Jack cleared his throat. “We can’t leave.”
The car fell silent. He didn’t wait for Chuck to protest; instead, he spoke through short breaths about what the professor told him. Stephanie turned in her seat and stared him down.
“You mean the grotto. The one from your painting. From when we were kids.”
Jack nodded. “If what Tyler said is true and my grandma’s walking around, then she’s on her way there now.” He waited a beat, thinking. His fingers were still numb from the jolt. “I left the idol back there. I have to assume they have it now, and that’s not what she’d planned—”
“So what?” Chuck looked up at his brother’s reflection in the rearview. “Look, I don’t disagree some weird shit just happened, but let’s think about this, guys. Even if Genie Tremly is back from the dead—even if our fucking father is back from the dead—what’s to stop us from getting on the highway and leaving town right now? Huh?” He geared up, speeding through a red light. “This isn’t our fight. Let Genie and Jacob duke it out, man.” Tears slipped down his cheeks, and Jack realized Chuck wasn’t trying to convince them. He was trying to convince himself and failing horribly. “I never liked this fucking town, anyway.”
“Because if we don’t, it’ll spread. It spread to my dad. He tried to spread it to me. It’s an infection, guys. Can’t you see that?” Riley turned to the window, blinking away tears. “I hate this town, too, but it’s my home.” His jaw quivered, his words reduced to a blubbering jumble of syllables. “It’s all I’ve got left.”
Jack put his arm around the boy, pulled him close. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Let it out.”
“Riley’s right,” Stephanie said, fighting back tears of her own. “We need to help Genie. We need to go back to Devil’s Creek.”
Another blanket of silence fell over them, the hum of the car’s engine and the buffeting of tires on asphalt the only sounds. The sun hung low on the horizon, thick fingers of smoke occulting its gaze. They drove for another mile along the empty highway until they reached the intersection of the parkway and US 25. Chuck grunted in disapproval as he turned left, speeding back toward town, toward the fires eating away at the cancer of Stauford.
Half a mile later, Stephanie pressed her face to the window and gasped. Flames lit up the summit of Gordon Hill, just beyond the girders of Stauford’s water tower. Riley leaned forward to comfort her but was stunned to silence as they caught a glimpse of downtown beyond the hill. Chuck slowed the car to a crawl and gaped from the open window.
Fires raged unchecked for as far as they could see. A massive crowd rejoiced in the streets, their faces lit up by thousands of unblinking eyes, an army of insects swarming over a rotting corpse. Whitacre Bank stood in ruins, its remains a charred, hollow shell. In the center of Main Street, a bonfire burned as tall as the Stauford Tribune, one of the city’s oldest structures now reduced to a squat rectangular jack-o-lantern with flames shooting from its windows. A block away, Devlin’s On Main was engulfed in the inferno.
Chuck parked the car and ran to the edge of the overpass. He slammed his fist on the railing. “Goddammit,” he whispered. “Goddamn you all.”
Stephanie, Jack, and Riley joined him at the rail. Chuck wiped his eyes, shook his head, and laughed. “You remember when we were kids? We used to daydream about burning this shithole to the ground.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Yeah, I guess we did, didn’t we?”
Stephanie snorted. “Can’t say our old man never gave us nothin’.”
“He’s probably down there right now,” Riley said. They turned to him, his words hanging ominously in the air. “Don’t you think?”
Jack closed his eyes, nodded. “Probably. Which means we need to get going. Beat him to the punch.”
Chuck rapped his knuckles on the railing and returned to the car. Stephanie and Riley followed, but Jack remained a moment longer, watching the smoke roll over Stauford like a dark wave. I hope you’re out there, Mamaw. I hope we’re doing the right thing. He smiled grimly, his eyes alight with the glowing embers of a dying city.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF IMOGENE TREMLY (4)
1
Notebook entries dated February 14th, 1997
Had dinner with Tyler again. Conversation was light, mostly small-talk. I wanted to talk business, but he wanted to talk about family, and I humored him as much as I could. Mostly talked about Jackie, how he was doing in school, about his art. We didn’t talk about the past, even though he wanted to.
