All he could think about was the look in Zeke’s eyes. Hadn’t his father also told him there’s no such thing as a coincidence when it comes to being a cop? Finding Zeke Billings in the same area as those missing boys was one hell of a coincidence. Two kidnappers. Two meth cooks. Too easy.
Something was wrong, you pussy. You knew he was actin’ funny, but ya turned tail and ran. You got spooked by a scary campfire story. You was raised better’n that.
Ozzie grunted in reply to the voice in his head. David Bell was fond of telling the story about Devil’s Creek, especially after he’d downed a few beers himself. Ozzie heard all those stories when he was a kid, courtesy of his braggart father. His mother, Eileen Bell, disapproved of such stories, but Daddy Bell wasn’t one to quiet himself because of a woman. He’d sat Ozzie on his knee and regaled him with tales of blood-soaked bodies decorating the landscape. Ozzie heard all about the weird Satanic shit Jacob Masters got up to out in the woods, the voices people heard coming from within the earth, the shadows lurking among the trees. He’d had nightmares for weeks.
Ozzie’s mind drifted, the room slowly spinning in a thick, warm haze. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander.
Sure, he’d gotten spooked by a scary campfire story, but who could blame him? Certainly not his father. David Bell passed away five years ago from a heart attack, God rest his soul. Ozzie was sure his father would disapprove of him dating one of the kids from the church, too. David Bell was one of the folks in town who’d spoken out against the reintegration of the Stauford Six into the school system, even from his position as an elected official. After all, wasn’t David Bell the protector of the town, the voice of local law? Those kids will poison the well, David Bell said to a Tribune reporter. He’d framed the article, and it hung in his office until his death.
Speaking out publicly wasn’t the only thing David Bell did. As the Grand Dragon of Stauford’s Brotherhood of White Purity, Chief David Bell led his fellow white-sheeted brothers in an organized “protest” in front of Imogene Tremly’s home. Their efforts hadn’t gone well—“The witch still has some magic left in her,” his father said—and the Brotherhood went quiet in the following weeks, but the rumors of Genie Tremly’s witchcraft and her association with the church were just beginning to bubble to the surface. Ozzie didn’t know for sure, but he suspected his old man had something to do with that as well.
A small town like Stauford thrived on rumors, manufacturing drama almost daily, and it loved nothing more than to bask in the shadow of a boogeyman. The old Tremly woman fit the bill even with Jacob Masters out of the picture, and in the years since the church’s destruction, everyone had a Tremly story. They’d either seen strange lights pulsing from the upstairs windows of her house, heard ominous chanting leaking through the walls, or knew someone who had. The gossip train had left the station, charging full steam ahead with the old woman tied firmly to its tracks. Ozzie felt a stab of empathy for the old woman, but the sensation was muted by the alcohol in his bloodstream.
All those folks at Devil’s Creek got a raw deal, but none more so than the ones who survived. What happened to those kids wasn’t right. Maybe they’d outgrown the stigma, maybe what happened to them slipped into the shadows of Stauford’s history, but that didn’t change the fact they’d all been treated poorly. God knows, he’d done his share of treating them that way when they were kids, and he supposed he’d have to answer for that. Someday, he thought.
His mind drifted back to Susan, and he wondered where she was. Didn’t she say she’d be home soon? Wasn’t she bringing him a late dinner?
He couldn’t remember. His memory was fuzzy. They’d spoken on the phone, he’d talked to her about his suspicions of Zeke, and something had happened. Her voice grew cold, mechanical. She didn’t sound like herself, he thought. She was different.
A flash of Zeke’s wide eyes, his vein-streaked face pulled back into an impossible smile, one so wide it split his cheeks in half and could swallow the world.
“She sounded like him,” he muttered to the dark. A chill crawled across his arms. He fumbled for the blanket draped over the back of the sofa and pulled it around his shoulders for comfort, but the cold would not abate. Sleep offered no solace, and when he dreamed, he found Zeke’s horrifying face smiling in the dark.
