Devil's Creek

by Todd Keisling

  His hometown was tearing itself to pieces, a sudden reality which fueled the anger simmering in Marcus Gray’s heart. Where was Ozzie Bell, Stauford’s elected official who’d sworn to serve and protect its people? Where was Chief Bell, who’d abandoned a search for two missing boys? Where was Chief Osmond Lucas Bell, who’d failed to report for duty this morning when all hell broke loose?

  He’s at Susan Prewitt’s house, Officer Gray thought, white-knuckling the steering wheel. Fucking or sleeping or stoned, it doesn’t matter. The town needs him whether he likes it or not.

  And Officer Gray would make him do his job. Even if persuading Ozzie meant pulling a gun on him. Oh yes, Officer Gray had found his balls, and he intended to let them swing. He’d show Ozzie and the rest of the squad Marcus Gray wasn’t the timid dipshit they all believed he was. There would be a reckoning, on this day of all days, thank you, Jesus.

  And yet, as he drove on down 4th Street, Marcus couldn’t shake the suspicion that even if he managed to kick Ozzie’s ass into gear, there might not be much of Stauford left by the end of the day. The scene at the church stirred within him a foreboding sense of déjà vu.

  I dreamed this, he thought, recalling the awful visions that plagued his sleep over the last couple nights. Marcus didn’t understand how he knew these things, and he wasn’t sure where the dreams came from, but their stark certainty chilled him. It has eyes. It could see inside me. It still does. And then its words rose from his throat, spilling over his tongue like the mantras they taught him in Sunday School.

  “His will and the Old Ways are one.” Marcus blinked, easing off the gas as he rounded a curve. “What does that even mean?”

  A surge of static spat from the radio, filling the cabin with a guttural churr like an animal clearing its throat. Words bled into one another, babbling forward and backward, overlapping, transforming into a language all its own—a language which inexplicably made sense to him.

  “Salvation through suffering, My child. Bear witness to My apostle and weep.”

  Laughter burst from the CB radio in a thick chortle of static before dissipating into the frenzied chatter of the police band. Marcus slowed the car and switched to a different frequency. He held his breath, dreading the sound of babbling voices, and was relieved when static filled the cruiser. He closed his eyes and wiped sweat from his brow.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  He blinked and swallowed back a bitter taste in his mouth. The incident left him spooked but unshaken, and he continued his way toward the intersection of 4th and Stamper Streets. Susan Prewitt’s house sat on a corner, nestled against the slope and partially hidden in the shade of several oak trees.

  Chief Bell’s cruiser was parked in the driveway. A yellow pickup truck camouflaged with patches of rust was parked along the curb. Marcus parked his cruiser behind the pickup and gave it a once-over, certain the vehicle looked familiar. If he’d had more time, he would’ve run the plates to be sure, but for now he’d have to rely on his instinct. He marched up the driveway toward the small stoop in front of the house.

  The door stood open in invitation. He was struck with the absurd notion they knew he was coming to pay them a visit. Any other time, Marcus would’ve laughed off such a ridiculous idea, but after what he’d experienced in the car, the world seemed less tethered, reality somewhat more malleable than it used to be. He pulled his weapon from its holster and held his finger against the trigger guard.

  “Chief?”

  His voice echoed in the void of the house. The foyer was dark except for the slanted rectangle of light piercing from the doorway. He hated the way his voice shook, betraying any sense of authority he might’ve commanded, and in that moment, he felt the world stop. There was no wind, no birdsong overhead, not even the hum of locusts in the trees. There was only Officer Marcus Gray, standing here at the threshold of some unknown chasm decorated to look like an ordinary 1970s split-level home, his pounding heart the only sound in all the universe.

  An acrid smell permeated the air, filling his nostrils with the stench of something sour, rotting. There was heat to the smell, like the makeshift compost heap his dad made in their backyard a decade ago, so thick it coated his lungs with its stink. There was something else, too, something metallic.

  He raised his weapon and stepped across the threshold into the dark living room. He swallowed air, grimacing at the sour taste in his throat.

