Devil's Creek

by Todd Keisling

  If not your wife, then perhaps your false god. I know what lies in your heart, Bobby Tate, even if you choose to ignore your very nature. The only other thing you loved more than your wife is a dead idol. You loved your faith more than your own son, just like your false god. So be it, child. Open your eyes and gaze upon the pained face of your savior.

  Bobby worked up the energy to cry out in one final act of defiance. He would not let this evil thing possess him. He was a man of God, a servant of the light, and he would not stand for these blasphemous atrocities. Finally, with the last ounce of his strength, Bobby Tate opened his eyes and gave voice to his rebellion: “ENOUGH!”

  The room was empty, the air sucked from its open spaces as quickly as the air from his lungs. There were no dark shapes standing before him, no decomposed figure of his deceased wife. He was alone except for the gripping, tearing sensation in his guts.

  It’s all in your head, he told himself, leaning back on the bed. It’s all in y—

  A bloody hand reached up from below the foot of the bed, followed by another. Together they pulled up a bruised shape soaked in darkened gore, its torn and tortured flesh hanging in thick folds from scrawny arms. A head emerged beyond the edge of the bed, adorned with a crown of bleeding thorns. Thick spikes jutted from the figure’s wrists, their wounds seeping black oil on the duvet. Black tributaries ran down the forehead of Bobby Tate’s savior, pooling in the wells of glowing blue eyes.

  “Suffering is the way to salvation, my little lamb. Will you suffer for me?” The bleeding Christ crawled toward him, its face twisted in agony, twin streams of black phlegm pouring over its cracked, sunburned lips. “I am the way, Bobby boy.”

  But Bobby Tate was no longer listening, his mind held firm in the grip of his father’s buried god, the darkness inside him seeping into his heart. He closed his eyes and laughed.

  6

  “My little baby, my sweet angel. I know you’re still alive, little lamb. I can hear you breathin’ all the way over here.”

  Jack stirred, the sound of his mother’s raspy voice like something from a bad dream, syllables dragged over stones and across jagged glass. Her voice was smoky darkness, sour with the heated rot of something roiling beneath the surface, and when she spoke, his heart slowed in fear.

  He opened his eyes to the stark contrast of light cutting through the dark. Sunlight poured down the dusty basement steps, illuminating errant particles in the air. A man’s muffled voice bled through the walls, his footsteps creaking the floorboards overhead.

  The man’s name rose from the fog in his mind, and the rest followed slowly, filling his conscience with fragments of what came before. The throbbing ache of trauma returned, and his whole body sang a chorus of agony when he moved.

  Laughter echoed through the room. Jack peered into the shadows, trying to make out the shape huddled against the support column.

  “Oh, my darlin’ boy, I can see you. Do you feel that hurt? That sweet pain ain’t nothin’ like what’s waitin’ for you in the dark where the lord’s eyes never look away.”

  Jack ignored her, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself upright and leaned against the wall. He reached up and touched wet warmth on his face. Booth’s upstairs calling for help, he thought. Maybe an EMT. Maybe I’m concussed. Lucky she didn’t break my goddamn neck.

  “I never forgot about you, Jackie. Not in all the years I was locked away in the hospital. Your daddy would tell me things about you, how you’d grown up, how you still dreamed of us and the night of your baptism.”

  “Please shut up.”

  “Is that any way to talk to your mama, Jackie?”

  Laura Tremly’s eyes glowed a sickening blue, illuminating the dark veins splintering from her eyes. Just like my dreams, he thought. Just like the idol—

  What she’d said earlier echoed in his skull. The old bitch took something from my lord many years ago.

  “Your grandma was always too soft on you, baby boy. I s’pose grandmas always are when it comes to their grandbabies. She didn’t teach you nothin’ about respect.”

  “She taught me plenty,” Jack spat. His mother chittered in the dark. Even in the dim glow, he could see she was grinning at him, her mouth a wide chasm splitting her face. “You mock her memory all you want, but she taught me more than you ever did. At least she loved me.”

  “I loved you plenty, baby boy, in my way. I just loved my god more.”