I let him see me to the door, and I kissed him on the cheek, thanked him for a nice evening.
I know he knows who I am, but he’s been respectful so far. Maybe I’ll talk to him about it when I’m ready. Maybe I never will be. Maybe I had too much wine tonight. Maybe I just need some sleep.
Nightmares tonight. Dreamed I took Jackie back to the church for one of Jacob’s evening sermons and sacrificed the boy at the altar of the nameless. I can still feel the warm blood on my hands. For as long as I live, I’ll never forgive myself for becoming involved in that man’s madness.
Maybe we were all just so eager to get out of Stauford, eager to believe in something that was pure. Something that wasn’t bogged down by the town’s hypocrisy. It’s hard to sit in church on Sunday, watching everyone around you pray for forgiveness, put their dollars in the collection plate, and listen to the man at the pulpit scream about damnation when you know they’ll be back to their gossip, their drinking and drugging, their whoring and adultery, their bigoted rage.
That’s the way it’s always been, for as long as I can remember. Even when I was a little girl, I knew how the wind blew in Stauford. That’s what drew me to the Lord’s Church outside town. I think that’s what drew most of us, if I’m being honest. We just wanted something different, something that wasn’t the same hypocritical rhetoric. All that stigma around the “scary church in the woods” was just more gossip from the Stauford rumor mill. One always has to consider the source, and when it’s the Stauford Elite, always swallow it with a grain or two of salt.
Personally, I never doubted the intent behind the formation of the Lord’s Church. Thurmond Masters was a good man, a principled man. We’d all heard the story about the church’s founding, how he and his family were cast out from town because of the things he’d said during his final sermon at First Baptist, and we didn’t blame him for it. Anyone who’s lived in Stauford for a while understands a man like that has no place in a town like this. There was a saying some years back, the sort of thing you’d hear passed around in friendly circles whenever news of corruption or scandal would surface, that Stauford had killed the last good man in town.
Thurmond was that man, in so many ways. They hadn’t killed him, but they’d killed his reputation, driving a spear right through its side. Most men would’ve despaired, picked up their roots and moved elsewhere, but not Thurmond. He chose to stay, chose to rebuild his congregation, and rededicate his faith while the people of Stauford slandered his name. They mocked him for shining a light on their wrongs, cast him out for holding up a mirror so they could see how awful and rotten they were inside. No, a man like that didn’t belong in Stauford at all.
Maybe you could argue it was pride that drove him to build the Lord’s Church and preach about the evils in town. I wouldn’t disagree about that, no sir, but at the heart of his message was a condemnation of Stauford’s ways. Of loving thy neighbor on Sundays when everyone’s watching, after herding them out of town on cattle cars the night before.
His son, on the other hand, was cut from a different cloth. Jacob was every bit as devoted as his father, but he had a charisma about him that his father lacked. When Jacob would stand in for Thurmond during some mid-week sermons, he always got the congregation worked up, “feeling the spirit,” as we used to say many years ago. He was in favor of the old hymns from simpler times, preached about living a simpler life, and was utterly devoted to his faith. It’s no wonder we all fell under his spell. Jacob Masters was, at one t
ime, a good man. His heart was in the church for all the right reasons, and if he carried any sin at all, it was that he scorned Stauford just like his father. Maybe even more than Thurmond. Every hardship Jacob had ever known came from being born an outcast.
I guess maybe that’s why he was so easily corrupted by the evil in the earth. Maybe that’s why we all were.
Just looked at the clock. 3:32 in the morning. Let’s give this sleep thing another try.
