Devil's Creek

by Todd Keisling

  Jack ran the tip of his thumb along the mouth of the bottle, thinking back to the memories of his grandmother and the men in sheets on their property. Were they memories? Or were they half-remembered dreams distorted by the passage of time, twisted into a shadow resembling reality? He couldn’t say. So many years had passed between that night and the present, years in which he’d forgotten the scene altogether, he found the demarcation between dream and waking life faded from view.

  He wanted to believe it was the dream of a child with an overactive imagination, but deep down he suspected that wasn’t the case. The details were too vivid, the memory a little too real.

  “Jack?” Chuck drummed his fingers on the table. “You with me, bud?”

  “Yeah,” he said, emerging from his thoughts. “Sorry. I was elsewhere.”

  “I noticed. I’ll ask again: Is everything okay?”

  Jack took another gulp of his beer. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s been a long day. You know how it is. Long drive, emotionally draining probate experience, the usual.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Chuck said, raising his glass. They toasted each other and shared a laugh, but the levity did little to extinguish a burning dread in Jack’s gut. A dread he would have to return to his grandmother’s house sooner or later and sift through her belongings. The mere thought of it made him feel like a ghoul, digging up graves to pillage the dead.

  “Hang on,” Chuck said, climbing to his feet. “Hey, Steph. Over here.”

  Jack looked up from his drink as a familiar, curly-haired brunette sauntered over to their table. She had tattoos down both arms, piercings in her eyebrows and nose, and wore a plum shade of lipstick. He recognized her from the billboard he’d spotted on his way into town. They locked eyes and stared at one another for a moment before realization struck. He knew that smirk.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered. “Stephanie? Is that really you?”

  “Hey, stranger. Give me a hug.”

  Together, the three siblings reminisced over food and drinks, recounting the last twenty years. Chuck regaled them with tales of his law school bacchanalia, passing the state bar exam on his second try because he was too hungover for the first. He’d had plenty of girlfriends but no wives, a statistic he seemed proud of.

  Stephanie recounted her years since college, studying broadcast journalism, pursuing a dream of opening her own station. Both, it seemed, were doing well for themselves, a fact which Jack pointed out. She downed her second whiskey sour and shrugged. “It’s all relative, Jackie. Advertisers love us now, but that could turn on a dime, you know? If the Jesus Brigade has their way, The Goat is done for.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack asked.

  “They’ve been getting threats,” Chuck cut in.

  Stephanie clenched her jaw and raised a finger to the air. “We’re preachin’ the devil’s gospel, corruptin’ all the innocent chil’ren with the music of Lucifer!”

  Chuck laughed. “What was they called it in the Tribune? ‘Satan’s Pornography’ or something?”

  “The ladies of First Baptist bought a full-page ad in the paper, trying to drum up support for a vote to shut us down. Didn’t work, though. The kids love us!”

  Jack smiled, thinking of Ruth’s rant earlier that morning. He thought of telling Stephanie about Ruth’s comments, but decided against it. Instead, he changed the subject.

  “What about Bobby? Or Zeke?”

  “Bobby’s doing well, for the most part.” Chuck offered. “He’s the reverend of First Baptist these days. Got his hands full with Riley, though. Ever since Janet died.”

  Jack blinked, the air sucked out of him like he’d been punched. “Janet passed away?”

  “Cancer,” Stephanie sighed. “Poor guy took it in stride, but he’s been a shell without her. I help out with Riley here and there, but Bobby won’t talk to me much because he thinks I’m a bad influence. And Chuck keeps in touch, too.”

  “I try to,” Chuck said, “but sometimes he’s hard to reach. The guy buries himself in the church. You know how that goes.”

  They all nodded solemnly, giving the table some air while they collected their thoughts. Jack thought of Bobby’s late wife, Janet, and tipped back his beer in her honor. He’d never met her, but he’d heard about her, and heard about the happiness she’d brought Bobby. Knowing she was gone was still a blow.

  His thoughts returned to Zeke, and he asked again. Stephanie and Chuck exchanged glances, as if to say, “Do you want to take this, or should I?”

