Devil's Creek

by Todd Keisling

  When Amber first showed interest in Jimmy, he was somewhat disgusted by her advances. She was gorgeous, sure, and she had an amazing ass, but she’d also been held back twice, and would be eighteen in another month or so. He was practically jailbait to her, and the thought of being her sloppy fifths turned his stomach, but the rest of the team talked him into it. Fucking Amber Rogers was a rite of passage with the Stauford Bulldogs, and he’d intended to cement his place on the team.

  Amber shut off the engine but left the radio on. This far out in the boonies, they couldn’t pick up the Top 40 station in town, but the old rock station out of Knoxville came in loud and clear. She turned down the volume and unbuckled her seatbelt. Jimmy leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, trying to focus on anything but the pain.

  “How’s your nose?”

  “Hurts like a bitch,” he muttered. “That fucking guy is so dead.”

  She giggled. “Can I watch? When you kick his ass?”

  “You’d wanna see that?”

  “Damn right, I do. He broke your face.” She smacked her fist into her palm. “And I love that baby face of yours.”

  Something stirred inside him, something he’d not felt since grade school when he gave Tiffany Bradford a flower at recess. A fluttering in his gut, an electric jolt in his heart. Such feelings were forbidden in his social stream and better left unsaid. If word got out Jimmy Cord felt something for this slut, his reputation as Stauford’s rising football star would be over before it began. Emotions were out of bounds in this game. He knew he was the next name on the team’s roster for Amber Rogers, as much a rite of passage for her as she was for him.

  She reached out and traced her fingers along his jawline. The fluttering sensation climbed up his chest. He sucked in his breath, and for a moment, Jimmy let his mind wander into a forbidden territory of daydreams and fantasies. What if Amber Rogers really liked him? Hell, what if she loved him? And what if he felt the same way? His father would think less of him, and the guys on the team would ridicule him, but none of that would matter because he’d have her. In a flash, he saw them going to college together, maybe even getting married, maybe—

  “So,” Amber said, curling a lock her hair around her finger, “I made you a promise.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Want me to keep my promise?”

  Jimmy grinned, his face flushing with heat. He forgot all about the pain of his broken nose. His hormones were in overdrive, the rest of his body going numb as his blood redirected south. The world swam before him, filtered through a dirty lens, its edges hazy. In the center was Amber’s flirty grin, her smooth skin, her big eyes reflecting the glow from the light of the radio dial. When she touched his arm, his skin erupted in gooseflesh, her fingertips like electric fire surging all the way down his body. He gasped.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. The seat reclines back, you know.”

  Jimmy swallowed hard, his heart racing, his numb hands fumbling for the release lever on the side of his seat. He pulled it too hard and the whole seat flew backward. They both laughed, their voices filled with an awkward nervousness—or was it an eagerness? A heated desire, something they’d both wanted for what felt like forever, but in reality, was only a couple of weeks. Two weeks felt like years to a couple of horny teenagers, each moment of wanting drawn out, second by agonizing second. God, Jimmy never felt this way before. The waiting, the anticipation of her lips around him, was almost euphoric.

  Amber put her hand on his chest. “Lay back,” she whispered, smiling. “Close your eyes.”

  “I want to watch,” he said, almost in desperation, as if he needed her permission. And why wouldn’t he? She was in control here. He was hers, now and forever.

  She gave him a mischievous glance as her fingers found his zipper. Jimmy smiled, waiting for heaven at the tip of her tongue.

  Something caught his eye above the back of her head, through the windshield. Movement.

  “Hey,” he mumbled. She giggled, her fingers fumbling with the fly of his jeans, but she did not stop. Something brushed past the windshield. Something pale blue glowing in the night. There were sounds, too. Muted chittering, shrill, almost sing-song in nature, a sound taking him back to elementary school when his class was set free to roam the playground across the street.

  His mind was dragged away from the imminent euphoria happening below his waist. His heart raced—not from the feel of Amber’s tongue, but from the sudden terror of something outside the car. Something unseen that sounded like children.