2
Notebook entry dated February 15th, 1997
Tyler called. He heard from his friend in New England, Dr. Walter Crawford, a fellow professor in “occult studies,” if you can believe it. I didn’t know there was such a thing. He was intrigued by Tyler’s description of the idol and asked to see photos. Guess I’ll need to get film for the Polaroid…
3
Notebook entry dated February 23rd, 1997
Spoke with Dr. Crawford on the phone this morning. He’s intrigued by the photos I sent him. Seemed curious about my knowledge of the greater implications of the idol’s existence. I played dumb, of course. Told him I hadn’t the slightest idea what it meant, that it sure seemed really old, and did he think it might be worth something?
“Priceless” was his word of choice. I told him I was interested in learning more about it, asked if he could point me in the right direction. He said he might be able to pull some strings and get me copies of the old texts they keep at his university’s library. Then he told me to tell Tyler he owed him one. I laughed, thanked him, and told him I’d pass on the message. This might bear fruit after all.
4
Letter dated March 3rd, 1997 from Dr. Walter H. Crawford, Professor of Occult Studies, Miskatonic University
Dear Ms. Tremly,
I hope this letter finds you well. Enclosed are the Polaroid photos you provided, for which I must extend my gratitude once more. The photographs proved to be somewhat anomalous among my peers. Although we are not strangers to the various idols, carvings, and runes in our chosen studies, your artifact has drawn much speculation from Miskatonic faculty, leading us to consult with the grimoires kept in the university’s private collection.
Our mutual friend, Dr. Booth, mentioned his theory of sacrificial rites used by the local native culture, one which perhaps predates the accepted known record within global archaeological and anthropological circles, but there are still enough holes in that theory through which any number of anomalies can slide—your grinning idol notwithstanding. That said, we did find a few short passages which fit the idol’s description within a number of tomes.
The artifact—and more specifically, the entity carved in effigy—appears to have no formal name on record, but several corollary Latin translations refer to it as sine nomine inanis—or simply, “void without a name.” What passages we found spoke of corruption and cleansing rites centered around the cycles of the moon, the mandate of blood offerings, and a distinct lack of form. Illustrations depicted its presence as a shadow with blue eyes.
As I promised, you will find enclosed photocopies of select pages from these grimoires for authentication purposes. Of note are the pages excerpted from the Necronomicon and De Vermis Mysteriis, and it’s worth mentioning that the sigils found within closely resemble those found in the seals of the Arcanum Arcanorum.
Speaking personally, what I find more intriguing than the notable absence of information, is how something like this ended up in southeastern Kentucky. I suppose our friend Dr. Booth will have to fill in that part of the puzzle. Please give him my warmest regards.
If you do decide to part with the artifact, please contact me before considering other venues. Miskatonic’s Department of Occult Studies is willing to make an offer that may be worth your while.
Kind regards,
Dr. Walter H. Crawford, Ph.D.
Department of Occult Studies
Miskatonic University, Arkham, MA
5
6
PART FIVE
MIDNIGHT BAPTISM
Outside Stauford, Kentucky
Present Day
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
1
Dust and gravel filled the air in a dark cloud as the stolen pickup truck barreled down Devil’s Creek Road. A cool breeze swept back Imogene’s silver mane, and she drove with her elbow perched over the open window.
Even in the years after the incident, she’d never traveled back to these roads, this wilderness, or the ramshackle village they’d built. The same rundown houses were still here, dotting the landscape like open sores, and kudzu had claimed most of the surrounding area as its own. Even the barn bearing the name “Devil’s Creek” in janky lettering was still there, its roof sagging from old age and the burden of gravity on rotten wood. She slowed as she drove by the barn, watching it with quiet regard, as though it were a sleeping beast that might awaken and alert its master at any moment.
Imogene had no illusions about the nameless thing living under the earth. It knew she was coming. She’d communed with it in the grave, felt its fingers trying to touch her soul, trying to pry her free of the void holding her in stasis. Be with me, it whispered to her. Be one with me, child. I will give you life again. I will raise you above my children, make you a general in my army, if you would but kneel in devotion to me.