  Finally, Stephanie spoke up, lifting a cherry stem from her empty glass. “Zeke’s in a bad way. Drugs. Meth, I think. Ever since he fell in with Waylon Parks—”

  “Waylon Parks?” Jack scoffed. “Jesus, that guy’s still alive?”

  “Uh huh,” Chuck said. “Hard to believe, ain’t it? That guy was snorting coke when he was in elementary school. And Zeke, well, you know he was never the brightest bulb in the pack…”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah, the guy was always in summer school to keep from getting held back. Didn’t he live with Susan for a while?”

  “He did, Jack.” Susan Prewitt approached their table, emerging from a crowd of restaurant patrons. She was dressed for a night on the town, in a slender black dress and knee-high leather boots. Jack looked up at her, stunned by her sudden appearance. Chuck lifted his glass.

  “Evenin’, Susan.”

  “I didn’t know this was going to be a party,” Susan said, smiling. Her cool stare fell over each of them, testing their resolve, waiting to see who would wither first. “I guess I missed the invitation.”

  “It’s not like that,” Jack said, sliding over in his seat. “Join us.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, Jackie. I’m here with someone, anyway.”

  Before he could ask, a tall fellow in a dark blue police officer’s uniform sidled up to her and slipped his hand around her waist. The badge on his chest caught the light from above, illuminating the word “BELL” in capital letters. Jack stared at the badge for a moment, allowing the word to sink in before his eyes climbed up the tree trunk of a man he’d once thought inhuman.

  Age hadn’t changed Ozzie Bell much, except he now had a sizeable gut protruding over the rim of his belt. The cocky sneer seemingly cemented on his face by a rigid jawline, the pointed nose, and the icy eyes hadn’t changed at all, were still as terrifying as the last time Jack saw him. That someone saw fit to elect this man as head of the Stauford police department was equally terrifying to him, and Jack imagined Ozzie would look just as at home in a black uniform adorned with an iron eagle crest and a swastika. Sieg Heil, Herr Bell.

  The uniform only gave authority to a jackass who’d bullied and maimed more of Jack’s classmates than he could count. Staring up from his seat, Jack suddenly felt fifteen and helpless again, and he wished he could slink away without being seen.

  “Evening,” Ozzie said, nodding to Chuck and Stephanie. He paused when his eyes fell upon Jack. “Well I’ll be damned. Jack Tremly. I ain’t seen you since high school. You still an art fag?”

  Silence fell over their table, the air sucked out of them with Ozzie’s insult. Jack exhaled slowly through his nose and nodded, smiling. He heard his agent pipe up in his head. Don’t, Jack. Let it go.

  Only he couldn’t. Twenty years gone, and this guy was still trying to assert dominance over him like the old days? No. Not anymore.

  “Yeah, Oz,” he said. “I’m still an art fag. I see you’re still a mouth breather. Glad that worked out for you. Fascism suits you, by the way.”

  Ozzie’s face flushed, his cheeks filling with red splotches like bruises. He smiled, opening his mouth to retort, but Susan put her hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s leave them to their reunion. I had too much to drink, anyway. Drive me home, would ya?” She stood on her toes and kissed the tip of his chin, and his cheeks lightened in hue.

  Chuck raised his glass again. “See you later, Chief.”

  Jack turned to watch them leave, bitin
g his lip to keep from saying anything else. Stephanie leaned forward and grinned sheepishly.

  “You’re still a troublemaker, Jack Tremly. I love it. Welcome home.”

  6

  Zeke regretted not stopping his friend at the footbridge. He doubted Waylon’s ignorance, of course, but Zeke was a grown man, and the monster haunting his dreams was long dead. The last thing he wanted was to look like a pussy in front of his friend. Besides, what harm would there be in them camping at the old compound? So what if they spent a couple days in the woods near the site of a grisly mass suicide? All the shit that happened when he was a kid was probably a spate of nightmares anyway. There might’ve been some truth at the heart of them, but a child’s imagination is a wild and feral thing, capable of dragging an innocent truth off into the dark to be devoured.