  “Hey…” He pushed his fingers into her hair. “Stop for a minute.”

  “Uh-uh,” she groaned, pushing him deeper into her mouth. Jimmy tried to sit up, hissing as her teeth scraped against his rigid flesh. Finally, she let go of him, frowning as he went limp in her hand.

  “What’s your deal? Ain’t you enjoyin’ it?”

  He ignored her snide tone. “There’s something outside.”

  “What?”

  “It sounded like kids.”

  Amber leaned back in her seat, wiping spittle from her chin. She glanced down at his flaccid penis and smirked. “You ain’t, like, a fag or anything, are you?”

  “Goddammit,” Jimmy spat. He tucked himself back into his briefs and zipped his fly. “It ain’t you. I’m tellin’ you, there’s someone out there. Look.” He pointed to his window, at the pair of dim lights beyond the tree line. “Don’t you see that?”

  She peered out the window and shrugged. “I don’t see shit,” and then, under her breath, “First time this has ever happened.”

  “What?”

  “Huh? Oh, nothin’.”

  “No,” Jimmy said, “what the fuck did you say?”

  Amber laughed, driving shrill spikes into his ears. “I said, ‘First time this has ever happened.’”

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Means what I said. First time I ever had a boy go limp in this mouth.”

  “Yeah, I bet it’s been a while since you had a first, ain’t it?”

  Her smile fell in shock. Jimmy smirked, returning his attention to the window. The shapes were gone, and after a minute of staring he wondered if anything had been there at all. Had he imagined the laughter? The movement?

  “This is boring.” Amber turned the radio dial. Tom Petty’s drawl oozed through the car speakers, singing about one last dance with Mary Jane. Amber hummed along, and Jimmy followed the lyrics in his head as he searched the darkness for the phantom shapes.

  They were both so caught up in the song they didn’t hear the scratching along the outside of the car, the telltale drumming of small fingertips on the trunk, the back door, the driver door. Only when the latch released for Amber’s door did she squeal, more from surprise than fear. She didn’t have an opportunity to scream for real.

  The door swung open, and in the time Amber cried out in shock, a pale hand reached inside and shoved its mud-caked fingers into her mouth. A boy with dirty hair and piercing blue eyes appeared in the opening. Jimmy scrambled backward, pressing himself against the car door.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “False prophet,” the boy hissed, shoving his hand further into Amber’s mouth. She writhed in agony, gagging, gasping for air and swatting at her attacker. The boy’s ruddy face looked familiar, but in the poor light, Jimmy couldn’t be sure. He watched in horror as thick black worms protruded from the boy’s naked arm. They seeped from his pores, crawled down the length of his arm toward his wrist, and slipped inside Amber’s swollen maw.

  Jimmy’s gut lurched. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. Amber looked to him, blinking a silent plea for help as tears slid down her cheek. The black worms wriggled past her lips, some of them spilling down the front of her shirt, others working their way into her nostrils. One wriggled into the tender flesh below her eye.

  Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Jimmy’s mind raced as he fumbled for the door latch. He tumbled backward into the night, landing with a dull
plop on the damp grass. A cool breeze met his hot skin, kissing the back of his neck, attempting to soothe him in this time of panic. He scrambled to his feet, his head and face throbbing in force. Need to get away. Run. Follow the road. Follow—

  “Come back, Jimmy. I want you to meet our god.”

  He knew that voice. Toby Gilpin. They had homeroom together. Toby was always goofing off in class, always getting on the teacher’s nerves, cracking jokes, a little shit who wanted to be friends with all the cool kids but who never would. All the times Jimmy bullied him flashed before his eyes as he weighed his options. He could run, follow the road, or he could disappear into the woods, maybe follow the tree line for a while.

  A pale face emerged from around the side of the car. Toby Gilpin’s eyes glowed in the darkness, illuminating cheeks full of black, spidery veins. The sight forced all rational thought from Jimmy’s head. He shot to his feet, gritting his teeth at the jolt of pain racing through his face, and darted into the woods.

