Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Other Books by Todd Keisling
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
From the Journal of Imogene Tremly (1)
Part Two
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
From the Journal of Imogene Tremly (2)
Part Three
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
From the Journal of Imogene Tremly (3)
Part Four
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
From the Journal of Imogene Tremly (4)
Part Five
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Silver Shamrock Publishing
In the Scrape
Cricket Hunters
Midnight in the Graveyard
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEVIL’S CREEK
Copyright © 2020 by Todd Keisling
First Digital Edition
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-951043-03-2
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.
Edited by Amelia Bennett, Kenneth W. Cain, & Renee Fountain
Proofread by Heather Cain
Cover artwork © 2019 by Greg Chapman
Cover & interior design by Dullington Design Co.
“Devil’s Creek” photograph © 2019 by Erica Keisling
Interior illustrations © 2019 by Todd Keisling
Silver Shamrock Publishing, LLC.
www.silvershamrockpublishing.com
ALSO BY TODD KEISLING
A Life Transparent
The Liminal Man
The Final Reconciliation
Ugly Little Things: Collected Horrors
The Smile Factory
DEDICATION
Dedicated to the memory of Frank Michaels Errington and Matt Molgaard.
We miss you.
PART ONE
THAT OLD-TIME RELIGION
Outside Stauford, Kentucky
1983
CHAPTER ONE
The sun hung low along the western horizon, painting the forest with fractured orange flames, and Imogene Tremly knew in her heart the minister would be dead before it rose again. She’d prayed for this day, prayed the others would see the light of reason, and finally their time had come. In a past life, she would’ve said her lord had seen to it, but now she wasn’t so sure.
These days she wasn’t sure what was listening to those prayers she sent up into the dark, whispered in her most vulnerable moments. After the horrors she’d witnessed at the Lord’s Church of Holy Voices, Imogene could no longer say with complete faith her god was benign.
Answered prayers? No. All she knew today was fortune had seen fit to smile upon her, and the others had finally gathered the courage to stand with her against Father Jacob. Her only fear was they’d waited too long to act, and the children of Jacob’s infernal community were beyond saving.
The car shuddered and lurched as they drove over a pothole. Henry Prewitt took the winding curves of Devil’s Creek Road at full speed, squealing tires and spitting up gravel in their wake.
Jerry Tate leaned forward from the back seat. His face was pale and his lips drawn thin in a grim frown. “Christ, Henry. We want to get there in one piece, y’know?”
Henry clenched his teeth, white-knuckling the steering wheel as they took another curve in the road. Jerry sat back in a huff, clutching the back of Henry’s seat.
Headlights flashed in the rearview, piercing the evening gloom. Maggie Green followed several yards back in her rusted-out Ford pickup, and Roger Billings closed the rear in his old Dodge. Together, their motorcade snaked its way through the brush of Daniel Boone National Forest, tearing up the old access road with demonic fury as they sped toward their fate.
Imogene glanced over her shoulder at the back seat. Jerry looked like he might vomit; Gage Tiptree met her stare but said nothing.
Despite Jerry’s protests, they both knew no matter how fast Henry drove, it wasn’t fast enough.
“I still think we should’ve gone to the cops. At least then we wouldn’t be going in alone.”
Henry spoke flatly, his voice nothing more than air forced through corn husks. “We already tried, and it got us nowhere. They’re just as afraid of him as we are. It’s us or no one.”
Silence fell over them as the Toyota rattled along the gravel road. Deep down, Imogene knew Jerry was right—they should’ve gone to the police one last time—but there was also truth in Henry’s words as well. How many times had they tried calling attention to Father Jacob’s nightly activities? How many anonymous reports of child abuse and rape would it take before the police would finally act?
Too long, Imogene thought. Too long, and a handful of dead children. Thoughts of her grandson Jackie propped up on Father Jacob’s stone altar made her stomach twist in knots. She blinked away the grisly image and focused on the road ahead, as her mind wandered back to all the things she could have done to avoid this outcome. If only she’d opened her eyes sooner, maybe then she wouldn’t have lost her daughter to Jacob’s brainwashing.
Imogene closed her eyes and scolded herself. What’s done is done. You can’t save Laura, but maybe you can save little Jackie.
Henry slowed the car to a stop as they neared the turnabout. Two muddy ruts cut through a narrow clearing in the woods before disappearing around a bend several yards back. There, the gravel road was consumed by the overgrowth, turning back travelers for as long as any of them could remember. Those who belonged here, however, knew of another path.
Imogene opened her eyes. The trailhead beckoned to them like a gaping mouth, waiting to swallow them all. Half a mile down, the trail dipped into a gully where the creek trickled its way toward the Cumberland River. A wooden footbridge they’d built years before would carry them to the other side.