  Jack opened his mouth but found he had no response to match her chilling honesty. What could he say? He believed her. She did love her god more. What he remembered of his mother was rigid devotion and unshakable faith, a follower to her lord with the discipline of a general in his infernal army. The innocent Christian girl who grew up in this house was long dead, strangled and buried by the woman she’d become.

  “Once your daddy gets hold of you, Jackie, he’s gonna set you straight.”

  Jack’s breath hitched in his throat. He met her glowing stare and tried not to look away. “So it’s true? He’s alive?”

  “Oh yes, my darlin’ boy. He lives again. Even now, He’s out doing our lord’s work, spreading the gospel of the Old Ways.” Laura cracked a smile and laughed. “But you knew that already, didn’t ya? Felt it in your bones, deep down in your belly. In the dark while you sleep.”

  Jack looked away. She was right. He didn’t have to say so. She already knew.

  “Like it or not, Jackie, you’re family. All you kids are. And your daddy’s comin’ to finish what he started all those years ago.”

  A chill crept over him, and the upstairs light dimmed at the sound of her words. A moment later, the basement door creaked open, revealing the silhouette of the professor. Jack didn’t wait. He clenched his teeth and climbed the stairs one step at a time.

  Behind him, his mother Laura giggled madly with a grating voice of broken glass.

  7

  Officer Gray sat in his mud-splattered cruiser, listening to frantic chatter over the CB radio. Across the gas station’s parking lot, Officers Deal and Curtis taped off the crime scene where the old man’s body still lay surrounded by a pool of his own blood. The forensics team was supposed to be there thirty minutes ago.

  When he was a kid, Marcus Gray thought being a police officer meant day-to-day adventure, hunting down bad guys and saving old ladies. The reality of being a cop in a no-horse town like Stauford was far removed from his boyhood fantasies. He’d thought about quitting and getting himself a real job, maybe as security down at the railroad.

  That all changed when shit hit the fan. Those were Ozzie Bell’s words, of course—Marcus was a good church-goin’ boy, never one to blaspheme or curse out of turn—but they were so fitting for the last several days. No matter how often he played back the last couple of days in his mind, no combination of words fit so well as “shit hit the fan.” First with those missing boys, the Tremly woman escaping from the psych ward, and then the murder here at Ricky Rader’s gas station early this morning. Now, from the sound of the chatter coming across the police band, the whole damn town was falling apart.

  Shots fired in multiple districts, reports of children attacking their parents, neighbors attacking neighbors, a report of smoke billowing from the steeple of First Baptist downtown, a mob outside the church chanting prayers—not to mention the endless 911 calls overloading the switchboard. Marcus tried calling the chief again. He closed his eyes and listened to his panicking heart. Count back from ten, he told himself. Ten. Nine. Eight.

  “Voice mailbox is full.”

  Officer Gray canceled the call and then dialed Chief Bell’s phone number once more. Chief Bell would know what to do. He’d know how to manage this chaos, in his own brash sort of way. He’d chide Marcus for not keeping his cool, for falling apart at the worst possible moment, when seconds counted most.

  Five rings. Six. Seven.

  He opened his eyes and looked at the phone. He’d dialed the chief eleven times since arriving at the crime scene forty-five minutes ago.
Are you really this helpless? Shit hits the fan while you’re on duty and you fall apart. No wonder the guys at the station make fun of you.

  But he’d never been caught in a situation like this. There was supposed to be a chain of command. Sure, maybe he wanted to be chief someday, but not this soon, not today, and not while feeling hopelessly out of his element.

  He thought back to the Saturday after he graduated from the academy, when his parents held a surprise celebration party in his honor. Ozzie Bell took him aside, back to the far corner of Harlan Gray’s yard. There, hidden in the shadows of the storage shed, Ozzie told him between mouthfuls of chocolate cake, “I’m only doin’ this as a favor to your old man. If you fuck this up, if you make me look bad, if you get anyone killed, so help me, boy, I’ll put you down myself. You got me? This cake is fucking dry.”

  Marcus frowned. He still remembered the shock, the cold look in Ozzie’s eyes even as he spoke with a smile, and the awful metallic taste bubbling in the back of his throat as the chief of Stauford’s police department spat a mouthful of cake and frosting onto Marcus’s loafer.