  Twigs and weeds snapped beneath his heavy footfalls as he raced into the dark, and errant branches slapped his face, scratching his cheeks as he pushed forward into the overgrowth. He lost track of time and distance. There was only his breathing, the heavy machine gun pattering of his heart, his aching nose, and the terrible clarity he was racing not toward safety, but deeper into unknown danger.

  The world spun before him as his foot caught an exposed root. He pitched forward, crying out in pain as he met the hard earth.

  “Hi, Jimmy.”

  He froze, looking up. His heart stopped, and a voice in his mind screamed. Not in fear, but in rage. Ben Taswell stood before him, his face covered in dirt and thin black cracks, his eyes awash in a deep blue light. Two men with glowing eyes stood behind him.

  “Is this the one, Brother Ben?”

  Ben smiled. “It is, Father Jacob. Can we keep him? Can he be saved?”

  “All sinners will be saved, my child. All sinners will suffer.”

  One of the dark figures crossed the gap. Moments later, Jimmy Cord screamed. The forest listened, and somewhere deep in the earth, the god of Jacob Masters rejoiced.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1

  Ozzie was fast asleep when Susan arrived home. She heard his buzzing snores from the front porch, felt the subtle vibration of air sucked through his massive frame. Poor baby, she thought, letting herself into the house. It’s too bad this has to happen.

  He lay on the sofa, his head slumped to one side, the room bathed in the glow of a late-night infomercial. A man with terrible hair demonstrated a cleaning device to a captive audience, men and women who looked bored but were probably paid to be there. “That’s all it takes,” the host said, followed by a canned clip of applause. “But the real question is, does Susan have what it takes?” She heard the voice from the TV but did not break her stride. If she’d waited, she would’ve seen the host turn toward the camera, would’ve witnessed the odd bluish glow around his eyes. Instead, she set down her purse and wandered upstairs into the bedroom to change out of her work clothes.

  “I do have what it takes, Daddy.” She stripped to her underwear and stood in front of the mirror, tracing her fingers along the scars at her thighs, the shiny pink ribbons at her ribs, the freshly cut wounds at her biceps, still wet with her offering, still alight with a sacrificial sting. The tattoo on her wrist had scabbed over since last night’s weeping, but now fresh blood seeped from the wound, forming a glistening tapestry on her pale flesh. “I’ll give you everything if I must.”

  The infomercial host’s measured voice echoed from below, his tone deepening, distorting into the booming voice she’d heard all her life. The voice of her father’s god from within the belly of the earth. “You would bleed for your father, but would you take a life?”

  Warmth filled her ears like tide pools. She dabbed a fingertip at her earlobe and examined the dark tear of blood.

  “Would you make his body your altar, his skin your robe, his blood your sacrament? Would you defile his remains in the white light of the moon?”

  Susan pulled open the top drawer of her dresser, shifted an assortment of panties and black lingerie to the side, and retrieved her special blade. It was really nothing more than a carving knife, something she’d swiped from her grandfather’s kitchen years ago in a moment of desperation before she understood the pressure building beneath her skin. Those were the days when she bled for nothing, when the sting of severing her flesh brought swift relief. In those days, she told herself she was freeing the demons from her body. Now she understood: her blood was sacred.

  She held the blade to her forearm and opened a fresh wound, fascinated by how easily the flesh parted, how it was so resilient and yet so fragile in the face of something sharp, something foreign.

  From downstairs: “I don’t know, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t know if our little girl has it in her to do this. What do you think?” Jeers and boos erupted from the TV. Susan walked barefoot to the staircase and then downstairs to the living room where her boyfriend slumbered. The infomercial host turned toward her and smiled.

  “What’s it going to be, Susan? Will you honor the Old Ways?”

  Susan smiled, gripping the knife in her hand. Blood trickled down the length of her arm and dripped on the wooden floor.

  “Old lies above,” she whispered, “new love below.”