5
Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat. A muffled boom microphone hung before his face, and he eyed it warily as Stephanie situated herself at her desk. He spied Riley through the soundproof glass. The young man looked away when he saw Jack watching, shifting his gaze to the phone in his hands.
“Okay,” Stephanie said, swiveling in her seat to face him. “We are ready to roll. All set?”
Jack forced himself to smile. The pre-interview jitters were something he’d never shaken, not even since fame found him in the world of art and film, and although he told himself he was only talking to Stephanie, the fact made his jitters even worse. Maybe it was because she’d know where he was coming from with his inspirations. They’d shared the horror in their childhood, and if anyone could relate, she would.
“Hey, are you all right?”
“Huh?” Jack blinked, startled from his thoughts. “Yeah, sorry. I get…tense when I do this sort of thing.”
Stephanie smiled. “Don’t worry. We aren’t live. This is being recorded, and you can give your blessing before we take it to air. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Right then,” Stephanie said, pressing a button on her console. A red light blinked on. “We’re recording now. I’ll do an introduction after the fact. For now, let’s talk a little bit about your history. You’re a Stauford native. Why’d you leave this fine town of ours?” When he wrinkled his nose at the question, Stephanie smirked. “Be honest, Mr. Tremly.”
Jack blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Because there’s nothing for me here. I mean, let’s face it. Stauford, Kentucky isn’t exactly the art capitol of the world, you know?”
Stephanie grinned. “Felt good to get that out, didn’t it?”
“It really did. That’s not going to be in the real interview, is it?”
“Of course not. I just wanted you to lighten up. No, this is all about your art.”
Time drifted away as they spoke, and Jack forgot about his reservations, falling into the rhythm of a one-on-one conversation. He didn’t think about the recording again until Stephanie asked her final question.
Stephanie cleared her throat. “Most listeners of our fine station know I keep a print of your most famous painting in my home.”
“Do you really?”
“I do, right above my toilet.”
Jack laughed. “I guess that’s a good place for it.”
“It is! It’s a great conversation starter, you know? And I get asked by a lot of people, ‘Where does your brother get his ideas?’ I tell them it’s not my place to answer, and I’ve long promised I’d get you on the air if given the opportunity. So, since you’re back in your hometown, I thought I’d ask you directly about a pair of paintings, one of which graces my porcelain throne at home.”
He leaned back and took a sip of water. Here it comes, he thought, bracing himself for the question he gets asked during every interview. He’d become a master of deflection with this topic, mainly because most folks wouldn’t understand, but Stephanie had lured him into a comfortable space, and he felt drunk with honesty. The prospect of telling the truth about his art for once felt liberating.
“Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”
“Your painting A Congregation of Jackals deals with a rather touchy topic here in Stauford. For those of our listeners who’ve never seen the painting, it depicts a mob of figures in white sheets holding torches while a black child watches from a window. We both know Stauford’s got a disgusting history when it comes to racism—what part of the country below the Bible Belt doesn’t? But when I look at this painting…” She held up her phone, revealing an image of the painting in question. “…
there’s something personal to it. It isn’t just about Stauford’s racist roots, is it?”
Jack breathed slowly, measuring his words. After a full minute of silence, Stephanie reached across the desk and placed her hand on his. “We can skip this one if you want.”
“No,” he said, “it’s okay. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked before. Not about the personal nature of it.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind skipping it, Jackie.”
