Devil's Creek

by Todd Keisling

  “Your daddy’s mad,” Amber cooed, sliding her hand up and down. “Why don’t you tell him about the lord?”

  Jimmy turned from her and stared dreamily across the street at his fuming father. He pulled her hand out of his pants, zipped himself up.

  “The old man ain’t gonna believe I’ve been to church.”

  “Make him believe, baby.”

  “For sure,” Jimmy said, opening the door. “His will and the Old Ways are one.”

  Amber waited, watching from the safety of her driver’s seat while Jimmy wandered toward his father. She didn’t flinch when Ronny smacked his son across the face, nor did she look away when he punched Jimmy in the gut. Instead, she giggled at the shock on Ronny Cord’s face when Jimmy caught the old drunk’s fist, twisted it back, and snapped his forearm in two. There was a moment of silent understanding between the two of them before the pain reached Ronny’s booze-addled brain and the screaming began.

  She climbed out of the car as Jimmy silenced his father’s screams with the essence of their lord. Thick black tendrils dripped from Jimmy’s throat, curling into the agonizing maw of his father, seeping into his guts, his eyes, his lungs.

  Amber rubbed herself through her jeans while she watched the old man writhe in agony, his body crippled and convulsing as the dark mass worked its way inside him.

  Jimmy knelt beside his father. “I met God, old man. He’s real, He’s here right now, and soon you’ll meet Him too. But first you need to suffer. That’s what the Old Ways say you have to do.” He looked up at Amber. “Do you think he’s sufferin’ enough, babe?”

  A mischievous grin flashed across her face, her eyes darkening. She licked her lips.

  “No,” she gasped. “Hurt him more.”

  “Okay,” Jimmy said, grinning.

  Ronny Cord wasn’t a religious man, but now he was praying to Jesus and all the angels in Heaven. They couldn’t hear him over the sound of all that screaming.

  2

  While Jimmy dragged his groaning father inside the house, Amber drove up Gordon Hill. From there, she followed Barton Mill Road to her neighborhood, where she found her younger sister, Candy, playing on the sidewalk in front of their home. Before her awakening in the glory of the lord, Amber Rogers used to hate her little sister.

  If asked, Amber would probably tell you her parents conceived Candy just to fuck up Amber’s life. She was annoying, always messing in Amber’s business, always wanting to tag along, and tattling on her every chance she could. And with Amber’s recent acquisition of a driver’s license, her parents were asking her to take Candy here, take Candy there, pick up Candy from school, drop her off at this friend’s house, or worse, to take Candy with her wherever she was going.

  Candy Rogers, who never shut up and went snooping in Amber’s room. Who, a few months ago, told her parents about the pack of condoms Amber kept hidden in her nightstand. There was the incident over her stash of Plan B pills, too. Her father never shut up about that one.

  Now, Amber didn’t hate her sister. She pitied her. This pitiful child, so blind in her supposed innocence, living outside the light of the one true lord, was agonizing in the heretical ways of their parents. This little beast would go without salvation if left to her own devices, a divine gift squandered in the name of a false god.

  No longer. Her lord granted her permission to spread the gospel, and like Jimmy’s father, suffering would occur. Suffering was necessary. Like the sacrifices of old, the beasts of the heretics would feel this suffering. Through them, the adults would soon see the light.

  “No seeds will sprout without the sustenance of nature,” Amber whispered, watching her sister draw on the sidewalk with a stick of pink chalk. “This earth must be fed. It is Your will in the Old Ways, my lord.”

  Amber shut off the engine and exited the car.

  Candy scrunched up her face. “You’re in so much trouble. Mommy and Daddy know you snuck out last night. I told ‘em you were probably with a boy. What’s wrong with your face?”

  “Are Mommy and Daddy home now?”

  “Uh huh. Want me to go get ‘em?”

  “No,” Amber said, kneeling next to her sister. She took a piece of chalk and drew a pink sigil on the concrete, tracing the symbol of her lord. “I’ll go see them when I’m done.”