  “Chief Bell?” His voice fell flat, echoing off the foyer walls. He felt every bit a stranger in this woman’s house, and his skin crawled with the urge to turn and run. Melted candles and discarded clothing marked a path from the living room up the stairs. Dusty photos of Susan’s grandfather, Henry Prewitt, decorated the stairwell of the dim foyer. There were other photos of Susan as a little girl, sitting on what must have been her mother’s lap. He was about to move on to the living room when a soft groan traveled down the stairs, startling him so badly he nearly dropped his weapon.

  Marcus took a breath and tried to calm his racing heart. Keep it cool. He listened. Another moan filled the hallway upstairs. Not a moan of pain, but of pleasure. He sighed and shook his head. No wonder the chief wasn’t answering his phone. He holstered his weapon.

  The moans grew louder and more erratic as he climbed the stairs, rising to a crescendo that was almost comical given the circumstances. The air inside the house had an almost surreal quality, and he questioned if he was truly awake and not back at home in his mother’s basement, still asleep, still dreaming up horrible happenings in his hometown.

  You could take your turn with her.

  Marcus hesitated, mere feet from a half-closed door. The voice in his head buzzed with static, the same voice he’d heard through the cruiser’s radio, and the hallway swam before him in dark splotches. He heard the noise of a church congregation in his head, a million babbling voices speaking in tongues.

  When my child is finished, you may have her if you want, Marcus. You can fuck the whole town if you wish. Man, woman, child, my lord won’t judge you. Sins to the false god are virtues in our faith.

  He steadied himself against the wall, trying to hold back the waves crashing inside his head. His guts twisted and churned.

  I have but one thing to ask, Marcus. Will you suffer for me? Will you honor the Old Ways and heed my will?

  Marcus stumbled forward, fighting off the wave of sickness spreading through him to no avail. A thick clump of his undigested breakfast shot from his throat and filled his mouth as he crossed the threshold of the bedroom.

  Ozzie Bell lay naked and cuffed to the bed, his lifeless body carved up into bloody symbols like a scroll of flesh. Susan Prewitt stood naked at the edge of the bed, bent forward while her brother Zeke Billings fucked her from behind. She moaned with each thrust. Dollops of the black sludge spilled over her lips.

  “You could take your turn with her,” Zeke grinned, slapping Susan’s bare ass so hard the snake tattoo on her thigh danced from the impact. “She’s all yours if you’ll suffer for us.”

  Susan looked up and flashed a smile of dirt and grime.

  “I can’t…” was all Marcus could say before words failed him completely. Zeke unmounted his sister and approached the doorway. Marcus reached for his holster, fumbled for the butt of his weapon, and cried out in terror as Zeke Billings laid his hand over Marcus’s face.

  “You will,” Zeke said.

  6

  Chuck Tiptree knocked on the front door of Imogene’s old house and waited, listening to the muffled footfalls and voices inside. He craned his neck and assessed the damage from the vandalism Jack reported two days earlier. Flecks of red paint still clung to the surface of the front porch, and although the shards of glass were gone, the plastic Jack hung over the shattered window was torn. Curtains fluttered inside from the low afternoon breeze.

  He shifted his weight, checking his watch while clicking his tongue. The old house had always given him the creeps, even before everything went down with Imogene
’s passing. When he and Jack were kids, he’d always ask to play in the yard and never in the house. The place felt wrong to him, the way walking into a church always gave him a chill, like he wasn’t meant to be there.

  Swore you’d never come back here, he told himself.

  “Swore I’d never see him again, either.”

  But here he was, at Dr. Booth’s request yet again, and he scolded himself for answering the phone. Last time, he hadn’t known any better, but now he had no excuse. He was as stubborn as the rest of his kin, whether he wanted to admit it or not. He’d made a career out of being exceptionally stubborn, even when the odds were against him.

  The door opened, revealing Jack’s bruised face.

  Chuck gasped. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “My mother happened. Hi, by the way.” Jack managed a wry smile. Chuck gaped at the wounds on his brother’s face, the darkened marks around his throat. “Look, I’ll explain later. Just come inside already. There’s coffee brewing. When Steph gets here, we’ll get down to it.”