“It’s cool, honest. So…” He took another breath, exhaled. “…the painting is entirely personal. When I drew the initial sketch, I wasn’t trying to make a statement about Stauford’s past reputation. Something most folks don’t know about me is, I was raised by my grandmother. You might say she…saved me from a bad situation. And some folks in town, they thought she was a bad person for it.” He paused, and Stephanie nodded for him to continue. “So, one of my earliest memories as a kid is of the Klan showing up at my grandma’s door in the middle of the night. They’d come to burn a cross in her yard, taunt her, call her a witch. And…”
He trailed off, stopping short of the way Mamaw Genie commanded their flames, turning the fire against them. He remembered the heat, the smell of smoke, the screams and shouts as one of the Klansmen caught fire. And he remembered the blue light filling the house, surrounding Mamaw Genie in an azure aura, illuminating her so brightly her every feature was visible even in the night.
The blue light.
The idol.
Jack’s mouth went dry. He felt so foolish for not making the connection before.
“Jack?”
He blinked. “Yeah, sorry. That’s where the painting came from. Those men showing up to bully my grandmother.”
“My grandma told me that story when I was a girl. I’m so sorry it happened to you and Genie.”
“It’s okay. She dealt with it the only way she knew how.” His mind drifted back to the idol.
Trust your gut, he told himself. She needs to know.
“Last question, I promise. Answer however you wish, okay? I won’t torture you anymore than is necessary.” Stephanie held up her phone again, revealing the macabre image of Midnight Baptism. “What can you tell me about this?”
Jack frowned and closed his eyes. “Yeah, about that one. I do have something to tell you.”
“I’m all ears.”
“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “This is a story you probably don’t want to hear. But I think you need to.”
6
Riley slouched down on the plush sofa, half-listening to Stephanie and Jack talking through the speakers, half-focused on the screen of his phone. His mind was elsewhere, wondering how much trouble Rachel was in with her parents, wondering if he’d have a chance to talk to her at church tomorrow morning. Wondering if Ben and Toby were okay.
He took a breath, tried to push those thoughts away, but they kept squirming back to the forefront of his mind. Twenty-four hours ago, his friends were setting up their tents, chatting about what transpired at school, the look on Jimmy Cord’s face when Riley socked him with a lunch tray, their homework for Mr. Pilman’s English class.
Just a day ago, life was somewhat normal, or as normal as a teenager could expect in Stauford. How many days had they pined for something exciting to happen in their little Podunk town?
We got our wish, Ben. Now I wish it hadn’t happened to you.
He thought of the figures in the woods and their glowing eyes. God, those eyes were impossibly bright, unnatural.
“—remember the blue eyes?”
Riley’s breath caught in his throat. He looked up at the two adults talking in the other room. Jack spoke with a tremor in his voice, the words coming through the studio speakers loud and clear.
Stephanie shook her head. “I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”
“Yeah,” Jack went on, “well, I’ve thought about it every night for as long as I can remember. Maybe it’s a nightmare, but it feels real. It’s got that dreamy quality, where everything is a blur, you can’t remember how you got there or what came after, just that moment in the grotto.”
Stephanie held up her hand. “Maybe we should stop here.”
“No, let me get this out. I need you to hear it. Okay?”
“Okay.” Stephane glanced through the window at Riley. He met her eyes, and for the first time he saw something he’d never seen in her before: fear. His badass aunt Steph faced the criticism and scorn of an entire town without batting an eye, but this? Her face was pale, her eyes glassy with tears, and her voice trembled. Riley wanted to tell her it would be okay, but she turned away before he could get her attention.
“I don’t know about you, but one of my earliest memories is of the grotto beneath the church. The dark place, where the stars shone from within the earth. That’s where he took the six of us, to baptize us.”
“I don’t…”
“Our father took us there, and our mothers watched. They gathered on the shore, beneath the stars, but I don’t think they were stars at all. They were—”
“Eyes,” Stephanie whispered. “My God, they were eyes.”
“Yes,” Jack said, “millions of eyes watching while Jacob marked us.”
“Old lies above,” she said, “new love below. Isn’t that what he used to say?”
Jack nodded. “I’ve been haunted by that memory all my life, Steph. Midnight Baptism is the result of those nightmares, and it’s kind of funny because most people think I made all this shit up. Except I was pulling those awful things from memory, not my dreams. I even had myself convinced it was all fiction, nothing more than a recurring night terror. Shit, I spent a fortune on therapy for myself just to arrive at the conclusion, but…it all changed last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I found this.”
