold, unyielding stone that had been her bed. Rescue? The word, a fragile, desperate whisper, flickered in the dark recesses of her mind, a spark in the overwhelming abyss of her agony. Could this be the end? The sweet, blessed cessation of her torment?
The hope, a tender, vulnerable thing, was instantly, brutally extinguished.
Her arms, unceremoniously yanked, were pulled taut, then her legs, a rough binding tearing at her already raw wrists and ankles. She was not being placed on a soft stretcher, nor lowered into the gentle embrace of a waiting ambulance. Instead, the crude fabric of ropes bit deep, digging, chafing, anchoring her to an unyielding surface. Her eyes, fighting through the fog of pain and terror, fluttered open.
The grimy, scratched surface of a pickup truck hood filled her vision. She was splayed across it, face-down, bound like a freshly killed deer dragged from the woods, its carcass displayed for all to see. The metallic tang of rust and oil filled her nostrils, mingling with the earthy scent of dust and the faint stench of stale beer. The vibrations of a rumbling engine began beneath her, a deep, unsettling thrum that reverberated through her broken body.
Gruff voices, thick with the drawl of the Texas hills, reached her ears from the cab of the truck. Laughter, coarse and unfeeling, punctuated the low murmur of conversation. Then, horrifyingly, the voices rose, coalescing into a ragged, off-key chorus.
The Ran Tan Tan has just begun,
they sang, the words slurring, laced with a crude, almost manic glee.
Tonight our good neighbors will join the fun.
A cold dread, more piercing than any physical pain, seized Lizbeth’s heart. Her blood ran colder than the dawn itself. No. It couldn’t be. Not again.
From village to village we send her along,
the chorus boomed, louder now, the men in the truck bed joining in, their voices rough and eager.
So all our good neighbors can join the song.
The words were new, twisted, adapted from the old Ran Tan chant she had come to know, to fear, to despise in the depths of her soul. They were singing about her. About this journey.
Through the haze of pain, through the throbbing agony that pulsed from every inch of her battered flesh, a horrifying clarity dawned. She was not saved. She was not rescued. This was not the end. This was merely a brutal continuation, a new, more expansive chapter in her unending purgatory.
The truck lurched forward, rocking her abused body, sending fresh jolts of pain through her. Dust, fine and gritty, kicked up from the unpaved road, coating her face and hair, clinging to the dried blood and grime. She heard them talking, their voices clear now above the engine’s growl and the rumble of the tires on the dirt track.
“—reckon Jebediah’s bunch in Harmony Spring will be mighty pleased to get her. Been chawin’ at the bit, they have.”
“Aye, and after them, it’s Widow’s Peak. They got a right to their turn too, don’t they?”
“Gotta keep her goin’ though, ain’t no good if she don’t make it to the county line. Last few towns down there, they’ll be mad as hornets if they miss out on the fun.”
Laughter, hot and cruel, followed the words. Lizbeth squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness offered no solace, only the vivid, horrifying images of what these words meant. Harmony Spring. Widow’s Peak. The county line. A procession of shame. A traveling circus of communal hatred, her body the main, wretched attraction.
The sun climbed higher, relentless and unforgiving, beating down on her back. Her skin, already raw and blistered, began to burn anew. The ropes chafed with every jostle, every bump in the road, digging deeper into her flesh. She could feel the blood, sluggish but present, seeping from her wrists and ankles, mixing with the dust and sweat. Her thirst was an inferno, her throat a parched desert. Each breath was a shallow, painful gasp.
She tried to fight it, a phantom struggle against the ropes that held her fast. A whimper escaped her lips, quickly stifled by the coarse fabric of her gag, which had been replaced, tighter than before. She pressed her cheek against the cold, vibrating metal of the truck’s hood, seeking some small point of contact that wasn't pain. But even the metal seemed to hum with the cruel intention of her captors.
The voices of the men continued, a macabre soundtrack to her suffering. They discussed crops, the price of feed, local gossip, and then, inevitably, circled back to her, to the “witch” they carried, to the “lesson” she was to provide.
By moonlight and torch light her belly will burn,
they sang, the verse a new, chilling addition that twisted in Lizbeth’s gut.
For all our good neighbors are waiting their turn.
The thought of more nights, more strangers, more hands, more indignity, sent a wave of nausea through her already ravaged body. Her stomach cramped, protesting the emptiness, the dehydration, the sheer terror. She felt herself fading, consciousness flickering at the edges like a dying flame. But even in the encroaching darkness, the truth remained: there would be no escape, no easy oblivion. They needed her conscious, needed her to feel, to suffer, for the "fun" to truly begin anew in each successive village.
She’ll dance to the Ran Tan, night after night,
another voice chimed in, more verses spilling out, seemingly improvised, yet perfectly capturing the malice of their intent.
The wages of sin it will only be right.
Lizbeth tried to remember her life before Poverty Gulch, before this hell. The library, the quiet sanctuary of books, the smell of old paper and dust motes dancing in sunbeams. Her college dorm, the soft lamplight, the whispered conversations, the tentative, illicit touches with Sarah. A life so far removed, it felt like a dream belonging to another person entirely. A person who was not broken, not bound, not being paraded across the countryside like a condemned animal.
The memory of Sarah, her gentle hands, her understanding eyes, became a torment. Sarah, who would never comprehend this medieval horror, this twisted justice. Lizbeth had fled her past, seeking anonymity, a fresh start, in this remote, God-fearing town. She had found damnation instead.
Hours blurred into an agonizing eternity. The sun climbed, peaked, and began its slow descent. The landscape shifted, subtly at first, then more noticeably. The scrub brush of Poverty Gulch gave way to slightly greener pastures, dotted with more substantial farmhouses, signs of a prosperity Poverty Gulch had long forgotten. The air grew heavier, the scent of distant woodsmoke mingling with the ever-present dust.
The truck slowed, then turned onto a wider, somewhat better-maintained road. The engine’s roar lessened, replaced by the crunch of gravel. Lizbeth could feel the subtle shift in the terrain, the slight incline. And then, she heard it: distant voices, a murmur that grew steadily, a low hum of anticipation.
“Looks like we’re almost there, boys!” one of the men in the back yelled, his voice thick with excitement. “Harmony Spring, comin’ right up!”
Another verse, sung with renewed vigor, erupted from the cab:
Her body a lesson, we post as a sign.
Each village from here to the far county line.
Lizbeth felt the shift, the gathering momentum of a new dread. The truck was slowing down, the anticipation among the men palpable, almost electric. She could hear the distinct sound of more vehicles, approaching or parked, and the rising tide of human voices. A crowd. Another crowd.
She braced herself, a futile, pathetic attempt to steel her shattered nerves. Her body was a ruin, her spirit a tattered flag fluttering in a gale. But something deep inside, a tiny, defiant spark, refused to be entirely extinguished. It was not hope, not anymore. It was a dark, venomous anger, a primal surge of hatred for these men, for this system, for this never-ending ordeal.
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