They dug a hole into the floor of the chamber, unearthing the bones of children less fortunate than their own. When they were done, they buried Jacob Masters face down in the earth so he could see Hell.
The sun was rising when they emerged from the church. Maggie and Imogene sat with the children in the shade of the poplars lining the clearing. The six babes were curled up among their guardians, fast asleep in the weeds. Laura Tremly sat against a nearby tree, her hands bound to the trunk. She drifted in and out of consciousness, babbling in tongues none of them could understand, nor did they want to.
Imogene sipped water from Maggie’s canteen and held a bloody bandage to her face. She needed medical attention, but the pills Maggie gave her would keep the pain at bay for now. She leaned her head back against the trunk of a poplar and watched as the men set fire to the church.
They stayed for a while after and watched until the Lord’s Church of Holy Voices was nothing more than a pile of ashes upon a cracked foundation. Only when the flames licked the heavens and the far-off sirens of the fire department wailed did she breathe a sigh of relief.
It’s over, she thought. Thank God, it’s over.
And for her, she was right.
But for the children, their nightmare wouldn’t begin for another thirty years.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF IMOGENE TREMLY (1)
1
From the Stauford Tribune’s Evening Edition, August 30th, 1983
STAUFORD DEATH CULT CLAIMS 57
STAUFORD, KY – The bodies of 57 men and women were found dead early Monday morning in an apparent suicide pact, local authorities said.
Officials confirmed they received a 911 call Monday morning around 6:30 a.m. reporting a fire at the church near Devil’s Creek Road. Emergency responders arrived on the scene at about 7:05 a.m. and were met by thirteen survivors of the incident who led them to the burning church.
“There was nothing we could do,” Fire Chief Doug Stewart said. “A place that isolated, all we could do was make sure the flames didn’t spread to the trees.”
According to Chief David Bell of the Stauford Police Department, members of the Lord’s Church of Holy Voices took their own lives in what officials believe was a religious ceremony. “We’re still trying to sort out the details. Obviously, there are lots of questions, and this is going to take time to make sense of it all,” Chief Bell said. He later added, “This is one of the worst things I’ve ever seen in my twenty years on the force.”
Authorities have withheld the names of the thirteen survivors and the deceased, pending further investigation. The Whately County coroner’s office was not available for comment.
2
From the Landon Herald, September 1st, 1983
INVESTIGATION CONTINUES INTO STAUFORD SUICIDES
STAUFORD, KY – Local authorities continue to pick up the pieces following a mass suicide that occurred late Sunday evening outside Stauford’s city limits. The Lord’s Church of Holy Voices was a known religious community located in a section of Daniel Boone National Forest, locally known as Devil’s Creek.
According to Stauford’s City Commissioner, Wallace Getty, the investigation is currently focused on the background of Jacob Masters, the late reverend of the church. “Any Stauford local will tell you Masters had a way with words,” Getty said. “I’m shocked by what’s transpired but not at all surprised.” Getty declined to comment further when asked for clarification.
The Lord’s Church of Holy Voices was founded in 1919 by Thurmond Masters. Records indicate that Jacob Masters took ownership of the church in 1957 following his father’s death. Herald readers may remember Jacob Masters was the subject of a state investigation into allegations of child abuse. At the time of this printing, the investigation was pending due to a lack of eye-witness testimony.
3
From the Breyersburg Bugle, March 27th, 1985
FAMILY CUSTODY GRANTED FOR STAUFORD SIX
STAUFORD, KY – Custody for the six minors orphaned following 1983’s tragic mass suicide will be granted to their grandparents, Judge Thomas Mercer declared on Thursday. The court’s decision follows months of deliberation which has drawn public criticism.
“The court has spoken,” said one family’s attorney, Glenn Wolfard, following the verdict. “These last several months have been trying for all involved. What’s important now is that we move on from this horrible tragedy and allow these kids to live normal lives.”
