Devil's Creek

by Todd Keisling

  The remnants of the old Layne Camp High School stood off to the left at the top of a hill, empty and derelict for years, like the petrified body of a fallen giant. Across the street, the old football field remained dormant and overgrown. Newcomers wouldn’t recognize it as anything more than a field now, with its metal stands and goalposts removed, but Jack remembered a time when those stands were packed every Friday night. The last time he was in town, he’d heard there were plans to build a new school elsewhere in the county, but he couldn’t say when or where. He was off to college by then, and the goings on of Layne Camp might as well have been lightyears away.

  Jack frowned when he reached the intersection at the bottom of the hill. Hurley’s gas station sat empty, out of business by the look of things, its two pumps long dry. He sat for a moment, replaying happier days in his mind. Mr. Hurley—he never knew the old man’s first name—always gave him a piece of bubble gum when Mamaw Genie stopped for gas.

  “Five in the tank,” she’d say, and hand the white-headed old man a crisp fiver. He’d pocket the bill and come back with a wrapped piece of gum in his hand.

  “For the little one,” he’d say, and offer Jack a sly wink. “Keep the change, young man.”

  The memory made him smile. He idly wondered what happened to good ol’ Mr. Hurley. Cancer, probably. A lifetime of pumping gas couldn’t have done any favors for his health. Jack sighed. Mr. Positive strikes again, he thought, and let off the brake.

  He drove along Briar Cliff Avenue and through the neighborhood of his youth. Some of the yards were yellowing, others overgrown, and Mr. Miller’s prized garden was nothing more than a patch of dead weeds.

  “I used to help pull those weeds,” he muttered, unaware he was speaking aloud, creeping along at a steady five miles an hour. Seeing the dead patch of earth in front of Mr. Miller’s old place saddened him more than the state of the neighborhood. Time was not kind to his old stomping grounds, and he wondered how the rest of the town fared.

  A quarter mile past Mr. Miller’s former home, Briar Cliff split off into Standard Avenue, and Jack followed the road around the bend. From there, he could see Mamaw Genie’s house atop the hill in the distance. Her home was hard to miss. The old Victorian style was once the talk of the town, even the featured article in one of the state’s magazines.

  (“Jackie, a big-shot reporter came all the way down here from Frankfort! Can you believe it?”)

  He could believe it. The house stood out among its neighbors, a monument to his great-grandfather’s classic taste. The story went, as Mamaw Genie told it, her daddy used to travel all over the country for work after the coal mine closed, and he loved New England so much he wanted to build one of their houses back home. “So he did just that,” she’d said, pointing to the brick foundation. “Every brick was put there by my daddy—your great-grandpa Franklin, that is—and our family’s lived here ever since.”

  Jack turned off Standard Avenue and guided the Mazda up the hill toward his grandmother’s home. He parked the car in the drive and gave the house a once-over. A thin layer of dirt clung to the white vinyl siding of the old house, and small cracks splintered up through the brick foundation. The second-floor windows overlooking the driveway were covered in dust and bird shit, and the wraparound porch below them was covered in dead leaves and dried grass clippings. One of the white rocking chairs was tipped over on its side.

  As Jack rounded the corner toward the porch steps, something caught his eye.

  Thick streaks of red paint had drip-dried off the edge of the porch railing. A cool breeze picked up around him, swirling the leaves around his feet, their crackling sound driving a chill up his spine.

  “What the hell?” He walked down the overgrown sidewalk toward the banister, wondering if Mamaw Genie hired someone to paint the house before she passed on. His heart sank when he saw the mess covering her front door. “Son of a bitch.”

  Both front windows were shattered, the curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and thick red letters were scrawled across the front door. There was no effort in their construction, none of the stylistic grace found in true graffiti. Instead, they were swabbed in haste, forming seven words that made his stomach churn: REJOICE! THE OLD WITCH BURNS IN HELL!