  2

  Laura Tremly wasn’t crazy. Oh, sure, they thought she was crazy, even if they wouldn’t come right out and say it. They all thought she was crazy, like the Leifthauser woman in the room down the hall. She was the crazy one, catatonic except for occasional outbursts, drooling on herself like a child.

  No, Laura was different. Who else could say they had stared into the eyes of a true god? Who else could say they had lain with god’s apostle and birthed one of his many children? Once, she and her sisters in worship formed a covenant to serve their lord’s apostle, attending to his every earthly desire, aiding him in building the foundation of a new paradise. Was she crazy to follow her faith? Was she insane to listen to the voices in her heart?

  There were always more acceptable terms, like “troubled,” “disturbed,” or her favorite, “delusional.” Clinically, Laura’s diagnosis was a nice helping of schizophrenia with a generous side of paranoid personality disorder, equally sexy terms in this age of modern science, but her favorite would always remain “delusional” because it implied her beliefs contradicted reality.

  Had they not seen her lord’s wounds upon her body? Had they not witnessed her rebellion against gravity, held aloft by her lord’s will alone?

  Fools.

  Only cowards allowed themselves to be so blinded by their so-called science. Laura Tremly knew the truth, what the rest of the world was so afraid to see: her lord’s apostle was coming home beneath the light of the moon, and He would bring an age of blood and fire. A new paradise would grow in His wake, watered by the blood of Stauford’s sinful and weak. All the heretics, the liars, and the whores who walked the streets so brazenly would soon meet their day of reckoning.

  And that day, brothers and sisters, was soon at hand. Her lord whispered the truth to her, speaking from the long shadows filling her sparse room when the sun hung low, the day drawing its last gasp into night. They may have strapped her to the bed to keep her from paying tribute to her lord, but her faith would not be contained by her restraints. Such fibers were made in the kingdom of man, and nothing of this world could stand in the gaze of her living god.

  Soon, her lord whispered, as the door latch clicked. One of the nurses, a new girl by the name of Charlene Goodall, wheeled in her cart of pharmaceutical goodies.

  “How are you this evening, Ms. Tremly?”

  Laura said nothing, choosing instead to let her god speak for her. “All is well,” she said, feeling her lips pulled upward to feign a smile. “You can call me Laura if you like.”

  She does not know, her lord said. She is like a child in the wilderness, a lamb among w
olves.

  “That’s good to hear, Laura. It’s time for your meds.” Charlene reached for one of the small paper cups on the cart. Inside the cup were three pills, two blue and one yellow, that would send Laura into the throes of sleep, dim the light of her lord, and quiet his words. But not tonight. Not again. Not when their reckoning was so close at hand.

  “Will they help me sleep?”

  Nurse Charlene nodded, offering a faint smile of her own. There was fear behind her expression, the way a cat will purr even in distress. “Of course, Laura. We want to help you get your rest. So you can get better.”

  Such pretty lies, her lord said. She thinks you are foolish, child. She thinks you are ignorant and is treating you as such. Do you remember what the Old Ways of your lord say about liars?

  Laura remembered. Those ancient words were inscribed in the halls of her mind, halls which she’d wandered for the last thirty years, often with nothing more than a candle to light her way. She promised her lord she would not forget, and tonight she would prove her devotion.

  Nurse Charlene leaned down, offering the plastic cup of pills to her patient. Laura lifted her chin and opened her mouth but moved her lower lip just in time. The cup tipped, spilling the pills. Two of them rolled down the side of her cheek and came to rest beside her face.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Laura said, meeting Charlene’s gaze. “I’m so terribly sorry. Sometimes I’m too clumsy for my own good.”

  Charlene Goodall forced a smile, but her eyes flared with annoyance. “It’s quite all right, Laura. I’ll get them for you.”

  She leaned over the bed to retrieve the pills, exposing the pale flesh of her throat.

  “Thank you,” Laura whispered. “I’m so grateful for your kindness.”

  And unlike her nurse, Laura wasn’t lying. She demonstrated her gratitude by sinking her teeth into Charlene’s neck.