The ‘Stauford Six,’ a nickname given to the six minors who were rescued in late 1983 following a suicide pact at a local church, have been the subject of a heated public battle between state and local officials. Reintegration of the Stauford Six into Stauford’s public school system continues to divide the greater Stauford community.
“We don’t want these tainted cult kids poisoning Stauford’s youth,” said Chief David Bell of Stauford’s Police Department, as reported by the Stauford Tribune during a planned protest last December. Bell and others presented a petition containing over one thousand signatures to the court last week. Bell’s office was not available for comment following the court’s verdict.
4
From Usenet Newsgroup alt.urbanlegends.ky, June 13th, 1995
ANYONE EVER HEARD OF DEVIL’S CREEK?
[Note: First online mention of incident. –Genie]
User alien-head22 wrote: “Check this shit out, y’all. My mom just told me about this place out near Cumberland Falls. Place called Devil’s Creek Road. Used to be an old church out there. Some rednecks were worshiping Satan and they burned down the place. Mom told me she and her friends used to go out there to party and they saw all kinds of weird shit. Any of yuns ever heard of it?”
User BullsFan23 wrote: “Oh yeah, I been there before. That where I fingered ur mom.”
User cowjot47 wrote: “no shit I heard about this place. My dad told me they used to skin children out there and hang their body parts from the trees. Really f*cked up shit.”
User meetwood-flack wrote: “Ain’t that place near Dog Slaughter Creek? I heard they hung dog parts from the trees to warn people off the grounds.”
User alien-head22 wrote: “I just asked my mom and she said it’s near Dog Slaughter. She told me they saw shadows in the trees. Creepy figures without faces hiding in the woods and watching people there. She said they had blue eyes. Her and her friends heard spooky voices whisperin to em so they ran outta there real fast.”
User BullsFan23 wrote: “How old are you alien_head22 you sound like ur 12.”
User alien-head22 wrote: “Old enough to fuk ur mother.”
User meetwood-flack wrote: “Oooh burn.”
5
From the Lexington Quarterly, Fall Edition, October 1st, 2013
THE BOOGEYMAN OF STAUFORD, KENTUCKY
This time of year, the staff at Lexington Quarterly delight in sharing their favorite local haunts and legends. Some of these local Kentucky legends have become the subject of past editions (see our 2007 Fall Edition about the “Hillbilly Beast,” or our 2011 piece on Bobby Mackey’s haunted honkytonk bar), but this year, we decided to put out a call to you, our readers, for your favorite scary legend. One such reader submitted what we consider to be one of the more disturbing and unsettling tales, primarily due to the truth behind the legend. It was so unsettling, in fact, that our Editor-In-Chief refused to travel to the location for an on-site editorial.
As our reader suggested, we dug into the history of a little railroad town called Stauford. It’s about eighty miles south of Lexington on I-75, a stone’s throw from the Tennessee border. At a glance, one might assume this snapshot of Kentucky living is as idyllic as it is quaint, a quiet sort of place where a family can grow in relative peace and comfort. Obviously, since we’re talking about it here, there’s a darker side to this town which most folks in Stauford would rather forget.
The legend of the Devil’s Creek Boogeyman began in the 1970s, although some might say it goes back further than that. An eccentric reverend
by the name of Jacob Masters preached a different kind of sermon—
[PAGE IS TORN]
—the legend of Devil’s Creek remains just that: a scary story told to spook the young, a story given occasional life by the whispers of a boogeyman named Jacob Masters who still haunts those woods. The few online discussions we found tell of dark shadows in the forest and hushed voices slipping from between the trees, usually accompanied by grainy photos too obscure to decipher. Perhaps more curious, however, is that despite our research, we found no recent mention of those who survived the fiery ordeal back in 1983.