  Candy watched her sister, visibly uneasy now Amber was so close. “What’s wrong with your face? Did somethin’ happen, sis? You look sick.”

  Amber finished her drawing and met her little sister’s stare. Thick black tears slipped down her cheeks, and she licked them away from her lips, relishing the taste of the earth, the dark, the gritty essence of her god.

  “I’ve never felt better, Candy.” She leaned forward to Candy’s ear and whispered. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  Candy blushed. She wasn’t used to this sort of attention from Amber. It excited and scared her, and she couldn’t decide whether to lean in or run away in terror. Mommy lingered on her tongue, ready to be cried out at a moment’s notice, but the word would never be uttered.

  What Amber told her was too confusing and left her head reeling with a funny feeling. She felt like a top wobbling on its axis, and something stirred deep in her belly. A new voice occupied her mind, and the darkly curious things it said to her made her cry. Your parents have lied to you, child. They don’t deserve a little lamb like yourself. Let me show you the true way to salvation.

  “I met God last night,” Amber said, “and I want you to meet Him, too.”

  “H-How…” Candy whimpered, sniffling back tears.

  Amber gripped a fistful of her little sister’s hair and leaned forward as black worms inched their way from her mouth, her nose, her eyes, seeking the flesh of another innocent beast.

  3

  While Candy lay gagging and seizing on the sidewalk, Amber went inside her home to share the gospel of her lord with Joseph and Grace Rogers. When she was finished, she stepped outside and marked the front door with the half-moon sigil of her lord.

  From there, she went next door to the home of Jeremy and Christina Hanes, who used to yell at her for leaving her hula hoop in their front yard all the time; the home of Ms. Viruett at the end of the cul-de-sac, with her obnoxious poodle, Dandy, whose blood-drenched limbs were used to form the sigil on the front stoop; the residence of Tom and Priscilla Maxwell, where their two ginger sons Ricky and Beau were playing a game of catch in the front yard until Amber introduced them to the Old Ways; the newly remodeled home of Randy and Carolyn Eberle, whose newborn, Charlie, nearly suffocated before the black essence could be absorbed into his frail body; and finally, on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac, the three-story trophy home of Steve and Cassie Robinson, one of Stauford’s socialite couples who were proud members of First Baptist but who rarely went, and who were the only two in the neighborhood with enough sense to try and call the police before Amber silenced them.

  The call went through to Stauford PD’s switchboard, which was already lit up with a dozen other pending callers, as Jimmy Cord did his share of spreading the gospel at the trailer park next door. Officer Gray wasn’t present at the station when the first frantic calls erupted with reports of children attacking their parents, vomiting black sewage and babbling about the ways of a new god. Marcus was on the other side of town, having gone from one murder scene to the next, first at Baptist Regional and then at the small gas station down the road. All his attempts to reach Chief Bell were met with the same monotone voicemail message, and within a couple of hours, a computerized recording would tell him Bell’s inbox was full.

  The few officers who were dispatched to the homes of those first terrified callers would arrive to scenes of struggle and bloodshed. First there was Officer Timothy Martin, who drove out to Harmony Heights, the trailer park down the street from the Cord residence. He knew the neighborhood well enough, having broken up several drug deals there over the summer, and when he received a call from dispatch about a domestic dispute, he expected more of the sa
me.

  What he found were two pale-faced boys standing outside their doublewide trailer, circling the squirming bodies of their parents while dropping stones. The children arranged the pebbles around the bodies in a bizarre design, giggling to themselves while they worked. Black bile streamed from their eyes and noses. Officer Martin exited his cruiser and called to the kids when he was assaulted from the side by a young girl with dirty brown hair in pigtails. She looped her fingers around Martin’s service belt, hoisted herself up on her toes, and projectile vomited a stream of black filth into his face.