  Jack grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Mamaw Genie promised him the heckling and threats stopped years ago, but of course she’d lied to him so he’d stop worrying. He’d still made a call to the Stauford police department to ask that someone keep an eye on the place. Not that it did any good. I guess not everything’s changed around here, he thought, pulling his phone from his pocket. He was so caught up in taking photos of the vandalism he didn’t hear the old woman approach from behind.

  “This is private property, young man.”

  He turned with a start. The old lady looked him over, her lips pursed and swollen hands balled together into gnarled fists. Jack hadn’t seen her since he left town, but even after all these years, she still wore her hair in a tight bun, pulled back so far her forehead seemed stretched, and her eyes protruded with the slightest bulge. Thyroid problems, Mamaw Genie once told him. She’d not mentioned Mrs. McCormick in years, and his cheeks flushed with guilt as he stared. He’d assumed she’d passed away years ago.

  “Ruth?”

  The old woman’s face softened at the sound of her name. She peered at him a moment longer before lifting a wrinkled hand to her cheek.

  “Jackie Tremly? My lord, is that you, darlin’? Is it really you?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, it’s me. How’ve you been?”

  But Ruth was crying, and she approached him with her arms out. They embraced, and she gave him the biggest hug he’d had in years. She smelled of lavender and mothballs. Some things hadn’t changed after all.

  3

  “I think it was Ronny Cord’s boy, ‘cept I can’t prove it. I called the chief, but he ain’t done nothin’ about it. More coffee?”

  Ruth didn’t wait for his reply. She tipped the coffee pot and refilled his mug. Jack drank deeply, enjoying the bitterness of the black brew. Ruth’s kitchen hadn’t changed since he was a kid, except everything seemed much bigger back then. Sitting at her table now, he felt two sizes too big for everything. The walls were still the same wooden paneling from the early 80s, and she still used the same knitted placemats. Time stopped for her when her husband Ed died some years back, and her home was just a place she waited out the days until she could join him.

  “Who’s the chief these days?”

  Ruth returned to her seat. “That would be David Bell’s boy, Ozzie. Did you go to school with him?”

  Jack gulped his coffee and relished the burn in his throat. “Yeah,” he sighed, “I did. We weren’t friends.” Ozzie Bell graduated a couple years ahead of him, and that was after being held back another two. Word around Stauford High was the administration let him graduate to be rid of him, but bad seeds like Ozzie always took root in the worst places. Jack had his own run-ins with Ozzie Bell and his friends back then. Being known around the school as the “pagan art fag” didn’t help matters. Hearing Mr. Bell was Stauford’s police chief crushed his hope of filing a formal report of the vandalism.

  “Anyway,” Ruth went on, “they told me they’d send someone out to look at the damage, but that was two days ago. I reckon Ozzie Bell would rather sit on his high horse a few more days with his thumb up his ass, but that’s none of my business.”

  Jack smiled. He didn’t remember Ruth having so much sass.

  “I s’pose this ain’t none of my business neither, but…” Ruth trailed off, stirring her coffee with her teaspoon. “Are you plannin’ to visit your mother while you’re here?”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but the words weren’t there. When he got the call from Chuck Tiptree’s office to tell him his grandmother passed, he’d packed a bag, hopped in his car, and got on the road. Seeing his mother at the regional hospital hadn’t crossed his mind once, and in truth, he’d not thought of her in years. Laura Treml
y was a bad dream to him, a monster from the shadows of his past. That’s where he preferred she remain.

  “No,” he said finally. “No, I hadn’t planned on it.”

  Ruth nodded. “I s’pose that’s just as well. Was an awful thing, what happened to you kids. Genie did right by you, though. I know she sure was proud of you and what you accomplished. Me, too, though…” She blushed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Jackie, but I don’t have the stomach for the paintings you do.”

  He chuckled. “No offense taken, Ruth. I get that a lot.”

  “I’m glad you’re able to do what you love, and that there’s people out there who love it, too. It’s so rare someone gets out of Stauford and succeeds. Then there’s folks like that slut on the radio, pollutin’ our air with her filth.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Didn’t you see those billboards everywhere, promotin’ the devil’s work on your way into town?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Stevie-something, right?”

