Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  When she showed him the three crayon drawings of “Snakeman,” he said, “Now this is a great story.”

  “You probably believe Satan did all this,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Jesus Christ. Has everyone gone insane?”

  “Open your mind. Remember, nothing is ever as it seems.”

  “Yeah, maybe this place is the new Salem.”

  “Possibly. But remember, there are several legitimate explanations for what happened in Salem.”

  “I thought the devil took up residence in the local well.”

  “I haven’t heard that one,” he laughed. “It may have been mass hysteria. Or, some people believe it was ergotamine poisoning from moldy rye bread.”

  “What?”

  “Ergotamine. It’s a psychedelic. Like LSD. It’s produced by certain molds that like rye.”

  “Must be a Jewish mold.”

  He laughed. “I’ll ask my Rabbi.”

  “Maybe we should check our water supply? I bet it’s a fluorine conspiracy.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  She slowed only slightly and slid the Jeep through a sharp left turn. The rear fishtailed, but Sam barely noticed.

  Maybe she was angry because, despite her earlier skepticism, she actually wanted to talk with Nita Stillwater. Not that she believed Nita’s demon tale, but somehow she felt the old woman might offer some insight into what was going on. Sam only knew she herself didn’t have a clue and it was this feeling of helplessness that grated on every nerve in her body.

  Sam whipped the Jeep onto a rutted dirt road. The shocks slammed to full compression, then launched them upward as the Jeep dropped into and out of a creek bed, which crossed the road. Nathan’s head smacked the roof, but he said nothing and tightened his grip on the dash.

  Neither the road nor the creek, which crisscrossed one another a dozen times, bore official names. Locals dubbed each Cherokee because the only four Cherokee families in the county lived near where the road dissolved into the desert. Water from the recent rains had collected in ruts and in several low points along the creek’s path. The Jeep plowed through another creek crossing, lifting wings of muddy water to each side.

  They neared five trailers that squatted along the road, three on the left, two on the right. Four were occupied, the other a rusted carcass.

  Nita Stillwater lived in the second one on the right, a dilapidated doublewide surrounded by a chicken-wire fence, which held a dozen chickens, two goats, and an assortment of dogs and cats. Two partially cannibalized, rusted car skeletons and a tired red pick-up sat in front of the trailer. As Sam pulled the Jeep to a stop, Nita appeared in her doorway as if she had expected them.

  Sam and Nathan stepped from the Jeep as an angry red Chow hurtled around the trailer across the road, snarling and leaping against the fence that contained him. A weatherworn Indian woman, holding a baby, appeared at the door of the trailer and said something to the dog that they couldn’t make out. The thick-furred animal sat down, glanced over his shoulder at the woman, than returned his stare to Sam and Nathan.

  Two small children peered around the woman, each clinging to her faded turquoise skirt. Nita waved to her as if to say “everything's all right” and the woman disappeared inside her home. One of the children remained, her large dark eyes following Sam and Nathan as they walked toward Nita.

  After shooing away a couple of chickens, Nita invited them in. Sam introduced her and Nathan and they sat around a yellow Formica topped kitchen table. Nita offered beer and Mescal, but they opted for soft drinks.

  Her face looked like a sun-dried tomato, wrinkled, burned brown by years of exposure to the harsh desert. Her shoulders slumped as if she supported the sun and the heavens. Yet, her eyes were bright, clear, intelligent.

  Nita eyed Nathan, then turned to Sam.

  “So, now you come to hear what I say?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, I see in your eyes you still do not believe. Your friend, he knows, but you...you are not yet ready.”

  “Nita, it doesn’t matter what I believe. I want to know what you believe.”

  Nathan smiled. Sam scowled at him.

  Nita poured herself a shot of Mescal and tossed it down. “It is as I said. The demon is here. He has come because people here do not accept the Cherokee spirits, believe in them. They do not respect themselves or their Mother Earth and all life is out of balance. Only the spirits of the Earth, the wind, the sun can restore order and peace. Until that is done, the demon will continue his work.”