  Three blocks away from Harmony Heights, Officer Shawna Scott arrived at the private residence of Darrel and April Brown where she found their daughter, Michelle, standing over them with a carving knife. Michelle Brown had cut into her father’s rotund gut and was slicing bits of his intestines into pieces to complete the ceremonial sigil of her lord. She stared intently at the blood-drenched curl of meat in her hands, her tongue stuck between her teeth, oblivious to Officer Scott’s presence or the groaning agony erupting from her twitching parents.

  “Little girl,” Shawna said, swallowing back the dry lump in her throat as she unbuckled her holster. “Baby girl, I need you to put the knife down.”

  Michelle Brown said, “I have to get this right for my lord.” She sliced through another chunk of her father’s intestine and arranged it carefully in the grand design, nearly dropping the blood-slick flesh.

  Officer Scott’s stomach lurched as she readied her weapon. Am I really doing this? Am I really going to do this? Oh God, am I—

  A crowbar silenced her troubled thoughts. She was so caught up in her moral quandary she’d failed to notice the two Rapino boys from next door creep up behind her. While one child vomited the black essence into Officer Scott’s face, the other circled her body with stones from the gravel driveway.

  In the distance, church bells were ringing.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF IMOGENE TREMLY (3)

  1

  Notebook entry dated April 5th, 2012

  Cosmic alignment serves as catalyst for focus of power. Follow cycles of the moon. If you ever go through with this, it must be before the full moon. The dead roots below Stauford always stir by moonlight.

  2

  Notebook entry dated June 14th, 2017

  Tyler convinced me to go to a doctor. Wish I hadn’t, but there’s not much else I can do about it now. I won’t poison myself to extend my life when the outcome will be the same. Jacob will have his day, but so will I. Calling Chuck in the morning to break the news and arrange for the next steps. Jackie, I’m so sorry.

  3

  Notebook entry dated August 17th, 2017

  Important to follow instructions to the letter. Three circles—mind, body, spirit—to represent the afflicted temples. Salt to bind them, sage and incense to purge the air, candles to scare off the shadows. Something to mark the sigils of purging around the temple of mind. I’ll need a bit of earth worms for the temple of body, as that’s where Jacob resides, and that is where he is consumed. The idol of the nameless resides there as well.

  Chuck’s helped me make the arrangements for afterward. My darling professor isn’t happy about it, but he knew what he was getting into. My heart aches for him, regardless, but this is something I have to do. It’s what I’ve always known. I just pray this works.

  I pray I’m able to stop him when he returns.

  I pray Jackie forgives me.

  4

  PART FOUR

  BLOOD AND FIRE

  Stauford, Kentucky

  Present Day

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1

  Across town, Jack Tremly stirred in his sleep. He was no stranger to dark dreams, but since his return to his hometown, the nightly phantoms were restless, defying even the strongest of his prescriptions. Jack found himself back in the temple beneath the church, knee-deep in a pit of ash and bone while the cries of children surrounded him. His mother stood at the far end of the temple, near the gateway to the twilit grotto.

  Come to me, Jackie. She held out her arms to him, beckoning with a proud smile. You can do it. Take your first step, baby boy. Come to Mama.

  And he wanted to. God, he wanted to, only his toddler limbs wouldn’t work. They were trapped in the ash, his tiny feet slowly sucked down by something from below. When he glanced down, he saw the brittle bones of baby hands and feet, tiny skeletal remains reaching from the earth.

  Come to Mama, honey.

  But in this dream, Jack resisted his mother’s call. There was something standing behind her, an impossibly horrible thing stretching along the walls, dripping into every crack and etching, embodying the very words carved in stone. Something with arms and eyes and teeth. There were so many teeth, a devourer of worlds and stars, buried here in this tumor of the earth.

  You can do it, Jackie. Come to me.

  He resisted, staggering in place over the crushed bones of the babies who’d gone before him. Their hands were still down there, beneath the surface of ashen earth, waiting to pull him down.