And for an instant, cradled in the shell of her corpse, the essence of Martha Imogene Tremly considered the offer. What sort of world could she help shape with that sort of power? One free of anger and hate, free of the bigotry and racism and hypocrisy which fed the great beast of Stauford.
But the universe shielding her essence upheld its part of the bargain she’d sealed in her basement, a pact which would not be reversed. It lies, the void said, and spoke no more.
Even now, as she stepped on the gas and sent the pickup sputtering past the collapsed barn, Imogene felt the tickle of its many fingers trailing down her spine. The nameless thing would always be there, trying to win her back.
The pavement gave way to gravel, the truck’s suspension groaning from shock as the carriage bounced over the divider. In another couple miles, the road would dead end at a roundabout in the forest. From there, she would continue her journey on foot.
You can’t win, the nameless thing said. My son won’t let you.
Imogene Tremly gripped the piece of paper tied to her hand and ignored the voice lapping at her ears, behind her head, hidden in the shadow of her soul.
2
The people of Stauford swarmed toward Main Street from all corners of town, leaving fires in their wake, ensuring there would be nothing left of this unholy Babylon when the sun rose again. They joined their lord’s apostle at the bonfire in front of Whitacre Bank, throwing the vestiges of their former faith into the purging flames. Bibles, heretical symbols cast in gold and silver, their filthy clothing of excess, their laptops and phones and other totems from the false gods of technology. They stripped themselves of their former lives down to bare skin, frolicking amidst the cleansing inferno, their flesh stinging from the cloying heat.
Be one for me, their lord said, and they were.
The citizens of Stauford shed their inhibitions, entwining themselves with each other, engaging in the pleasures forbidden by the god of heretics. Main Street slowly transformed into an orgy of flesh and flame, burning maggots writhing over a corpse, and conducting them all in this orchestra of pleasure was their lord’s apostle, Jacob Masters.
He hovered above the bonfire, the flames blackening the soles of his feet, watching with grim satisfaction while the people of Stauford fucked themselves into a mindless stupor, their cries of pain and pleasure filling the evening air like the call of cicadas. Their intermingled chorus rose and fell in waves, punctuated with the occasional orgasm, the gasp of agony, the sob of fear, regret.
The children of Stauford congregated on the side streets, dancing freely among the flames and rejoicing with each structure’s collapse. Their lord set them aside, the seeds of Babylon from whom a new paradise
would grow. Jacob heard their heartbeats, the pitter-patter of their bare feet slapping upon the pavement as they danced in celebration. He heard their cherubic laughter, smelled their innocence, and felt himself harden. His time in the grave had not dulled his base nature, but for as much as he wanted to claim their innocent flesh, he knew they served another purpose.
By your will, my lord. All must suffer, even your most devoted apostle.
A procession of cars exited the overpass and approached the bonfire. The mass of men and women ceased their copulation and allowed the cars through. Jacob watched Laura Tremly step out of the first car. Her face was badly burned, half her hair scorched down to her scalp, but the horrible disfigurement did nothing to steal the smile from her face. She met her lover’s gaze and raised their lord’s idol.
“You’ve done well, darlin’.”
Jacob descended, his tattered slacks and suit coat like the fractured wings of an avenging angel. He slipped his arm around Laura’s waist, pulled her close, and pressed his coarse lips to hers. The grim idol’s hollow eyes glowed, bathing them in a shimmering light. When Jacob pulled away, Laura raised her charred hand to his face, ran her fingers along the sigil burned into his forehead.
“Your will and the Old Ways are one,” she whispered. Black tears slithered down her cheeks. She shivered in anticipation. “It’s been so long, my lord. Will you take this body once more? I’ve saved it for you.”
“Oh yes,” Jacob growled. He licked his lips, tasting the lust in the air, and spun his lover around, bent her over the hood of the car. “Our lord demands it.”
Devil's Creek Page 40
