by Jaye Wells
The first time she met the secret Jack, it was just after his daddy died. They’d been eight years old, and she found him crying down by the river. He had escaped the post-funeral party at his mom’s trailer to go mourn in peace. When she found him, he was slumped on a rotting log as he sobbed into his hands. Before she could back away he looked up and caught her. She expected him to yell at her for seeing him so weak. She’d never seen a boy cry before, and every time her daddy got upset he let blows fall instead of tears. So when Jack asked her to sit with him, she’d been too taken aback to answer. He asked again and scooted over to make some room for her.
After she joined him, they’d talked a little bit about his daddy, but mostly they just sat in companionable silence and watched the water rush by. When he started crying again, she reached for his hand. He squeezed it hard but she didn’t complain. Being there with Jack felt so good, she hummed the river’s song for him until the sun went down and they had to run home.
After that evening, Jack went back to his buddies and Ruby went back to her books, but sometimes she caught him looking at her with soft eyes. She never pretended those glances were filled with anything other than gratitude for the kindness she’d shown him. Eventually, Jack found football and began his ascent to athletic godhood, and the soft looks stopped altogether once his status earned him the favor of Sarah Jane Fry.
On the day of Mama’s funeral, Ruby had gone back down by the river seeking comfort. She wasn’t sure how long she cried there, alone, before he came, but once he was there, she realized she’d been waiting for him the whole time. He put his arm around her shoulders, and she held on tight while grief tried to sweep her away like a river current. He didn’t sing to her, but he whispered promises that everything would be okay and she believed him.
After the sun went down, he took her hand and walked her home. By the mailbox at the end of the driveway, he kissed her cheek and smiled a smile that made her believe in happy endings again. But then he’d strolled off into the shadows and never looked back.
In the weeks since that night, she hadn’t seen him much. She kept waiting for those soft looks to start again, but they never did. The few times he looked her way during church, his eyes had looked normal and his smile friendly, not soft, not filled with promises like she’d hoped they’d be.
The girls’ song ended and Deacon Fry joined them on the altar steps. “May you all go in peace, and may your words and your deeds be guided by Christ Almighty.”
“Amen.” Ruby’s whisper was swallowed by the enthusiastic responses of the entire congregation.
Ruby stood with everyone else. The deacon led her sisters down the aisle and Reverend Peale followed at a meandering pace with the help of Deacon Smythe. People began shaking hands and saying their goodbyes so they could begin the process of leaving. In the front pew, Sarah Jane embraced her mother while Jack turned to shake hands with Bunk Foote. When that was done, Jack caught her eye and smiled. “Girls sounded real good, Ruby,” he said. “Sure do miss your singing, though.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks and words tangled on her tongue. Was he talking about the song she hummed for him down by the river?
“It’s been a couple of months since you sang at services,” he added.
Realizing he’d been talking about religious hymns and not secret mountain music, she cleared her throat. Under the wash of embarrassment was the thin ice of shame. “I’m too old now,” she lied.
“Jack?” Sarah Jane’s hands wrapped around his waist and she turned to join the conversation. “We need to get going if you’re going to be there on time.”
To Ruby, he said, “I’m starting my new job in the mines today.”
“Are you nervous?”
Jack’s daddy had died from black lung after working every day of his adult life in those mines. She really wanted to ask if he were scared but resisted. It was the sort of question she’d only have the courage to ask if they’d been alone by the river, not in the middle of church with the whole town eavesdropping.
He tipped his chin and opened his mouth to say something, but Sarah Jane interrupted. “Of course not. He’s excited. Right, Jacky?”
Jack winced. Ruby wasn’t sure if it was because of the nickname or the fact she’d just answer for him like he was a baby. “Actually, I’m excited and nervous.”
Suddenly, inexplicably, she was scared for him. Before she could think better of it, she reached out and touched his hand. “Just be careful, okay?”
He froze, looking down at their hands. Before he could react or she could take it back, Sarah Jane grabbed her fingers and pulled them away.
“I swear, Ruby, you’re such a downer.” Her laughter was grating and forced. “This is a huge opportunity for Jack.”
Ruby felt embarrassed for Sarah Jane and sorry for Jack. He still hadn’t said anything but he refused to look at either of the girls.
“Anyway,” he said, “they train us real good so we’ll be plenty safe.”
Sarah Jane changed the subject. “Where is your daddy today?”
Ruby’s insides went cold with shame. “He’s not feelin’ too good.”
Instead of letting it go, Sarah Jane said, “Hungover, you mean.”
“Sarah Jane,” Jack said in a warning tone.
“What? It’s true, right?”
Ruby pulled herself taller and looked the bitch in the eye. “I need to go find my sisters. God bless you, Sarah Jane.” To Jack, she said, “Good luck.” She tried to convince herself he needed the luck for dealing with Sarah Jane his whole life, but deep down she understood the real threat to Jack was down in the mines. That’s where her daddy’s problems started. Now, his lungs were as black as the coal he’d hauled for twenty years, but at one time he’d probably breathed as easy as Jack did now with his healthy pink lungs and life spread out before him like a golden promise. She prayed Jack would be one of the ones who got out before the blackness crept in.