  “That’s the one,” Ruth spat. “Nothin’ but filth comin’ out of her mouth every morning. Me and the other ladies at First Baptist are tryin’ to have that station shut down. Can’t believe they let her on the air. This whole world’s goin’ down the toilet, if you ask me. First Genie’s house is vandalized, the chief won’t do nothin’ about it, and we got this harlot playing devil music for the kids to hear…”

  Jack smiled, choosing silence over commentary. Defending Stevie G’s choice of music was not a hill he was willing to die on, especially at this time of morning. He checked his phone and saw he still had an hour to kill.

  “Ruth, it’s been great catching up with you, but I wanted to head out to the cemetery before my meeting with Chuck.”

  “That’s fine, honey. You’re welcome here any time. Thanks for sittin’ and lettin’ me ramble on.”

  She walked him across the street and up the hill to his car. Before he climbed in, he gave her a big hug and handed her his business card.

  “I’ll be in town for the next few days,” he said. “If you need anything, call me.”

  Ruth took his card. “Genie raised a good man,” she said. “Are you stayin’ here in her house? Well, I guess it’s your house now, too.”

  He looked up at the old Victorian. Until his arrival, Jack had planned on checking into a local hotel. Now that he was here, however, something about the place called to him. Part of him wanted to revisit the rooms of his youth, to understand the woman who’d raised him, nurtured him. The old Tremly homestead was his last, strongest connection to her. Not staying here seemed wrong somehow.

  “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll be back this afternoon to take care of the windows. You’re welcome to stop by if you want some company.”

  “I may do that, Jackie.” She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Tell Chuckie I said hello.”

  Minutes later, Jack was back on the road, headed toward the parkway. Stevie G. promised another hour of uninterrupted rock ‘n roll, and when Marilyn Manson spewed from the Mazda’s speakers, Jack cranked the volume until the windows rattled. I dedicate this one to Ruth, he thought, and laughed all the way to Layne Camp Cemetery.

  4

  A row of maples separated the cemetery grounds from the old church road, covering the pavement in a blanket of red leaves. Jack followed the path up the hillside before turning off into the nearby church parking lot. There were two other cars parked at the end of the lot, their drivers either inside the church or somewhere on the hillside, paying their respects to the dead.

  He sat in the car for a time, watching the clouds roll overhead in the late summer sun. He hated this time of year in Kentucky. The days went on forever in a thick miasma of heat, humidity, and misery. The nights were not much better, albeit just cool enough to be bearable. Together, the air of the place heaved in and out like the hitching breaths of a season refusing to die.

  Jack reached for his sunglasses and noticed his hands were shaking. He’d been in town for little more than an hour, and he was already a nervous wreck.

  Foolish, he thought. All that time on the road and you didn’t let yourself grieve. He was so absorbed with getting out of the city and getting on the road that he’d not considered being at his grandmother’s grave.

  Grandmother. Grave. Those two words didn’t belong together. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, listening to his heart, willing it to slow.

  He’d talked to her a week ago. She’d seemed so vibrant on the phone, so full of life despite her age, and he remembered thinking afterward that she was going to live forever. Imogene Tremly was his whole world for a time, until she let him go to make the world his own. Everything he’d done in the years since, every pencil line, every brush stroke, was done to make her proud.

  Jack opened his eyes and stared through the shaded view of the car’s sunroof. A jet drifted miles above, leaving two fuzzy white trails in its wake.

  “Get a grip on yourself,” he whispered to no one. “The world goes on, and so do you.” Years later, Mamaw Genie’s words of wisdom still lived on.

  He took a breath and climbed out of the car. The Tremly family plot was on the other side of the hill, beyond a white marble mausoleum. He never did like the old thing. On the occasions when he’d accompany Imogene to put flowers on her husband’s grave, Jack always kept his distance. It reminded him too much of a horror film from his youth.

  Farther down the hill, a thin blonde woman in a red T-shirt and jeans stood over one of the graves with her arms folded across her chest. He watched her for a few seconds before feeling like a creep, averting his gaze to the graves at his feet.