There were six children who survived the inferno, dubbed the ‘Stauford Six’ by local media since the law forbade the release of their names. Records show they were eventually turned over to the guardianship of their grandparents, former members of the Masters cult who defected when things turned crazy. Aside from a Stauford Tribune article reflecting on the five-year anniversary of the incident, all mention of the survivors seems to have slipped between the cracks of history. At the time of this writing, the Stauford Six are just as much phantoms as the late Reverend Jacob Masters himself. Thirty years later, one mystery remains: What happened to the Stauford Six?
PART TWO
RITES OF PASSAGE
Stauford, Kentucky
Present Day
CHAPTER FIVE
1
An uneasy calm fell over Jack Tremly when he passed the interstate sign announcing STAUFORD – 20 MILES. He was tired and strung-out, having spent the prior night in the uncomfortable bed of a no-name roadside motel across the river from Cincinnati. What was the name of the town? Newport? It didn’t matter—Jack had lived in enough shitholes in his time and decided at first glance that Newport was one of them.
Part of him wanted to carry on in the night. Stauford, Kentucky was a few more hours down this stretch of I-75, and the sooner he arrived, the sooner he could get everything over with. The other part of him, the one that sometimes woke up screaming in the dark wanted to prolong the inevitable as much as possible. That part of him didn’t want to go to Stauford at all, and for good reason.
His trepidation grew with each mile. The past stalked him like a cold shadow. Jack supposed the shadow had followed him his entire life, growing more chilling the older he got. Now, almost twenty years since he’d left Stauford, here he was again. Part of him wondered if the fires were still burning.
A steady buzz displaced the noise of morning talk radio. Smiling, Jack pressed the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Yes, my dear?”
“You sound too chipper for a weekday morning. Are you okay? Have the locals taken you hostage? Sniff twice if you’re in distress.”
His agent’s voice was exactly what he needed first thing in the morning. Carly Dawes had a way of invigorating him, be it through her stern professionalism or her dry wit. Jack suspected it was a mixture of both.
“No worries, darlin’. If the locals couldn’t assimilate me before, I doubt it’ll work now.”
Carly chuckled, filling the car with a surge of static. “But seriously, kiddo, are you okay? That’s why I’m calling. You know, not because you’re a top client or anything. Not because you have a gallery showing in four days.”
“Is it because you care?”
“Of course. Because I care.”
Jack smiled. She did care, in her own way. Many of his contemporaries spoke highly of Ms. Dawes but warned him she was all business. He didn’t think that was a bad quality, and in truth, he was thankful for her no-nonsense approach. She’d managed to get his work through many doors he’d once thought impenetrable. Next week’s gallery show was the latest in a long line of successes with his artwork, and he attributed that to her.
“So, what’s on your agenda today, kiddo?”
“Meeting with the probate attorney, signing some paperwork, and then I’m going to go see the old homestead. I’m about twenty miles outside of town, and a few hours early. Couldn’t sleep last night.”
“Night terrors again?”
“Yeah, the usual.”
“Good, keep ‘em coming. There’s a reason the critics call you the next Beksiński. I don’t know what goes on in that fucked-up head of yours, but whatever it is, it sells. Anyway, are you sure you can’t fly back? I don’t understand why you couldn’t fly down there and be on your way back to civilization before—”
“I told you, Carly, I don’t like flying.”
“Right, the claustrophobia thing. Sorry. Well, keep me in the loop, and if you can get back to the city ahead of time, try for that, too. Ciao!”
The line went dead, and the talk radio DJ resumed his banal commentary. Jack leaned back, braced his hands against the steering wheel, and yawned. Driving over twelve hours the day before caught up to him. The lack of sleep wasn’t doing him any favors.
Perhaps Carly was right. He could’ve flown in half the time, been in and out of town in a day, and been done with his business; but that would’ve meant no time for preparation. A trip to Stauford meant more to him than throwing clothes into his overnight bag. He’d not been home in more than twenty years, a fact for which he refused to feel any sort of guilt, despite not being there for Mamaw Genie’s funeral.