  “I read you,” Marcus whispered, as a recording announced a full inbox once again. “I read you loud and clear.”

  He wasn’t going to fuck this up, no sir, but he still needed to know if he was on his own. There was only one place Ozzie Bell could be right now. The whole town knew, had been whispering about it for a while now, and even Marcus heard the talk.

  In some ways, Marcus thought it made perfect sense. Ozzie didn’t seem like the sort to fall in with a safe, homey type. From what he knew of Ozzie’s conquests back in the day, the chief was every bit the Stauford hellion the tales made him out to be. A good ol’ boy down to the bone, football star, infamous bully and troublemaker.

  But Susan Prewitt had a reputation of her own, one the guys at the station only spoke about in whispers. They said she was crazy from the trauma she’d suffered as a child, marked by the devil, and all sorts of other spooky shit. They said she had a fling with her brother, bathed in her own menstrual blood, and danced naked during the full moon.

  All rumors, of course, but in a town like Stauford sometimes rumors were all there were to go on. One might even say the town thrived on them, suckling rumors from the populace like marrow from bone, and Chief Bell’s interest in the Prewitt girl fueled the rumor mill for months. Tomorrow, he was sure, new rumors would surface.

  Rumors the chief ditched his official duties in favor of spending the day in bed with his latest conquest. Rumors he’d left Officer Dipshit in charge to oversee the town’s downfall. Rumors that would surprise no one, because the whole damn town knew he got the job because of a favor and not merit. What did you expect? Leave a stupid kid in charge and the whole town tears itself apart under his watch. Typical.

  Not if I can help it, Marcus thought. They might speak rumors, but they won’t be about me. No, sir. This time I’m in charge. This time I’m the one tellin’ the story. I won’t take the blame for this town fallin’ apart.

  Marcus started the car and called over Officer Deal. “Wait for the forensics team. Shit’s hitting the fan in town, and I can’t reach the chief.”

  Officer Owen Deal, three years Marcus’s senior, blinked and waited for the punchline. Marcus stared, lifted his chin, and spoke again. “I’m going to find Ozzie. Stay here.”

  Officer Deal smirked, nodded, and tapped the roof of the cruiser. “You got it, sir.”

  Officer Gray didn’t say anything else. He put up his window, dropped the cruiser into gear, and turned onto the Cumberland Falls Highway.

  8

  Riley sat on the edge of his bed, chewing his thumbnail while the battery indicator flashed on his phone. He scolded himself while he plugged in the charger. So stupid. You shouldn’t have run it down at church. You should’ve charged it last night. Only he didn’t. He’d fallen asleep with the phone by his side, hoping for a text from Rachel, or maybe even from Ben.

  Ben.

  God, what happened to him? Ben’s pale face flashed before him. He remembered the strings of black phlegm oozing from the boy’s eyes and nose. The attack on his father played in Riley’s mind on a loop. His dad turned away, but not in time. Some of the dark gunk went into his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

  Riley’s gaze fell upon a stack of books on his desk. Some texts for school, a couple of horror anthologies centered around Lovecraft and Bloch, and a thick graphic novel called Gothical. He’d picked it up at the bookstore downtown because of the cover, which he’d later discovered was drawn and painted by his uncle Jack.

  On the cover, a lone figure in crimson armor rose above a throng of zombie-like men and women, brandishing a weird weapon: an amalgamation of sword and axe that would only make sense in a comic book. The zombie army was drenched in an oil-like substance, thick and shiny, covered in a pale sheen from the eerie light streaming from their eyes.

  An infection, Riley thought, running his finger along the cover, tracing along the border of the nearest zombie. Whatever’s inside them is infectious. They infected Dad. Contagious. Whatever the blue-eyed man did to them, his corrupted army did to Dad and everyone else.

  A low erratic laughter erupted from down the hall. Riley froze, looking up at his door. The lock was turned, but he didn’t have much faith in the door itself.

  If Dad’s infected, he can pass it on to me. A thick wad of cotton lodged itself in his throat. Dad knew.