From there, any traveler would find a series of homes, nothing more than cardboard and sheet metal shacks. They’d all lived in those homes at one point or another, selling off their belongings for the sake of Jacob’s vision, trading their lives of privilege and sin for those of piety and reverence. Beyond the village, the forest gave way to a clearing, and rising from its center was Calvary Hill. The heart of Jacob Masters’s religious community sat atop Calvary: a one-room, white-washed church with a black steeple. And down in the pit below, deep in the heart of that blighted land, they would find the bastard.
Imogene’s heart raced. She reached into her purse and pulled out her daddy’s revolver, amazed by how such a small thing could bear such weight, hoping her daddy
’s lessons wouldn’t fail her now.
Henry parked the car and shut off the engine. He popped the trunk and turned to the men in the backseat. “I won’t blame either of you boys if you want to back out now.”
Jerry and Gage remained silent, studying Henry’s face. They nodded to one another, a tacit agreement between old friends that wasn’t lost on Imogene. See it through.
“Genie,” Henry said, “What about you?”
Imogene placed her daddy’s revolver in her lap, absently tracing her finger along the loaded cylinders.
“Jacob took my Laura from me, and I didn’t do nothin’ because he told me it was God’s will. I’m not going to make the same mistake with my grandson. He can’t have him—he can’t have any of those children. We’re all they’ve got now. If I meet my maker tonight, I’ll do it knowing I did what I could to make things right.”
Her words clung to the air between them, resonating like church bells. They all knew Henry Prewitt’s offer to turn back was an empty one; none of them could back out now even if they wanted to. Not after all they’d let happen. Tonight, they would atone for their sins, one way or another.
Imogene opened the door and broke the silence. The sound of low guttural chants sent her heart into her throat. Nestled between each lurching incantation were the shrill calls of children in song.
“It’s begun,” she whispered.
The men climbed out of the truck. Henry looked back at her, frowning. He understood this was their burden and theirs alone.
Henry retrieved his shotgun and chambered a round.
“Then let’s end it.”
CHAPTER TWO
1
Jacob Masters stood at the threshold of his church and gazed down the hill at his self-made paradise. His people chanted, calling out the many names of their new lord in preparation for their offering. Their children—his children—sang in harmony, speaking the forgotten words of God with their sweet cherubic voices. He leaned against the doorframe and closed his eyes, relishing the soft breeze rustling through the trees, whispering like the voice of a god in his ears. Shhh, that voice told him. Breathe this in. Take it in. This is your will. Your will and the Old Ways are one.
His will. Yes. Who else would have given everything to empower their flock? Not the false god of the heathens in Stauford. They had forgotten the Old Ways, turned away from their purified scripture by a deceiver and usurper. The heretics had traded the ways of blood and fire and tongues for a more hypocritical, self-righteous doctrine. Their sins were metaphorical, the devil a phantom of their own conjuring, nothing more than veiled attempts at filling the heads of their congregation with psychobabble and lies.
The path of the Chosen is gilded in fire, forged in blood, and patterned across the bones of the damned. The people of Stauford will remember the Old Ways, and soon.
His new lord told him as much, opened his eyes to the truth, and Jacob saw that truth before his eyes. The decadence and decay of modern society grew and festered around him like a cancer. How could he stand aside and let this filth overrun the earth?
Oh, how much time had he wasted leading his flock astray?
Jacob opened his eyes. No longer, he thought. It is time we bring back the Old Ways. A song from his youth crept from the corners of his memory, and the lyrics tickled the back of his throat until he could not help but give them voice.
“Give me that old-time religion,” he sang quietly, “it’s good enough for me.”
Beyond the foot of the hill, where the clearing gave way to the forest, lights emerged from the shadows as the chanting grew louder. Jacob smiled when he saw the crimson figures emerge from the wood.
Six members of the congregation stood at the forest’s edge, each draped in red robes dyed by their own hands in preparation for this day. Red to symbolize their sacrifice; red to pay tribute to their new lord. They each carried lanterns to light their way toward the church, and behind them, clad in robes of white, stood their sons and daughters.
My lambs, Jacob thought, relishing the sudden stiffness in his black trousers. He brushed a hand over his bulge and sucked in his breath at the sensation. His little lambs. Such a shame he must part with them so soon, at such a young age, but their lord had needs just as he, and in the end, he was a servant himself.
Sacrifice, after all, was at the core of the Old Ways. Sacrifice and so much suffering.