  His mother stamped her foot, angered by his hesitation, her gaunt cheeks flushing red. Above her, the living shadow trembled like heat in the distance, a visible echo in the air reflecting her anger.

  Jack Tremly, you will do as I say right now, little boy. You will come to me, or so help me, I’ll tell your father.

  Those awful words were enough to spark terror in any child, a universal edict carrying the promise of punishment even inside this hellish dreamscape. Jack froze, his tears watering the soil beneath him, and from their dampened clumps sprouted bony fingers, seeking his feet to pull him down. The children who’d gone before him, be they of his mother’s womb or from some other faceless woman, cried out his name in victory. He was one of them, one of the damned, and soon he would join them. The ash of charred remains and bones would fill his lungs, his beating heart slowing in the earth, suffocating in the bosom of a buried god.

  Buried, but not sleeping.

  Waiting.

  Pulling him down one inch at a time. Deeper into the dark, into the pit of bones with all the other children.

  Jack awoke from the nightmare and opened his eyes.

  Laura Tremly stared down at him, her lips and chin coated in dried blood. Black trails streaked from her eyes and mingled with the coagulated mess on her face.

  “Baby boy.” Her hands were on his throat before he could scream.

  2

  Riley kicked open the front door, wincing as the doorknob slammed into the wall. Bobby Tate leaned against his son’s shoulder, hacking up a lungful of black gunk. Thick clots of the dark gore fell in clumps to the floor, writhing with unseen things beneath the surface, and filling the house with an overpowering stench of rotting earth. Riley propped his dad against the wall as he closed the door.

  “I’m calling 911.”

  “No,” Bobby rasped. He coughed so hard he lost his balance and fell to the floor in a shuddering heap. Whatever it was Ben and Toby vomited into his father’s face was working its way into the man’s system. Dark veins burst around his eye sockets, pulsing their way down the sides of his face while black tears dribbled down the ridge of his nose. They’d barely made it home before the toxic mess took an effect. Bobby’s Acura was still in the ditch next to the driveway, its blinker still on, the engine still idling.

  Riley watched his father wince in agony, frozen by the prospect of losing another parent, and for the first time since his mother died, he found himself crying out to God. No, not him too. Please, don’t take him away from me. He’s all I’ve got left. It’s not fair, damn you. You can’t have him. You can’t.

  He unclenched his fists and set his shaking hands on his father’s shoulders. “Come on, Dad. Get up. We’re going to get you to the bathroom, and then I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  “No,” Bobby said again, but he was too weak to protest his son. Riley heaved his father’s arm over his shoulder and cursed under his breath as he tried
to lift dead weight.

  “You gotta work with me, Dad. Please.”

  Another hoarse cough tore through Bobby Tate’s convulsing frame. A runny clump of black phlegm shot from his mouth and splattered at the foot of the stairs.

  “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, that’s gross.”

  Riley’s father found his footing and reached for the banister. Whether it was the expulsion of the toxic matter or his blasphemy that got Bobby moving, Riley would never know. In either case, Bobby Tate managed to pull himself up the stairs without the help of his teenage son, collapsing in front of the bathroom door.

  “Dad—”

  “Call…Stephanie…”

  “I will, but you really need a doctor—”

  Bobby crawled into the bathroom and vomited on the tile floor. He turned back, hooked his foot against the door, and met his son’s gaze.

  “Riley, I love you more than anything…please don’t ever forget that.”

  “Dad, enough. I’m calling 911.”

  “Goddammit, Riley, listen to me for once.” Riley stared at his old man, dumbstruck. “Go to your room and lock—” Another heaving cough tore through the good reverend’s shuddering body. He turned and hacked up another mess of black phlegm. “—lock the door. Don’t let anyone in. Not even me.”

  “Dad—”

  “I SAID GO!” Bobby Tate kicked the door closed with such force the walls shook. Riley stared at the blank door in shock, listening to his old man retch on the other side. Is he dying? Oh God, is he dying? Is he dying?