  Riley forced back tears. Now wasn’t the time for crying. He returned to his bed and checked the phone. The device lit up, its battery still in the red but showing ten percent. Enough to call his aunt.

  The laughter grew louder, and the whole house shook beneath heavy footfalls. “Riley! Did I send you to your room? I didn’t ground you, son. I ain’t mad. Come to your father. I want to tell you about the lord.”

  Riley swallowed back air, fumbling for the phone to dial Stephanie. He lifted the device to his ear and listened to the thrumming of his heartbeat, erratic, pulsing faster with each approaching step.

  “Son,” Bobby Tate said, his muffled voice an octave deeper, raw, like he’d chain-smoked a pack of Camels in the last hour. “An angel of the lord visited me in my time of need. And do you know what he said? ‘Take your son on high and deliver unto me a sacrifice worthy of your devotion.’ And I said, ‘Lord, I will do what thou wilt, for Your will and the Old Ways are one.’”

  The footsteps stopped at the bedroom door. An instant later, the doorknob rattled.

  “Riley boy,” Bobby said. “I need to purify your soul, son. My lord commands it. Riley? Riley!” The room shook as his father slammed the wall.

  No, Dad, no, not you. Please, no. The phone rang in his ear. Once, twice, three times—

  A click. His aunt’s voice on the other line.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Stephanie. Leave a message.”

  Riley’s lungs deflated. His father slammed the door once again, harder, so hard a thumbtack holding one of his posters dropped to the floor.

  He dialed Stephanie’s number again while he scanned the room in panic. How long would the door withstand his father? Could he hide under the bed? No, that wouldn’t work, it was too obvious, too silly.

  His aunt’s voicemail picked up once again. Goddammit, Steph, don’t you ever answer the phone?

  He canceled the call and checked the screen. The battery charge was at twelve percent. His father began to sing.

  “Oh, give me that old-time religion. It’s good enough for me.” Bobby slammed the door and the walls shook like Jericho. “And it’ll be good enough for you, Riley. The lord said so, son. You’ll see soon enough. All you need to do is suffer.” He beat on the door again. “Oh, give me that old-time sufferin’, give me that old-time sufferin’, give me that old-time sufferin’, it’s good enough for me!”

  Riley shoved the phone into his pocket and looked to his bedroom window. Some nights, he plotted escape routes in his mind. In those daydreams, he tore off into the night on the back of hi
s bike, sometimes visiting Ben or Rachel. Sometimes, when he was particularly pissed at his old man, he’d ride out of Stauford for good.

  But those were daydreams. He’d never attempted a climb from his second-floor window. The fifteen-foot drop was enough to deter him from trying such a stupid feat.

  “RILEY!”

  A section of the door exploded in a cloud of splinters as Bobby Tate thrust his fist through it. Riley screamed, shot to his feet, and moved for the window.

  “Oh God,” he whispered, thrusting the window open. A rancid stench of compost and earth permeated the air. From somewhere else in the neighborhood, a car alarm sounded endlessly, and there was a dog barking. Gunshots. A panicked voice was cut off mid-scream.

  Behind him, Riley’s father shoved his arm further through the hole, seeking the doorknob. Riley lifted his leg and straddled the windowsill.

  He stared at the shrubbery below.

  I can’t do this. I can’t, I don’t want to get hurt, I’ll break my legs, I’ll—

  “I see you,” Bobby crooned. Riley looked back and saw his father’s glowing eye peering through the hole in the door. “Where d’you think you’re goin’, Riley boy? Open the door for your old man, huh? You know I can tear this down any time I want.”

  Riley swallowed hard. His father stepped back and shoved his arm through the hole again. The wooden panel creaked under Bobby’s weight, cracking wider as the good reverend reached further inward and gripped the doorknob—

  His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, hoping to see a text from his aunt, but instead there was a message from Rachel: “Neighbor attacked my mom and dad. Something is wrong w/ them. Riley I’m scared!”

  “No,” Riley whispered, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “Not you too.”

  The doorknob clicked. Bobby Tate pulled his arm back through the hole, and the door slowly opened.

  “It’s time, son.” Bobby stepped into the bedroom. “It’s time your old man teaches you about the Old Ways.”