  “All right,” Chuck said, reluctantly stepping over the threshold. The musty smell of the old place still lingered, accented with mothballs and dust, but there was something else in the air. Something off, like fruit on the verge of turning, or gone bad. He followed Jack into the kitchen where a familiar face stood at the counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  Chuck stopped abruptly, unsure of what to say. What could he say? Their last meeting was anything but pleasant, and if it hadn’t been for Imogene, he was sure it would’ve turned violent. But that was months ago. Maybe things had changed. Maybe not. Either way, Chuck was stunned to find the old professor’s name on his phone’s screen. Perhaps that was why he answered after all—incredulity, or even shock.

  Dr. Booth turned, offered Chuck a cursory nod, and reached into his pocket for a silver flask. He tipped its contents into the coffee. “Want some, Mr. Tiptree?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Jack?”

  Jack shook his head at first but thought better of it and nodded. “Might take the edge off.”

  “Good man.” Dr. Booth poured a finger of bourbon into Jack’s coffee and capped the flask. “Thanks for coming, Chuck.”

  The three men sipped their coffee in silence, standing awkwardly in a kitchen far too small, its walls too close together.

  “So…” Jack began, “do you guys mind telling me how you know one another?”

  Chuck smirked. “Yeah, Doc. I’ll let you take this one.”

  Professor Booth scowled at him, taking another long sip of his spiked coffee. Chuck waited, almost eager to hear the words tripping off the old man’s tongue. How much did Jack know? Had Dr. Booth told him about the ritual Imogene spent the last years of her life preparing? Or the relationship they’d had over the last decade?

  Probably not, Chuck decided. Observing Jack and the professor, he sensed that much was true. Jack wore his heart on his sleeve, always had, and if he’d known what the professor helped Imogene do, odds were Dr. Booth wouldn’t be standing in this kitchen right now.

  The dual honk of a locking car stole their attention from the silence between them.

  Jack set down his mug of coffee. “I think Steph’s here.” He gave them both a concerned glance before walking toward the front door. “Maybe you two can sort this shit out, huh?”

  Chuck nodded, watching his brother exit the room before meeting the old man’s eyes. “Does he know about you and Genie?”

  Dr. Booth closed his eyes and sighed. Chuck’s face fell.

  “You fucking lied to him?”

  “I did. I was trying to protect him. Like Genie would’ve done.”

  “Genie was crazy, Doc. I know you loved her, but goddammit, she was nuts and it cost her her life.”

  “No,” Professor Booth muttered. He downed the last of his coffee in a single gulp and winced. “That’s where you’re wrong, Chuck. It’s why I called you here. It’s why you should reconsider having a drink from my flask.”

  Chuck shook his head. Unbelievable, he thought. He ran his hand through his hair and shifted nervously. “It’s that sort of belief that got us here in the first place, entertaining this hocus pocus bullshit. You’re supposed to be a man of fucking science, for God’s sake.” Chuck looked toward the hall, where he heard Stephanie approaching. “Besides, I thought you had a change of heart?”

  Dr. Booth opened his mouth to speak but stopped short when Stephanie Green walked into the room. Jack followed her.

  She gave Chuck a playful punch to his shoulder. “Long time, no see.”

  “Yeah,” Chuck said, forcing a smile. “Glad you’re here.”

  “So am I,” Jack said. He opened a cupboard and pulled a mug down from the shelf. “Professor Booth and Chuck here were about to explain to me how they know each other, among other things.”

  Chuck and Dr. Booth exchanged glances. This time the professor did not hesitate, and for once, Chuck was grateful to hear the old man speak.

  “I will. I’ll get to that. But first, I think we should all take a seat. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and we don’t have much time.”

  7

  Since his mother died, Riley turned to his daydreams to cope with the horrors of reality. His growing distaste for Stauford in general, its favoritism toward athletes, the hypocrisy of its people on Sunday mornings, the widening gap between himself and his father—these fantasies saved him from real life so many times, comforting him in the twilit hours when the tears came so easily.