He leaned down and retrieved something, but Riley couldn’t see over the mixing board. All he could see was Stephanie’s confused reaction.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Your grandmother kept a diary?”
“Not exactly. Look closer.”
“She was researching the church? Wait, I’ve seen these symbols before.”
Jack nodded. “Me too. We all have. They used to be inscribed over the pulpit in the church. And these symbols here, they’re etched into Mamaw Genie’s gravestone.”
“What do they mean?”
“I’m not sure. But this isn’t everything. Do you remember the idol?”
“How could I forget it?”
“My grandma paid someone to go get it for her. I found it with this notebook locked in her old writing desk. She left the key with Chuck. He gave it to me at the probate meeting.”
Stephanie let out a low whistle and leaned back in her seat. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “It gives me a bad feeling, you know? It’s like I’ve stepped into one of my nightmares. I’ve had the feeling ever since I arrived yesterday. I keep going back to memories of what happened. What I used to think was a dream. I keep thinking about what that sick bastard did to us, what our moms let him do to us. And our father’s awful blue eyes…”
Riley’s heart skipped a beat, and he exhaled a hot lungful of air. He was so caught up in their conversation he’d forgotten to breathe, filled with a growing fear his uncle’s story might be related to his missing friends in the woods. Could the man with glowing eyes be their father? His grandfather? The boogeyman who burned to death in the church at Devil’s Creek?
God, this is so stupid. No one comes back from the dead, you idiot. Except Jesus, and maybe that’s even up for debate. His father’s voice piped up in his head. You’re forgettin’ about Lazarus, son. He came back, too.
Riley waited at the door. Would they believe him? Would they pass this off as a troubled kid seeking attention? No, Stephanie wouldn’t. And Jack? Maybe, maybe not, although Riley suspected Jack would believe him before anyone else. After telling a story like that, how could
he not?
He opened the door to the studio and tiptoed inside. Stephanie turned to him.
“What is it, Riley?”
“I’ve seen him,” the boy said. “The man with the blue eyes.”
7
Jimmy braced himself as Amber stepped on the gas, urging her neon green Volkswagen around the curve at full speed, spewing chunks of gravel in their wake. They splashed down into a puddle of rainwater with a jolt, prompting a sudden yip from Amber followed by her shrill laugh. Jimmy hated her laugh, hated the piercing quality of it. Nothing was that goddamn funny, least of all her death-wish driving.
But when he looked over and saw her plump lips illuminated in the glow of the dashboard light, everything he despised about Amber Rogers drifted down below his waistline. He imagined kissing those lips; he imagined those lips kissing him, and not just on his face, either. Soon, he thought. The car bumped and caught air as they hit a pothole at full speed. Jimmy’s stomach lurched, and his swollen nose throbbed when he clenched his jaw. Maybe if we survive the trip.
After another mile of fearing for his life, Amber pressed the brake and slowed the car as they rounded another bend. Their headlights lit up the back bumper of a rusty yellow pickup truck parked in the wet grass along the gravel path. Jimmy didn’t recognize it.
“Looks like we ain’t alone out here,” Amber said. “You ever come out here before?”
“Sure,” Jimmy said, the lie slipping from his mouth before he had time to think. “All the time.”
“I love coming out here.”
I bet you do, Jimmy thought, biting his cheeks to fend off a smile. He’d heard all the stories from the rest of Stauford’s varsity players. Amber Rogers was the unofficial team mascot, having made her rounds not once, but twice with the rest of the team. Her conquests were legendary, even running a train with the entire team at Tommy Harmon’s house party the weekend his parents went out of town last year. Jimmy knew those rumors were true, too—Tommy had photos on his phone to prove it.
Devil's Creek Page 25