  These lies failed to abate the constant chill crawling over his skin as they hiked into the abandoned village. Even while they were setting up the cook site in one of the shacks, even while sweat rolled down his neck, his back, into the crack of his ass, the chill ran deep into his marrow. Twice he stopped because of an uncontrollable shiver. If it were any other day, in any other place, he would’ve thought himself ill.

  You’re terrified, boy. Just like when you used to wake up in the night, soaked through to the bone with sweat, screaming the pastor was comin’ to get you, to feed you to his god. His god was hungry, always seeking you out in the dark, crawling toward you, trying to taste you with its many tongues, trying to tear into you with its many teeth…

  Zeke shook off the voice of his grandfather, gathered his wits, and focused on the work at hand. He and Waylon followed the instructions he’d found online, working by way of flashlight when they lost the sun, and even with his mind elsewhere, the persistent shivers wouldn’t cease.

  Once everything was set up, Waylon suggested they take a break before switching on the burner.

  “Give me the flashlight,” he said, “I need to go take a leak.”

  Zeke hesitated before handing over the light. A cold spike bisected his gut, filling him with the sort of dread that made his bowels clench, his testicles shrivel.

  “Don’t go far,” he said, and instantly felt foolish. Waylon raised the light to his face and stuck out his tongue.

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll try to watch out for the boogeyman.”

  Zeke gave a lighthearted chuckle, but the dread grew colder when Waylon left the shack, leaving him to sit alone in the dark on an old folding chair. A minute later, he heard Waylon cursing about flies as he wandered deeper into the village.

  And then he was alone except for the drone of nocturnal insects in the distance, the hushed sigh of leaves rustling in a low breeze. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, following the outline of the crude, rotting door hanging limp from one wall of the shack. The floor was dirt and leaves, and when the breeze blew harder, he smelled the musty odor of an animal’s droppings somewhere nearby. An old mattress sat in the far corner of the shack, covered in dark stains and reeking of mildew.

  Zeke wondered how the hell anyone could’ve lived out here in the woods, without running water or electricity. Sure, people had done it for thousands of years, but only because they didn’t have a choice. The moment man had light on command and fresh water to wash his ass whenever he wanted was a true turning point in civilization, yes sir.

  “And yet we lived out here for years. Momma, you were out of your goddamn mind.”

  What little Zeke remembered of his mother was encompassed in shadowy vignettes, burned to a crisp at the edges, the pictures faded with time. She beat him so much he thought she hated him, despite being told the contrary. “You’re special,” she always told him. “You’re one of the lord’s chosen.”

  He didn’t feel chosen for anything. His life was a gag reel of colossal fuck-ups, one quiet tragedy after another. The other kids who’d survived, the rest of the Stauford Six, they’d all moved on to make something of themselves. But not Zeke. Instead of being out on the town with a girl, or sitting at home with a family, here he was, squatting in a rundown shack in the middle of nowhere, waiting to cook a batch of impure methamphetamine. If he was supposed to do important things, he’d missed the bus by a few hours at least.

  One of the lord’s chosen, he thought. Fuck off.

  How ignorant could all those people have been? He barely remembered their faces, but he did remember their utter devotion, their happiness and bliss whenever his father spoke before the crowd. He wondered how so many could give up so much based on the word of a mortal man.

  Ah, but Ezekiel, he wasn’t just any man. He was your daddy. He was your savior. He was the word, the voice, the hand of our lord. He was. He is. There’ll come a reckoning one day soon, oh yes, because your daddy ain’t done with his business. He’s diggin’ his way up from hell right now, and like the savior of the heretics, he’s comin’ home to set his people free.

  His mind wandered into the dark, and his imagination had its way with him again. Being alone in this ghost town unsettled him, put him on edge like he’d never felt before. He felt like a trespasser in a graveyard. The folks who’d pulled up stakes, sold all their belongings, and given it to his father’s church for the sake of building a utopia in the forest all died here. Their spirits would roam here for the rest of eternity, walking hand in hand, replaying the final moments of their lives.