  “What is this demon?” Sam asked.

  “The Demon with the Iron Finger.”

  Nathan leaned forward, his eyes locking with Nita’s. She turned to him as she spoke.

  “The demon has followed my people for many generations. He reminds us to respect all things. When we do not, he leaves his cave to extract his vengeance.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nathan said. “What cave? What is this demon?”

  “Long before the white man set foot on the Blue Ridge, what you know as North Carolina, we were there. Living peacefully beneath the Tusquittee Mountain. The demon arose from a cave on that very mountain. He could mimic many forms, usually that of a friend or loved one. In that disguise, he would seduce the victim by stroking their hair with soft fingers until they slept. Then, using his iron finger he would remove their liver and lungs.”

  Mental images of Roger and Miriam and Roberto flashed through Sam’s mind. Each had been attacked in their sleep. Each had had their organs ripped from their bodies.

  “He would kill them with his iron finger?”

  “Not immediately. He is very skillful and able to remove the organs without leaving marks that would signify his intrusion. When they awoke, they would not know what had occurred.

  “What happened then?” Sam asked.

  “At first they would behave normally, but over the next few weeks or months they would fall into a deep melancholy. They would grow weaker, their flesh would hang from their bones, and finally, they would retreat to their dwelling and die of the consumption.”

  A vision of Walter Limpke’s pale, thin face formed in Sam’s mind.

  “Does the demon always lull his victim’s to sleep or can he attack someone who is awake?” Nathan asked.

  “I don’t know. But, he prefers guile to confrontation.”

  “Can he be defeated?” Sam asked.

  “Long ago, many warriors went to his cave and attacked him with arrows. He laughed at them, mocked them. Whenever an arrow pierced his flesh, he plucked it out and hurled it at them, leaving no mark where the arrow had been. Many warriors died at his hand that day."

  She poured another shot of Mescal. This time, the plump, golden-brown worm that floated in the bottle, slid into the glass. She plucked it out and offered it to them. They waved it away. She popped it in her mouth and swallowed it with the shot she had poured.

  "Then," she continued, "a small wren sang to the warriors and told them to aim for his iron finger, which the warriors did. Seeing their ploy, the demon raged against them, but soon an arrow struck his iron finger and he fell dead.”

  “His Achilles’ heel, so to speak?” Sam said.

  Nita gave her a patient smile. “Except Achilles is a creature of Greek myth. The Demon with the Iron Finger is quite real.”

  “But, if he is dead, how can he be here?” Nathan asked.

  “After he was slain, none of my people fell prey to the consumption for many years. Then, his descendants arose from the cave and the consumption returned.”

  “You believe one of his offspring is responsible for the deaths here?” Sam asked.

  Nita stared at her, her dark eyes demanding attention. “Of that, I am certain.”

  Chapter 26

  The sun had dipped below the horizon a half hour before Sam turned onto Dry Creek Road. The evening onshore breeze had cleared the clouds, revealing a crystalline sky, tinted a deep Prussian blue by the remnants
of the sun’s light. As twilight thickened into night, the stars winked on one by one until the heavens held thousands of them, sparkling like champagne bubbles. A bright nearly spherical moon appeared to balance on a ragged hilltop to her left.

  As a child, Sam had loved nights like this. Because she had lived three miles from the meager lights of Mercer’s Corner, she needed only walk out her back door to enjoy spectacular views, free of even minimal light pollution. She would stretch out on a flat rock, which steadily released an entire day’s worth of sunbathing, creating a warm cradle in the cool night air. For hours, she would stare into the sky and wonder what it would be like to travel among the stars. She learned the names of the constellations. Her favorites: majestic Orion with fiery Betelgeuse, anchoring one corner, and the playful Pleiades.

  Her father gave her a book of Greek and Roman mythology and passed many hours teaching her the ancient stories. With book in hand, they would sit for hours on that same warm rock and he would point out the constellations and relate to her how each came to be, which breathed life into the various star patterns and opened up a world of new friends and adventures.