  In his daydreams, Riley Tate fancied himself an antihero, the bad boy with a heart of gold from countless miles of Hollywood celluloid. He was the director of his own private film, and he was also its star.

  In this fantasy, Riley was the kid who used his art to shine a light on Stauford’s hypocrisy. He fought back against the bullies who threatened him—kids like Jimmy Cord, adults like his father or Assistant Principal Meyers, the whole regime governing Stauford’s social classes—and played by his own rules. He never did his homework, failed the daily quizzes, and still aced the exams. He always got the upper hand of whatever stood in his way, overcoming insurmountable odds, and despite his underdog status, still won the day. He was lauded for his efforts and rejected the establishment’s praise.

  Riley was a savior and a sinner, a troubled youth and prodigy. And at the end of this private movie, Riley saved the girl. The girl’s identity changed over the years, but ever since he’d started high school, Rachel Matthews played the part. She was the heroine in his fantasy film, the plucky foil to his antihero, the girl from the other side of the tracks whose love thawed his frozen heart.

  The beauty of his daydreams was, when the film ended and the credits rolled, he could always start it over, changing whatever he saw fit. Before launching himself out his bedroom window merely an hour ago, the film often featured Riley’s midnight ride to Rachel’s house by bicycle. But the narrative changed, the film edited to reflect Riley’s circumstance.

  Now the film took place during the day, the bicycle traded for his father’s car. Even as Riley drove into Rachel’s neighborhood, a ritzy development known locally as Forest Hills, he was daydreaming about the way this new film would end. He would still show Stauford the error of its ways. And, more importantly, he would still save the girl.

  But today, Riley discovered no matter how much he changed the narrative in his mind, he would still have to face a harsh truth: reality is far less appealing, far less friendly, and far, far less forgiving.

  When he slowed the car in front of Rachel’s home, Riley Tate realized he was holding his breath and slowly exhaled. A small mound of twigs and leaves burned on the Matthews’s front lawn. A plume of gray smoke snaked lazily into the air. Laura Matthews stood naked in the front yard, convulsing with laughter and spewing black bile over her breasts, which jiggled frantically with her erratic movement. She held a Bible in her hands and was tearing out the pages one at a time.

  “He love
s me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not…”

  Beside her, Don Matthews was in the process of undressing. He stripped off his khakis and tossed them on the fire. His wife handed him one of the torn pages, which he wrapped around his exposed erection. Masturbating, Don Matthews lifted his chin to the air and shouted, “His will and the Old Ways are one, hallelujah!”

  “Hallelujah!” Laura shouted, stripping a handful of pages from her oversized Bible and throwing them on the fire. The flames engulfed them in a singular whoosh.

  God’s not here, Riley thought, recalling all the Sundays he’d spent in his father’s church, listening to fairy tales written by men long dead. Even if He was, He isn’t here now. Maybe He never was.

  A sudden smack startled him from the hideous ritual happening outside the car. Riley’s eyes shot front. His heart sank.

  Rachel Matthews stood outside the car, her hands on the hood. She smiled, revealing blackened teeth. Something gray wriggled along her upper gum line, seeking the air, and fell from her mouth. It landed with a thick plop on the hood.

  “You came to save me,” she said. “But I’ve already been saved, Riley. I suffered for salvation, and you can, too.”

  “No. Goddammit, no.”

  Rachel walked around the car toward the driver’s window. She pressed her face against the glass. Black ooze squelched from her nostril and slithered along the surface. Her eyes glowed with blue light.

  “It’s okay, Riley. I can show you the Old Ways. And then we can be together. I’ll let you kiss me if you want. You can have this body, too. Do you want to fuck me? I can be yours if you’ll be His.”

  Any other time, under any other circumstances, Riley would’ve let his hormones take control—but not today. Not now. The Rachel Matthews he’d adored, crushed on, fantasized about was no longer here. She’d been stolen from him by whatever dark corruption now roiled inside her.