by Ronald Kelly
The stuntman had been a serial killer. In the early ’seventies he had been convicted of brutally raping and murdering several dozen women over the span of two decades. The evidence had been what had bought him a seat in the electric chair: an entire library of sixteen-millimeter reels Hall had filmed himself. Snuff films of those he had violated and slaughtered.
Ted stared up at the woman on top of him. He reached up slowly, his arms as heavy as concrete. He removed the white-framed shades. Lori’s eyes sparkled down at him. They looked as crazy as the photos Ted had seen of her father. Gleaming with a fiendish satisfaction that was a mixture of ecstasy and bloodlust.
He reached out for the platinum wig, but it was beyond his grasp. Lori leaned in closer, smiling. Her shoulder flexed as she brought her right hand from behind her back.
“Scream for me,” she whispered.
Ted felt the coldness of steel against his throat. He opened his mouth, perhaps to reason with her. But just staring into those lovely eyes and seeing the legacy of darkness that danced beyond them, Ted knew that any attempt would be futile.
As the edge of the knife stung his flesh, he braced himself and, regretfully, gave her what she wanted.
***
The images on the screen were color. Sharply defined, perfectly lit. The sound was minimal. The creaking of bed springs and the low murmurs of passion. There was no music. No soundtrack was necessary.
Lori Hale lay on the round bed, naked, her eyes glued to the television at the far side of the room. She watched as the image of a platinum-haired beauty straddled the hips of an overweight boy with brown hair and glasses.
She watched the scene unfold, slowly snaking her hand past the flat of her stomach to the cleft just beyond. Soon her fingers were at work, stroking.
The video—one of many—continued at a leisurely pace, finely orchestrated and leading toward a familiar finale. Lori watched as the woman reached beneath the edge of the circular mattress and withdrew a long-bladed butcher knife.
As the scene reached its climax, Lori found herself reaching her own. Her fingers worked furiously as she awaited the command she had given more times than she could remember.
Waves of ecstasy gripped Lori, washing through her, giving way to abandonment. Gritting her teeth, she clutched the bedcovers and felt the stiffness of dried blood in the fabric of the sheets.
Then she closed her eyes tightly and listened for the sound of the scream…
DEVIL’S CREEK
Several years ago, not far from where I grew up, folks were encountering some grisly discoveries in the forests and even off the hiking trails of one of the state parks. A few of the local dogs had been decapitated and their heads burnt as some sort of sacrificial offering. There was a lot of talk of devil worshippers and, for a little Southern town smack dab in the center of the Bible Belt, such talk can be mighty disturbing.
Even more disturbing was the fact that locals were believed to be responsible for the gruesome rituals. It could have been a friend or a neighbor…even one of their own kin. Eventually, the offerings stopped and the whole sorry business was forgotten. In a way, it was probably for the best. If some prominent member of the community had been linked to the practice of black magic and Satanism, the repercussions could have been devastating for such a God-fearing town.
The baying of Old Boone rang throughout the August darkness. It started deep down in the hound’s throat, escaping his gullet hoarsely and filling the backwoods hollows. A short silence followed, then another fit of triumphant howling was unleashed, heralding the end of that night’s lengthy pursuit.
Clinton Harpe grinned as he headed south though the black tangle of the Tennessee forest. The hound was closing in for the kill; he could tell by the frantic pitch of the dog’s voice. It wouldn’t be long before Old Boone treed the coon that had eluded them both for the better part of two hours. In his mind’s eye, Clinton could see the bluetick hound, lithe and lathered, stalking the shadowy woods like a pale ghost. The dog’s nose would be close to the ground and filled with the scent of its prey, its bright eyes peering into the darkness, eager for the first glimpse of furry movement shimmying its way up the trunk of a black oak or sourgum tree.
The hunter kept his ears keen. With the double-barreled shotgun tucked safely beneath his armpit, he scrambled down a slope of fragrant honeysuckle and hit the wet channel of Devil’s Creek running. Moonlight filtered through the heavy foliage of the surrounding trees, glistening on the surface of the brook, turning the rushing water into rippling currents of quicksilver.
