Once the porch was cleared, he set about scrubbing off the paint, filling the bucket from the outside spigot, and made a mental note to thank Chuck for keeping the utilities paid up. A few passes with the sponge yielded some results, staining the water a murky crimson color that took his thoughts back to darker places. He paused, searching the dusty corners of his mind for the memory irritating him most, a persistent itch inside his skull.
Fire, he thought. He was barely ten, not even out of elementary school yet. The night terrors were at their worst then, when he’d wake up screaming, kicking the blankets from his bed, punching the air at unseen creatures clawing at him from the dark. He’d woken up in a fury, chased into consciousness by faceless things, and heard men outside. They were loud and vulgar, and there was a faint orange glow coming from his window. The orange light danced erratically, casting horrible shadows across his cartoon posters, forcing their faces to change, to blink, to speak.
They’re burning your house down, they whispered to him, and in his half-sleeping delirium he believed them. He lay there, terrified of the men outside who were preparing to burn down Mamaw Genie’s home. He found he couldn’t move, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, into his eyes, the salt stinging so much and yet he was so scared he couldn’t blink. The orange glow grew brighter through his closed curtains, and the men laughed with horrible, raw voices like starved, rabid dogs.
His memories shifted, scratched reels of a mental film he couldn’t stop. He’d climbed out of bed at some point, broken free of the paralyzing fear holding him there, and he’d padded down the hallway in his bare feet. Mamaw Genie wasn’t in her room. A nest of blankets lay in a crumpled heap on her bed, and the curtains were pulled back from the window.
Downstairs, then. He found the front door standing wide open, his grandmother waiting on the porch in her nightgown, bathed in a shifting orange light. A cool breeze made the white cotton fabric billow behind her like a cape, and in his half-dreaming state, Jack remembered thinking she looked like a superhero from his comic books.
The gunshot startled him. Mamaw Genie pointed her revolver to the sky and fired a second round. Jackie tip-toed toward the doorway, toward the light burning from the front yard. Because something was burning, he remembered. The smell of smoke was palpable, carried into the house by the breeze, and the musty plume blowing toward him made his eyes burn. He squinted, blinking away tears.
There were ghosts in the front yard. Loud, raucous ghosts in white sheets, their heads covered in pale masks with holes for eyes. And the grass was on fire, two roiling lines bisecting each other, rising into the night, tasting the air like serpent tongues.
“Get off my property,” Imogene said. She lowered her weapon and trained it on the nearest ghost. “You ain’t welcome here.”
“Neither’s you, witch. We don’t take kindly to your pagan ways.”
“I won’t ask again,” she growled. Jack remembered her tone. They were all in trouble, oh yes, and they’d be lucky if they didn’t get a switch across their backsides.
And then something happened he couldn’t explain. The memory, once buried in the recesses of his mind, was hazy enough to be confused for a half-forgotten dream. Mamaw Genie raised her free hand to the sky, commanding a force none of them could see, and the flames licking the night slithered toward the ghosts in a twisting coil. One of the ghost’s white robes caught fire, and two of his friends rushed to his aid to pull him back from the inferno, stamping out the flickering orange climbing up his body.
Jack remembered the man screaming in panic. He remembered all of them screaming, urging each other to retreat.
“This ain’t over, witch!”
And for a while, it wasn’t. Jack held the sponge in his hand, gripping so tightly all the water seeped out. Suds bubbled and popped along the siding. He blinked, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked at the remaining letters bleeding red trails down the white panel.
Old witch burns in hell.
He stared at the words, then turned his gaze back to the front door. The key was heavy in his pocket, a cosmic weight imbued with its own sort of gravity, and it was pulling at him.
“One step at a time, Mamaw.”
When he was finished, Jack tossed the sponge into the bucket of murky water and dried his hands on his pant leg. He pulled out his phone and dialed Chuck’s number. Three rings later, his old friend answered.
“Chuck, it’s Jack. You want to go get a drink?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
The red “ON AIR” light went out, and Stephanie “Stevie” Green pushed the microphone away from her face. Her producer’s voice filled the studio.
“Steph, you can’t say shit like that on the air.”