  Two rows beyond the mausoleum, he spotted the fresh earth of his grandmother’s grave. Bouquets of flowers lined the granite marker, offering color to an otherwise drab memorial, a detail which Mamaw Genie would’ve appreciated. Jack stood beside the rectangle of soil, collecting himself as he took in the scene.

  MARTHA IMOGENE TREMLY

  BELOVED WIFE AND GRANDMOTHER

  “ET QUOD EST SUPERIUS EST SICUT QUOD EST INFERIUS”

  A row of symbols was etched below the Latin phrase. Jack slept through most of his Classical Studies course in school and had no idea what the words said, nor had he seen those symbols before. Mamaw Genie was no strangers to symbols herself. She’d always worn a bracelet with a trio of silver charms—her “good luck” charms, she told him—and each charm was inscribed with curly runes in similar fashion, but he’d never summoned the courage to ask her what they meant.

  Jack smiled as he knelt beside the demarcation of earth.

  “I miss you,” he said softly. “You always knew what was best.” He traced his fingers through the soft earth. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when they laid you to rest, Mamaw. I hope you’ll forgive me. I hope you’ll understand.”

  Jack pressed his hand into the dirt and left his imprint before climbing to his feet. He wiped the tears from his eyes and kissed the edge of the marble gravestone.

  “I’ll say goodbye before I leave town for good, Mamaw. I love you.”

  He was about to return to his car when he had an idea. For later, he thought, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He held up the device and snapped a photo of the grave marker. As he did so, the young woman he’d spotted earlier walked past, offering him a cursory nod before pausing long enough to glance at the gravestone.

  “As above, so below.”

  Jack lowered his phone and turned. “Excuse me?”

  The blonde woman stared at him blankly, her placid expression prompting his cheeks to flush with heat. It was the look of an elementary school teacher, strung out at the end of her day. Why aren’t you paying attention? it asked. How can you be so dense?

  The blonde woman raised one hand to the air, pointing up; with the other, she pointed to the earth.

  “As above,” she repeated, “so below.” Then she pointed to the gravestone. “That’s what it says.”

  Jack stared at her, agape with c
onfusion. The coldness of her gaze stirred a memory, and he was struck with a sensation of déjà vu.

  “Did you—”

  The phone buzzed in his hand. Know my grandmother, Jack wanted to say, but the words failed him while he fumbled with the device, canceling the alarm he’d set for himself. He had fifteen minutes to get to Chuck Tiptree’s office downtown.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, but when he looked up from the phone, the blonde woman was already halfway up the hillside. “Huh.”

  Jack pocketed the phone and glanced back at his grandmother’s gravestone. As above, so below. He wondered if the stranger was telling him the truth and not blowing smoke up his ass. Then again, he supposed the exchange was too odd not to have some truth to it. Mamaw Genie always told him knowledge often came in strange forms.

  “Just like the apple from the tree,” he whispered. “As above, so below. One mystery begets another.”

  Puzzled, Jack made his way back to the parking lot. One of the cars was gone. In its place was a white plastic bag full of trash. He shook his head, frowned, and climbed into the car.

  As he drove away, a warm breeze swept over the cemetery lot, whispering through the trees and blowing the small bag across the asphalt. Its contents scattered. Fast food wrappers, a few candy bar wrappers, an empty fast food cup bled dry of its contents, and other detritus littered the parking lot—including an empty aerosol can of red spray paint.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1

  Jack almost didn’t make it to his appointment on time. At some point in the last twenty years, the confluence of East Mason Street and North Depot Street was overtaken by a behemoth of concrete and rebar. Dubbed the “Tom Thirston Memorial Overpass,” this massive structure directed travelers over Layne Camp Creek and onto North Kentucky Street, which was now a one-way thoroughfare.

  The car’s GPS was as confused as he was, uttering stern directives demanding he perform a U-turn when possible—or else. He cursed quietly to himself as he shut off the device, certain he could find Chuck’s office on his own. How much could Main Street change in twenty years?