Clinton wondered where he was at the moment, for that night’s coon hunt had taken him on a long and winding trek through the southern reaches of Bedloe County. It had been a while since he had traveled the heavy woods along Devil’s Creek. It was a land that possessed a dark past, a God-forsaken stretch of wilderness in the truest sense. Most folks preferred not to venture into its rambling labyrinth of blackberry bramble and dense woodland in broad daylight, let alone in the nocturnal hours following sundown.
If Clinton Harpe hadn’t been so caught up in the chase, he might have thought better than to plunge head-long into the dark forest, alone and without the company of others. But the fever of the hunt was within Clinton’s blood, the same as with Old Boone. He could no more halt his mad scramble through the darkness than the dog could put the brakes on his own instinctive nature.
Clinton thought of the history of Devil’s Creek as he moved onward. There had once been a small settlement of gypsy farmers a half mile further on, a tight-knit community of drab houses and barns built along the clearwater stream. As a group, they worked and associated solely with their own kind, living in what might be considered a commune of sorts. They were a swarthy race of people, dark of hair and eyes, as well as of character. Unlike their European counterparts, these gypsies were a brooding lot, as silent and somber as a granite tombstone. They did not sing or dance with the gaiety of those brilliantly-clothed vagabonds that most folks identified with the gypsy myth. When they came to the rural town of Coleman for their monthly supplies, they had walked the streets with an air of disdain and contempt, speaking only when necessary, then heading back to their farming community on the fertile banks of Devil’s Creek.
They were a religious people, although their devotion was completely opposite of what most folks’ spirituality consisted of. They belonged to an organization known as the Church of the Alternate Father. It didn’t take an educated man to figure out exactly who that alternate father was…Beelzebub, Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness. One only had to catch a glimpse of their place of worship to know that they were in league with the Devil. The steepled churchhouse was painted jet-black instead of pure dove white like most, and the high, peaked windows were darkly shuttered, bearing the blasphemous symbol of an inverted cross on each. It was said that on nights when the moon was round and high, the sound of chanting could be heard inside the shuttered building, soon followed by the aroma of burning flesh and the cries and moans of carnal acts being committed within. Every once in a while, a hunter’s dog would end up dead or a Coleman farmer would find a prized hog or cow slaughtered in its pen or pasture. In each case, only the head of the animal would be missing. The rest of the body was left, whole and intact.
Then, one night in 1938, the Church of the Alternate Father caught fire, along with most of the other buildings along Devil’s Creek. A good portion of the gypsy population died in the blaze, while the survivors scattered to the four winds afterward. Although it was never said out loud, most suspected that the fire had been set by folks whose tolerance of the blatant midnight rituals and wanton atrocities had finally reached its limit.
The legend did not sway Clinton in his quest for raccoon hide and meat, however. He continued on, splashing through the center of the creekbed, partly out of urgency, partly out of need to cool himself off. The summer night was sweltering and humid, despite the lateness of the hour. Clinton removed his hat, dipped it into the cold current, th
en dumped the contents over his head, nary a step of his long-legged stride faltering as he did so.
He was nearing the gathering of dilapidated, burnt-out buildings, when he became aware that Old Boone was no longer barking. Had he lost the coon? Whether he had or not, the dog would have still been howling to the high heavens. Clinton slowed his pace as he reached the edge of the forest, and it was a good thing that he did, too. He stopped stone still, hidden within the concealment of a heavy pine grove, and watched through the prickly boughs at what took place in the clearing beyond.
Dark figures gathered around the ramshackle hull of the long-abandoned church. It was difficult to make out their features, for the moonlight was all that illuminated them. They seemed to be dressed in hooded robes, similar to those worn by the Ku Klux Klan, though completely black in color. The shape and size of the mysterious forms varied. Some were men, while others appeared to be women and children. All were silent as they filed, one by one, through the open doorway of the fire-gutted structure.