She longed to go to the ridge and ask the mountain for a sign, some glimmer of hope, but the mountain had fallen silent. Besides, lately she’d come to learn that hope was for other people. So she marched away, leaving Jack to deal with the consequences of the fate he’d chosen.
7
Tests
Peter
Peter had hoped to escape before the service started and come back later to get the key, but then that deacon had speared him with a suspicious glare and started in on his sermon. The words still tainted the chapel’s air like a stealthy fart.
When a man starts imagining he’s the source of creativity he starts thinking of himself as a god and that’s when the devil comes a-callin’.
To say he wasn’t looking forward to shaking the man’s hand was an understatement, but he needed his key to the cabin. If Bunk were right, there’d be no escaping an introduction to Deacon Fry.
When the service concluded, he sat in the pew while the parishioners filed out. The words of the final hymn, which had been sung by two rugrats, still echoed in the chapel.
Would you be free from the burden of sin?
There’s power in the blood, power in the blood;
Would you o’er evil a victory win?
There’s wonderful power in the blood.
Hearing those words coming from two little girls had sent a creeping chill up his neck. No one else in the congregation appeared to be disturbed by it, which told him that sort of thing happened all the time.
Part of him wanted to get out of the pew and escape into the sunshine, but he knew he’d get stuck waiting in line to meet the deacon. So he sat, waited for his turn, and observed the good people of Moon Hollow. Everyone who passed by stared openly at him, as if he were a freak in a sideshow. The idea struck him as funny, since he wasn’t the one who sang about blood and believed art was the devil’s playground.
There’s wonderful power in the blood.
As he watched them file past, he realized that each of those suspicious faces was lily white. His own white skin me
ant he wasn’t used to being an outsider, but in Moon Hollow he wasn’t just an outsider—he was the stranger. Maybe that’s why it was unsettlingly easy to imagine what might happen if a stranger with the wrong skin color stumbled into town.
Talk about the makings of a horror novel.
He would have jotted down the idea, but even he wasn’t enough of an asshole to think that was his story to tell.
The only resident who didn’t stare at him on the way out of the chapel was a mousy teenager who stormed down the aisle without a look in his direction. Her demeanor reminded him of a librarian who’d just told off some unruly kids for being too loud. Her indignant posture was the most remarkable thing about her, but she looked so determined he found himself looking over the crowd for the poor soul she’d just told off. He didn’t see anyone who looked especially indignant or wounded, though, so he gave up and went back to enduring more stares and wondering how long it would be until he could escape to the privacy of his cabin.
Remembering the sign he’d seen on the road to town, he pulled out the pocket notebook where he’d jotted down the chapter and verse number. He pulled a Bible from a shelf in the back of the pew and flipped through until he found Psalm 55:23.
But you, O God,
Shalt bring them down into the pit of destruction.
Bloodthirsty and deceitful men shall not live out half their days;
But I will trust in thee.
He slammed the Bible shut and shoved it back into the shelf.
That gem, along with the lyrics of that creepy hymn, would make itself at home in the dark place in his head where he kept all of the props for his personal horror matinees. It was his safe place—had been since he could remember. His subconscious, where he played with his imaginary friends—or characters, as he called them as an adult. It was the room of miracles where all his best ideas appeared like images on a cave wall; and the place of evil, where he imagined all the worst things that he could never speak about in public.
A throat cleared nearby. A woman with blue-gray hair wearing a pink polyester suit and white shoes waited to speak with him. Her spectacles—they were too prim to call glasses—reflected red sparks from the chapel’s stained glass.
“Mr. West?” Her voice was surprisingly strong for such a petite package. “I’m Mrs. McDuffy—Deacon Fry’s assistant.” She said this last part as if Peter should be very impressed with her title.
Her hand felt cold and bony, like a bird’s claw. “Pleased to meet you.”
“If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you to the deacon and we’ll see about getting your key.”
After that sermon, he was about as eager to meet the deacon as he’d be to make the acquaintance of the guy who’d given him his first one-star review. “I’m sure he’s very busy. You can just give me the key and I’ll meet him another time.”
Her smile was as warm as an ice cube. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. The deacon has the key on his person.”
“Of course he does.” He held out a hand. “After you.”
Her eyes narrowed and she hesitated, as if she suspected he was tricking her somehow. But when he stood very still and put every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his smile, she finally executed a curt nod and walked back out of the pew and marched up the aisle.
Peter kept his shoulders loose and his gait easy. Yet, his entire left side felt hot from the attention of the remaining congregation. Now that he was on the move, they sped down the aisle because everyone, it seemed, wanted to witness the moment when Deacon Fry met the stranger.
Too soon, he emerged from the sanctuary and into the cramped vestibule. The light from the open double doors leading outside blinded him temporarily. By the time he reached the door, he regained enough vision to see the hulking silhouette in the doorway. He blinked and waited behind Mrs. McDuffy while the deacon finished speaking to a young couple.