  “Stop it,” he said, ignoring the chattering of his teeth. “You’re scaring yourself.”

  Maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the empty village of the dead. Maybe it was the fact his friend hadn’t come back.

  Oh shit.

  Zeke stood and crept to the edge of the doorway. He peered out. Moonlight filtered through the trees, illuminating a path through the remains of the holy compound.

  “Waylon?” The forest rustled and breathed around him. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. “Waylon, stop fuckin’ around, man.”

  The forest said nothing, and neither did his friend. Another chill swept over him, racking his body with shivers for a full minute until he got a grip on himself.

  This is stupid, he thought. You’re freaking yourself out for nothing. That dipshit is out there laughing his ass off at you. He knew all along what this place meant to you, and he brought you here just to fuck with you.

  “And it’s working,” he mumbled. The forest absorbed his voice, masking it with the primitive sounds of nature, of crickets and rodents in the brush and brambles, of rustling leaves in a wind far too cold for this time of year. He called out to Waylon again and waited, listening to his heart thud heavily in his chest.

  One-one-thousand.

  Two-one-thousand.

  Three-one-thousand.

  Four-one—

  A guttural scream tore through the night, shredding any hope of this being a joke. Heart racing, his legs like jelly, Zeke scrambled out of the shack and into the fractured moonlight. He called to Waylon once more, but his friend was silent. The forest swallowed his cries as easily as it swallowed his mind, projecting phantoms through the undergrowth, shadow puppets in the dim glow of the moon. Everything moved around him, driven by the wind, and the constant hiss of rustling leaves filled his head with serpents.

  Confused, his heart in the grip of an icy terror he’d not felt since he was a child, Zeke Billings pumped his legs and forced himself forward into the dark. He followed the dim outline of a trail through the center of the village, past a dozen overgrown structures, their slipshod windows filled with the faces of the dead. He saw them from the corner of his eye as he ran, and he told himself they weren’t there, they were tricks of moonlight, broken by the limbs and leaves and reassembled by his feral imagination.

  His drive to find Waylon was fueled by a desire to leave this place, to leave its silent memory of servitude and damnation behind forever, cast back into the darkened halls of his nightmares.

  So he ran. He ran until a phantom fist clenched at his ribs, tugging with each step he took. He ra
n until his heart pumped steam and his lungs burst with fire. Tears streamed down his face as he shot forward to the clearing ahead, each step more laborious than the last, and when his feet caught the rotted husk of a fallen log, he welcomed the sweet collapse. The hard, musty earth and soft grass of an open field met his face.

  Zeke pushed himself from the ground and rose to his knees. He wiped his eyes, and when his vision finally cleared, his heart sank deep into his gut.

  “No, no, no, not here, anywhere but here…”

  Calvary Hill rose in the center of the clearing, the old stony pathway up its face overgrown with weeds. The church was long gone, of course, burned to cinders and ash decades before, but its ghost remained in the window of his imagination.

  A full moon hung overhead, aligned perfectly over the hill like the unblinking eye of God. Susan’s words filled his head, a memory from earlier when the world still made some semblance of sense to him. It’s a full moon tonight.

  Zeke stood on his knees, staring up at the silent monument of his childhood, watching incredulously as the earth breathed in the moonlit glow. He was so enraptured by the sight, he didn’t register movement from the corner of his eye.

  There were sucking sounds coming from behind him. Slurping, cracking, crunching sounds. A spike of fear wedged itself into his belly, filling him with a numbing cold leeching his last ounce of resolve. Slowly, Zeke turned his head toward the sounds, his heart shooting back into high gear when he saw the hulking shadow leaning over the dead log.

  The shadow moved, allowing the moonlight to wash over the log, and Zeke froze in horror.

  Waylon lay sprawled on the grass, one leg twisted back at an impossible angle, his glassy eyes locked on the indifferent sky above, and a grotesque sneer of agony frozen to his face. His shirt was ripped open, his chest nothing more than a cavity of exposed meat and gore. A light tendril of steam rose from the warmth of his entrails.