A chill ran down the spine of Clinton Harpe, for he was sure that he was witnessing the ghosts of those who had worshipped there some twenty years ago. But such thoughts of haunting spirits vanished when he saw a group of men standing beneath a nearby tree. Old Boone was with them, jumping playfully, sniffing around as though he were among friends. “Good dog,” said a big fellow, crouching down. He hugged the hound close to him and scratched behind the bluetick’s floppy ears.
Clinton’s apprehension eased up at the sight of the man’s friendliness and he nearly stepped from the shadows to retrieve his misguided hound. But before he could, he watched in horror as the man grabbed the dog roughly by the ears, yanking the animal’s head back and bringing a yelp of startled surprise. Moonlight flashed on honed steel as the blade of a knife appeared, slashing horizontally across Old Boone’s throat, slicing deeply, drawing a fountain of dark crimson.
Shock gripped Clinton in its numbing grasp, followed by the heat of mounting anger. He was about to raise his twelve-gauge and confront the sadistic dog-killer, when he noticed that several of the robed men carried rifles and shotguns. He restrained his urge to step into view and watched the big man saw back and forth with the knife, slashing through the tender muscle of Old Boone’s neck, as well as the hardness of raw, white bone. Soon, the blade had completed its grisly work and the dog’s body fell away from its head. It dropped to its side on the summer grass, paws and tail twitching as the last of its lifeblood ebbed from the fatal wound.
Clinton felt a gorge of bile rising into his throat. He swallowed hard and fought off the nausea that threatened to overcome him. He watched as one of the men, tall and lanky beneath his hooded robe, turned and glanced his way. “Thought I heard something over yonder,” he said in little more than a whisper. His eyes glittered within the dark eyeholes, as he cocked the lever of a Winchester rifle and took a curious step toward the edge of the woods.
As quietly as possible, Clinton retreated into the darkness of the thicket. The last thing he saw before he turned tail and ran, was the big man heading for the old church house, holding the severed head of Old Boone by its ears.
***
The next morning, Clinton rode out to Devil’s Creek with Sheriff Boyce Griffin. They took the main highway out of Coleman, then headed down a turn-off that was little more than two rutted tracks of bare earth with weeds growing high in-between. It looked as though no one had traveled that lonely road in years, let alone the night before.
Clinton honestly believed that Boyce was making the trip simply to put his mind at ease. The sheriff was a good, level-headed man, an outsider who had moved into Bedloe County a few years ago and earned the respect of the local citizenry. He had been a deputy on the county force for a while, then was elected into the position of Sheriff when the previous constable, Taylor White, had died of a heart attack in 1952. Since then, he had proven himself to be a fair man and no one thereabouts had ever found cause to complain about the performance of his job.
They arrived at the charred ruins of the Devil’s Creek settlement around nine o’clock.
It was a beautiful day and the cleansing rays of the summer sun shone upon the burnt buildings and the surrounding land, easing the severity of the sinister events of the night before. Boyce parked his Ford patrol car next to the abandoned church. Then they got out and walked around a bit.
“Where’d you say this fella killed your dog?” asked the sheriff, prying specks of ham and eggs from between his teeth with a café toothpick.
“Over yonder, beneath that tree.” Clinton headed in that direction and Boyce followed.
When they reached the spot, there was nothing to be found. Hide nor hair of the bluetick’s body remained, not even a trace of blood on the grass. “This was where it happened,” swore Clinton. “This was where that bastard done in Old Boone.”
Boyce shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Well, no sign of the dog that I can see.” The sheriff eyed the lanky farmer with a trace of suspicion. “You sure you didn’t tie one on down at the Bloody Bucket last night and dream the whole thing up?”
Clinton was irritated by the insinuation. “I’ve had nary a drop since last weekend. I didn’t imagine what happened here last night, Boyce, and you know it.” Clinton knew for a fact that a strange rash of missing animals had hit Bedloe County recently: mostly lost dogs, but also a few stolen hogs and calves.