The chants intensified as the remaining members of Jacob’s flock emerged from the forest, their faces aglow in lantern light. An intense sensation of joy rippled through him. His flock, his children, were here to see all their hard work come to fruition. Tonight, and every night after, would bring them one step closer to a new world. A new paradise on Earth, free from the heathens and heretics.
And here, where he’d first heard the whispered truths of their one true god, he would become his lord’s apostle, his flock’s savior.
Jacob knelt in the doorway and ran his fingers through the bald patch of soil at his feet. He dug his hand into the dirt, sensing the subtle vibrations of the earth and the god who slumbered within. When he extracted his fingers from the soil, a plump earthworm came with them, wrapped around his ring finger. He raised his hand before his face and smiled at the proposal.
“By your will, my lord, my love, my light.” He plucked the worm from his finger, placed the writhing tip between his teeth, and bit off its lower half. The other half he dropped to his feet, where it squirmed in the open wound of dirt. He savored the bitter, metallic taste on his tongue and silently thanked his god for the gift. The worm curled in upon itself before seeking comfort in the loose soil. He watched until it was gone and swallowed the earthen mess in his mouth.
Only through blood will we regain dominion. Rend their flesh under the light of the moon and let their blood wash away the damned.
The lord spoke within him, and for the first time, Jacob truly felt like the right hand of God. He’d knelt at the pulpit of a false idol for far too long, watching hypocrites saunter into the pews every Sunday morning, praising their lord while harboring the very sins they despised in others. Their time would come. Oh yes, their time would come, in a tidal wave of blood so great it would rival the great flood of the Old Testament.
A sacrifice begets sacrifice. Changes are wrought with pain. Salvation comes not from sloth but from the cleansing fire of agony. The Old Ways mandated sacrifice and the spilling of blood. God willing, Jacob Masters would have both before the night was through.
2
“But Mommy, I’m scared.”
Laura Tremly looked down at Jack and squeezed his hand. Her little lamb was always afraid, always questioning their faith and conviction. She smiled, quietly wishing their new god would silence him for good.
Soon, she wanted to tell him. Tonight, Jacob will have you again, and then I will be free of you.
Instead, Laura shushed him, and whispered, “Fear is a sin of the heart. Be strong for your lord, like we talked about.”
Jack blinked back tears and wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe. He glanced at the other children, seeking comfort in their shared reactions, but they cast their eyes to their feet.
Laura watched her son and tried to read his face. She wondered if he would listen to Father Jacob. Would the boy do as instructed, even in the face of danger? And would their god accept him as a suitable offering?
Oh honey, your mind is wandering again.
Jacob’s voice spoke in her head, whispering like a hushed breeze on a cool summer night. Laura closed her eyes and smiled as a delightful warmth washed over her. He always knew the right things to say to her, even without saying a word. Such was his power. He could see through her, into her, shining a light on the darkest corners of her heart. Not to expose or mock her, but to make her whole and cleanse her spirit.
My will and the Old Ways are one, he’d told her. And she’d given herself to him because he willed it. She’d given him her son like the others. Just as she would do again for one final
time tonight.
We are yours, she thought, staring up the hill toward her savior. I give you my life, and I give you our son. Take him as you took me.
And peering down at her, Jacob spoke again in her head: As you wish, my darling lamb.
Laura closed her eyes and sucked the air through her teeth as a new wave of warmth flushed through her, down her belly and between her legs.
“Your will,” she whispered, “and the Old Ways are one, my darling.”
Jack squeezed her hand, yanking her back to this crude reality of flesh and sin. “Mommy?”
She looked down at her son and bit her lip so hard she pierced flesh. A trickle of coppery warmth filled her mouth.
“Be silent. Your time is at hand, child. Do you not see?”
Jack’s eyes welled with tears. “Mommy—”
But she wasn’t listening to him anymore. He was a part of her, yes, but a temporary part, a shred of flesh and blood picked clean from her body. There would be more children. She prayed they would be more grateful for the sacrifices that came before them.
Atop Calvary Hill, Jacob raised his arms to welcome his children home.
“Come to me, my lambs,” he called, his voice carrying along the wind, through the leaves and branches, on the wings of every bird and chirp of every insect. By their new lord’s will, Jacob Masters was everywhere, one with nature, one with the earth, one with their hearts.
Laura Tremly yanked her son’s arm, dragging him forward up the hill to his fate. Jack cried out in both pain and terror, begging his mother to stop, but she did not hear him. She held her gaze with her master, her savior, her lover. Your will be done.
Jacob looked down at her, his eyes aglow in the fading light, and grinned.
3
Jack Tremly winced as his mother’s fingers dug into his wrist. He turned to his sister Susan for comfort, her pale face half hidden beneath the white hood of her robe, cast aglow in the warmth of her mother’s lantern.
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