  She learned that Orion, a skilled hunter, was given an eternal resting place in the heavens after he had been felled by the jealousy and treachery of Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt. She delighted in mighty Apollo, whose chariot ferried the sun across the sky, Zeus and Hera, who sat at the apex of the Pantheon, and dark, dreadful Hades, who cast a spell over Persephone with a handful of pomegranate seeds and brought about the four seasons.

  Maybe Hades had come to Mercer’s Corner and wreaked this havoc, she thought. Maybe we would have perpetual winter from now on.

  She wished she were back on that rock, dreaming of the gods and not out here in the desert, going to see a man who thought he was God.

  The Jeep bounced over a rise in the road, bringing the top of Reverend Billy’s tent into view. Over another rise, she saw that the desert floor had been transformed into a carnival. The floodlit tent, swaged over two fifty-foot support poles, looked like a giant sailing ship. Behind it, seven giant Reverend Billy faces smiled from his four buses and three equipment trailers, which sat in a semi-circle around the tent. Hawkers sold snacks and soft drinks, Reverend Billy trinkets, and Bibles. Young men and women manned popcorn and cotton candy machines and dispensed these treats to eager customers. Children stood impatiently in line for a pony ride.

  All for a price.

  Reverend Billy sure knew how to throw a party. “Make that a fund raiser,” Sam muttered to herself.

  She parked her Jeep just off the road and waded into the crowd. Gospel music blared from an array of speakers, welcoming the steady stream of people that filed into the tent, most pausing long enough to purchase a gaudy souvenir. It appeared as if the everyone in the county was there.

  Betty McCumber stopped her, her eyes wild with excitement.

  “Isn’t this great, Sam?” She danced from foot to foot as if on hot coals. “Can you believe he’s really here? I listen to his radio program every Sunday.”

  “Yeah, Betty. It’s just great.”

  “Now, we will be saved.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Reverend Billy is blessed with the power of God. He will stop Satan and Garrett. And those awful hippies.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Sam said sarcastically. “Have you seen Sheriff Walker?”

  “He’s over by the tent. I saw him a few minutes ago.” She waved to Marjorie Bleekman, who stood near the pony ride. “I’ll see you later,” she said and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Impressive isn’t it?”

  She turned to see Nathan standing beside her.

  “That’s one word. Disgusting also works. Snake oil salesman seems appropriate, too.”

  “He does have a gift.”

  “Look at them,” she said. “I know these people. They’re normal, rational human beings. I can’t believe they’re buying into Reverend Billy’s bullshit. You’d think they were kids at a carnival.”

  “They are. Tonight anyway. It isn’t often they get to see a real celebrity like Reverend Billy up close and personal.”

  The canned gospel music suddenly died, followed by a screech of feedback, then a woman’s voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. Reverend Billy will be with us shortly, but now I’d like to introduce the Holy Church of God Choir, led by Maurice LeBlanc. Come on inside and enjoy their wonderful voices as they raise them in praise of our Lord. Maurice.”

  The people still outside the tent hurried toward the entrance as the choir broke into “Nearer My God to Thee.” Children howled as parents pulled them toward the tent and away from the pony ride.

  Sam and Nathan slipped inside, finding Charlie Walker near the back wall.

  “Quite a happening, isn’t it?” she said to Charlie.

  He shrugged and grunted, which meant he didn’t think too much of it.

  Sam estimated that seven to eight hundred folding chairs filled the floor of the tent and faced an elevated stage. Nearly every seat was occupied and another hundred or so people stood along the tent’s walls. Floodlights, which hung from a scaffolding that rose thirty feet above the floor, bathed the stage. Four rows of bleachers claimed the left half of the platform and supported the choir. Clad in black robes with purple trim, they enthusiastically sang God’s praises. A single microphone stood center stage.

  The choir concluded their program with “Rock of Ages.”