“I ain’t ready to believe all this bull I keep hearing about devil worshippers in Bedloe County,” Boyce told him flat out. “I know that it happened here once on Devil’s Creek, but that was pert near twenty years ago. And from what I’ve heard tell, all those gypsies either died in the blaze or left the county with their tails betwixt their legs.”
“Mind if we check out that church?” asked Clinton.
The lawman shrugged. “I ain’t got nothing better to do.”
They approached the black hull of the building that had once provided services for the Church of the Alternate Father. All four walls were intact, but the doors and windows had burned away, leaving narrow openings in the scorched building. They stepped inside the rickety structure and strolled amid the ash and debris. Most of the original pews stood upright, as well as the pulpit at the front of the building. The charred rafters of the great pitched roof stood starkly against the pale blue of the morning sky like the exposed bones of an enormous ribcage.
Once, on a morning very much like this, men hadpicked through the smoldering ruins of the church and removed the burnt bodies of those who had died while worshipping their profane master. Most were men who had been present the night before, men who had carried hatred in their hearts, as well as torches and gasoline cans in their hands. Clinton’s father, Wallace Harpe, had been among them, although he and a few others had only stood and watched, while the others ran through the little village, playing avenging angel and arsonist with the same self-righteous zeal.
“Don’t look like anybody’s been in this old church in a month of Sundays,” said Boyce, smiling faintly at his pun. “How many folks did you say you saw come in here?”
“Had to be at least two dozen,” said Clinton. He walked up the center aisle and halted before the podium. “Hey…come and take a look at this here.”
The sheriff joined him at the dark altar. A single object sat on top. It was the fire-blackened skull of an animal…a dog, from the size and shape of it. There was no meat or hair left on it. Only scorched bone remained. Clinton picked it up and held it in his hand.
“Still warm,” he said, passing it to Boyce Griffin.
Boyce took it and gave it a thorough examination. “That don’t prove anything, Clinton. The sun could’ve heated it up. Looks to me like the thing’s been sitting there for a mighty long time.”
“You just ain’t gonna believe a word I said, are you?”
“Well, hell, Clinton, what do you expect?” said the sheriff, a mite peeved at having been dragged out there on a wild goose chase. “Just look around you. This pl
ace is a damned ghost town. Nobody’s set foot in this part of Devil’s Creek in years. I can’t rightly launch an investigation when there’s no evidence that a crime has been committed.”
“What about the killing of a man’s dog?” asked Clinton.
Boyce shook his head and began to walk back to the doorway of the old church.
“A shame if something did happen to Old Boone, but killing an animal ain’t grounds for a murder charge. And, if it was, who would we convict of it? You can’t slap handcuffs on a ghost, you know?”
“Is that what you think?” snapped Clinton with anger in his eyes. “That it was some figment of my imagination?”
“I keep thinking about all those times you’ve slept off a drinking binge at the county jail, Clinton. Now why don’t you just admit that you had a snoot full and get off this crazy business about animal sacrifices and hooded Satan worshippers.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” proclaimed Clinton. “Not by a long shot.”
He heard the sheriff’s sigh of frustration and the crunch of his footsteps across the ashen floor of the churchhouse. Clinton held the warm black skull in his hands and stared into the empty eye sockets. Is that you, Old Boone? he wondered. Is this all that’s left of you now?
The skull simply stared back mutely, giving him no answers. Clinton set the hunk of scorched bone back atop the pulpit, then reluctantly joined Boyce outside. During the ride back to Coleman, the hoarse baying of a bluetick hound echoed in the back of Clinton’s mind, as well as the panicked yelp drawn by the cold flat of honed steel against canine flesh.
***
That night, Clinton Harpe sat on the back porch of his farmhouse, listening to the radio and staring into the darkness. A Hank Williams song drifted from inside the kitchen, “Lovesick Blues” from the sound of the tune. Clinton’s mind wasn’t much on lyrics that evening. He looked up at the full moon overhead, as high and bright as the one last night, and thought of Old Boone, the finest coon-hunting dog in all of Tennessee. He also thought of a night twenty years ago. A night full of confusing incidents…and unexpected visitors.