I told you to go, sweetie. So, go. Your place isn’t here. We both know that.
Jack sighed. She was right. She’d always been right. College was his way out of town, and a string of sales and gallery showings got him the attention he needed to start a career. Twenty years later, he was on the way to one such gallery showing when he got the call from his grandmother’s attorney.
Thinking on it now, replaying the message from Tiptree’s secretary in his head, Jack’s heart raced. He loved his grandmother dearly, but he couldn’t bear the thought of putting her into the earth. She’d always been there, always guiding him in the right direction. Even when he was a thousand miles away, she was still there, checking in on him every weekend like clockwork. Their last conversation was as mundane as it was sweet. Like always, she asked if he’d met anyone, as she wasn’t getting any younger and would like to have a great-grandchild. Like always, he rolled his eyes, laughed it off, and asked if she was remembering to take her medications.
And like always, they talked about the weather, because talking about his art scared them both. That topic was always off limits, because unlike his agent and contemporaries and his fanbase, they both knew where that darkness came from. They’d lived it, seen it with their own eyes, and it was enough for two lifetimes. Maybe more.
Now, Mamaw Genie was gone, another fatal victim of a heart attack.
The sign for Exit 29 loomed on the horizon. A numbness fell over him, easing the tension in his chest. His grandmother’s voice spoke inside his head. Relax, she told him. Everything is fine now. You’re home, sweetie.
That thought conjured a chill across his shoulders, raking its claws down his back, and he realized the shadow trailing him all his life hadn’t really left at all. It was right here the whole time, waiting for him to come back.
He flipped on the Mazda’s turn signal and merged onto the exit ramp. “I’m home, Mamaw.”
2
He didn’t go where he needed to right away. The appointment with the probate attorney wasn’t until eleven. He’d not seen Chuck Tiptree since high school, long before that cocky little shit added “esquire” to his name, and Jack supposed a couple more hours wouldn’t make much of a difference.
Off the highway, he drove east, noting businesses along the old Cumberland Gap Parkway had sprung up in his absence like fungus, the most notable being a giant Walmart Supercenter crawling with life even at 9 AM on a weekday. He surveyed the retail behemoth with idle curiosity before a nearby billboard stole his attention. A curly haired brunette stared down at traffic with a smirk on her face, one hand held up with her pinky and index fingers extended, defiantly throwing the devil horns to all newcomers from the highway.
Z105.1 – THE GOAT! KEEPING IT EVIL FOR ALL OF STAU
FORD’S SINNERS!
A byline in smaller text read, “Featuring Stevie G. in the mornings!” The Goat? A rock station? Devil horns in this part of the Bible Belt?
Be still, my beating heart.
He punched in the radio station as the light turned green. A moment later, he was on his way, driven forward by the classic crunch of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”
He followed the parkway east, more by memory than the guidance of his GPS, and the landscape was both foreign and familiar. The local economy had grown in the last twenty years, perhaps more so in the last five than the rest. His grandmother emailed some years back about the county finally legalizing the sale of alcohol, something which Stauford’s older generations—and bootleggers—rallied against, but in the end, the promise of commerce and tourism dollars silenced the old guard. The empty fields and undeveloped plots of his youth were now home to chain restaurants, gas stations, and small shopping pavilions.
Off to his right, in the remains of the old Trademark Shopping Center, a bright blue sign proclaimed “Stauford’s Only Drive-Thru Liquor Mart.” And business was booming, even at this hour of the morning. After years of his friends paying a premium to get beer from Swafford’s place over on Moore Hill, the thought of walking into a liquor store and buying a six-pack seemed hilarious and weird to him.
“Highway to Hell” faded into the opening riff of “Have a Drink on Me,” and Jack laughed aloud at the irony. He made a promise to himself to get a drink later, if only to encourage the local hedonism, and drove another mile before turning off the parkway.
Devil's Creek Page 4