  The woman who had introduced Billy in town that afternoon, neatly dressed in gray slacks and a white blouse, approached the microphone. “Thank you, Maurice.” She clapped and bowed slightly toward the choir. “Let’s have a big hand for Maurice LeBlanc and the Holy Church of God Choir.”

  The audience responded with a standing ovation.

  “Thank you all for coming,” she continued. “We have traveled across the country to be here with you in your time of need. When we learned of the sorrow that had befallen you good people, we knew we must come to help and comfort. Reverend Billy Thibideaux has given his life to the service of our Lord. It is the word of God that he brings to you this evening.”

  Someone from the crowd shouted “Amen.” Others echoed the same. Cheers and clapping erupted.

  The woman smiled and raised her hands to quiet the crowd. “Reverend Billy has come to console, to sooth, to heal your wounds. To bring the Lord to you. Good people, I give you Reverend Billy Thibideaux.”

  The choir broke into the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

  Reverend Billy, dressed in a navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and red silk tie, mounted the stage, waving, then folded his hands together in mock prayer and bowed to the adoring congregation. Among the cheers and shouts, gasps could be heard as his massive form approached the microphone. The applause grew louder. He waved to the audience, a Cheshire cat grin splitting his tanned face. He dabbed sweat from his forehead with an handkerchief. Finally, he raised his arms and silence fell.

  “Thank you,” he drawled. “I welcome you to the Holy Church of God.”

  Again applause and cheers filled the arena. Someone yelled, “We love you, Reverend Billy.”

  A young man walked on stage, handed Billy a Bible, and then retreated. Billy raised the book high over his head and waited theatrically for the crowd noise to diminish.

  “This is the word of God,” he boomed.

  A smattering of people, mostly those who had arrived with Reverend Billy, shouted back, “Amen.”

  Again Billy bellowed, “Praise the Lord.”

  “Amen.” The chorus grew louder as the enthusiasm of Billy’s shills infested their neighbors.

  “Praise Jesus,” Billy thundered, waving the Bible over his head.

  “Amen,” reflected the congregation with enough force to vibrate the ground.

  Billy’s voice dropped to a whisper, causing silence to fall over the crowd. “The Lord is here. He is with you in your time of need. He awaits your call. He a
waits the opening of your hearts.”

  He wiped sweat from his face and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. He began to pace back and forth, the Bible in one hand, microphone in the other.

  “But, someone else is here. Someone so evil, so vile, so black with hatred that he has transformed this community into a place of fear and sorrow. He is Satan.”

  Billy’s voice began to rise.

  “He and his disciple, Richard Earl Garrett, have seeped into your lives, stealing your souls, your happiness, your love. Your friends, your neighbors, your children.

  His resonant voice rose higher still.

  “You alone cannot cast him out. Only with the power of God can you remove this scourge from your lives.”

  His voice became a booming clap of thunder. The Bible’s pages fluttered over his head as he swung it back and forth.

  “You must open your hearts to Jesus and to God. You must confess your sins and beg for His forgiveness. Give Him your love and He will give you the strength to cast Satan out. He will fill your hearts with love and it is this love that Satan cannot overcome.”

  “He’s good.” Sam said.

  “Told you,” Nathan replied.

  Reverend Billy launched into a passionate sermon of good versus evil while a dozen pretty young girls, including Blue Eyes, passed through the crowd collecting money in deep baskets. Apparently, God didn’t like ugly. A table in the corner of the tent stacked high with Bibles autographed and blessed by Reverend Billy, did a brisk business.

  Billy removed his jacket, exposing a shirt soaked with the sweat of the Lord’s work, then resumed his pacing. The audience sat entranced as he pranced back and forth, his white mane reflecting the overhead lights, producing a halo around his face.

  “We live in the time of Revelations. Few have read and fewer still understand this final book of God’s great work. It is difficult for most to believe such apocalyptic words, to believe that the war between God and Satan could reach such cataclysmic proportions. That the heavens and Earth could be so shaken and plunged into such despair. Surely mankind could not survive such a holocaust.”