Deacon Fry appeared to be in his mid-sixties judging from the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He had a skull covered in glorious white hair, thick and luxurious as the pelt of an artic fox. Actually, now that Peter thought about it, the man’s pinched nose reminded him of a fox’s snout, too.
The deacon’s hand rested possessively on the girl’s shoulder. Though clearly in her late-teens, she’d twisted her brunette hair into a bun and wore a dress that would have been more appropriate on a schoolmarm. The way she looked up at him made Peter wonder if he was her father. It was just as likely she admired him because of his position in the church, but her nose, though not as pronounced as the deacon’s, had a familiar point. Despite her conservative get-up, there was something about her posture that hinted at a wildness under all that calico.
The young man with them had a corn-fed physique. Peter couldn’t see his face clearly, but the way all the girls passing him cast glances under their lashes suggested the kid was the town hunk. Judging from the coldness in the older man’s gaze as he listened to something the boy said, the town hunk had set his sights on the deacon’s daughter, but the deacon wasn’t too thrilled by the prospect.
Once the young people were gone, Mrs. McDuffy stepped in front of the old couple who were next in line. She didn’t even look at them or apologize for the slight, and they didn’t raise a stink. They simply waited patiently in the vestibule’s unnatural silence.
McDuffy spoke in a low tone, which lifted the deacon’s gaze in Peter’s direction. He felt a sudden urge to cover himself—to shield his sins from those eyes.
“Mr. West!” Deacon Fry’s voice cut through the heavy air like lightning.
Peter wasn’t a religious man, so it wasn’t the deacon’s position in the small church that had him jumping to action. However, he recognized the sound of power and the promise of retribution in a man’s voice. He’d heard it enough growing up to still be a little afraid of it, even though he was a man full-grown himself.
The deacon’s hand was not large, but it had a firm grip. Peter met the man in the eye and met that grip with equal pressure. “Deacon Fry, it’s a pleasure.”
Their hands separated and they squared off under the gaze of maybe a quarter of the parishioners looking on. Something told Peter the rest of the town would hear of this moment before sundown.
Closer now, he noticed another distinguishing feature on the Deacon Fry’s face—a patchy scar in the center of his forehead. The light coming through the open doors hit the shiny surface of the pink skin.
“Our Lettie said you were renting the old Bascom Road cabin for a spell.”
Peter forced himself to stop looking at the scar. “Yes, sir.”
“A book, she said?” the deacon prompted.
“A novel.”
“May I ask what brought you to Moon Hollow for such a project?”
“I needed some peace and quiet to focus on my work,” Peter lied. Something told him that sharing that a book of hauntings and folk tales brought him to town would only invite scorn—or suspicion, more of it, anyway, from the good deacon. “Lettie’s cabin came up on a website that advertises mountain rentals. It looked perfect.”
“Where do you hail from, Mr. West?”
“Peter, please. I live in Raleigh.”
“Hmm. Never been, myself.”
“It’s lovely this time of year. But not nearly as beautiful as Moon Hollow. Quite a charming town you’ve got here.”
Instead of pleasing the man, Peter’s praise made his eyes narrow. Before he could respond, Mrs. McDuffy came forward and whispered something in the deacon’s ear. When she retreated, he turned back to Peter. “I’d love to keep chatting, Mr. West, but I have a luncheon appointment with the Deacon Council. Come by my office tomorrow morning, say, 10 a.m.?”
“Why?”
The deacon paused, as if unused to being questioned. “So we can get to know each other, of course. I’m very interested in this novel you’re writing.”
“Oh? Are you much of a reader?”
The corner of the deacon’s mouth lifted a fraction, b
ut it didn’t look like a smile at all. “Of course! My favorite authors are Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Mr. West.” He held out his hand, and this time, when Peter shook it, the grip was punishing. “See you in the morning.”
Peter could not think of a meeting he’d ever looked forward to less.
“Wait,” he said, “the key?”
“We don’t lock doors in Moon Hollow, Mr. West.” The deacon half-turned to acknowledge the question. “We pride ourselves on that.”
Peter gritted his teeth against the string of curses just itching to jump out.
“Until tomorrow, Mr. West.” With that, he turned to greet the couple behind Peter, which left him with no choice but to slink out of the church and let the good deacon have the last word.
8
In The Belly Of The Beast
Jack
The hard hat weighed as much as a boulder. Jack adjusted the brim and checked the switch that would turn on his headlamp. His gloved fingers fumbled with the mechanism a couple of times before the reassuring click sounded, but the sunlight swallowed the meager beams. He turned toward Old Fred. "My light workin'?"
Old Fred smiled, revealing gray teeth interrupted by large black voids. He dipped his chin in response to the question before asking one of his own. "Ya nervous?"
Jack shook his head. "No, sir."
Old Fred elbowed him in the ribs. "Bullshit. E'eryone's scared their first time. Nothing ta be shamed of."
His chin rose. "I'm not everyone."
A phlegmy chuckle escaped the broken picket fence of Fred’s smile. "That ain't a football helmet, son. The mines don't care how many touchdowns you scored."