She threaded her curly hair free of the headphones and tied it back behind her head. When she was finished, Stephanie leaned toward the microphone and shot a side-eye glance toward Ryan on the other side of the window.
“It’s my station,” she said, “and I’ll say whatever the fuck I want.”
“Within reason, Steph. The FCC’s one thing, but pissing off your listeners is a whole other ballgame, and—”
Stephanie pulled off the headphones. When she looked up, Ryan Corliss was still talking. She waved at him, pantomimed “I can’t hear you” while pointing to her head, and laughed when he gave her the finger. Their argument wasn’t a new one. Ever since the station opened a year ago, she’d met resistance every step of the way. She could accept complaints from the locals, but she wasn’t going to take shit from her producer as well. Not when it came to matters of content.
She collected her purse, drained the coffee from her mug, and exited the studio. Ryan met her in the hallway.
“I’m serious, Steph. Some of these people want your head on a spike. They say you’re preaching Satan’s gospel. When you tell them to drink one for the Goat Lord tonight, you’re reinforcing their mode of thinking.”
She shook her head and brushed past him into the mixing room, pausing long enough to give the broadcast schedule a once-over. A block of old Metallica, a block of Swedish death metal, grunge, The Yellow Kings memoriam block, the 80s hair metal power hour leading up to a block of pre-recorded listener requests… Something was missing. Stephanie plucked a dry-erase marker from the tray and scribbled “More Industrial” across the top of the board. She turned back to Ryan and pointed to the board. “Tell Cindy to swap out the grunge every other day. We need to be playing Ministry and Nine Inch Nails as much as Nirvana and Alice in Chains.”
Ryan shook his head. “Ministry? In southeastern Kentucky? Are you fucking serious?”
“As a heart attack, darlin’.” She playfully patted his cheek. “We don’t follow the rules, remember? We play what we want, and what we want is all forms of metal.”
“Yeah? Tell that to this guy.” Ryan handed her a folded sheet of paper.
“More fan mail?”
“Uh huh. This time it’s a doozy.”
Stephanie took a seat on the leather sofa and unfolded the letter. The words weren’t printed so much as scribbled, but the message was loud and clear:
ATTN SATAN WORSHIPING WHORE
CLOSE UR STATION
YOU ARNT WELCOME
GET OUT OR ELSE!!!
She crumpled the paper and tossed it across the room. The paper ball bounced off the edge of a trash can and fell into a pile of other complaints.
“So close,” she said. “One of these days I’ll get two points.”
Ryan rolled his chair toward her and sat. He frowned at her with sad puppy eyes, a trait she adored about him. The look reminded her of the way her second boyfriend used to playfully pout when he wanted a kiss. Staring at Ryan, who was happily committed to a wonderful man named Victor, Stephanie reminded herself to keep her instincts at bay.
“I’m serious,” Ryan said softly. “You’re getting threats, for God’s sake.”
“Which is how I know we’re on to something, Ryan. Did Elvis stop shakin
g his hips because of pissed-off parents?
Ryan pursed his lips. “I wish you’d take this more seriously.”
“I’m sorry.” She put both hands on his cheeks and kissed his forehead. “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I know what I’m doing. You forget I grew up here. I remember what it’s like growing up in this shithole, not having an outlet of rock. Did you see the latest numbers on our audience? Those numbers don’t lie.”
He sat back in his seat and crossed his arms in a huff. Gotcha, she thought. Ryan couldn’t argue with the numbers. They were reaching their intended audience. The work was grueling, and she’d spent more hours in the studio since opening a year ago than she had in her apartment, but the demand was there. After years of toiling in obscurity at the region’s larger country stations, she’d had her fill of pop country music and would rather endure waterboarding than listen to it again.
So, she did what every other American entrepreneur did: saved her pennies, did her homework, wrote a business plan, and got a loan. A few months later, she broke ground on a small plot of land on the north side of Gordon Hill, and Z105.1 was born.
The numbers didn’t lie, either. Stauford needed something other than country and gospel in its diet. They needed something with an edge, something to tap into the angst simmering among the town’s youth, and Stephanie had the answer. She remembered all too well what it was like growing up in the asshole of the south, searching for something you could relate to, and only finding the art of your parents, just out of reach and years out of touch.
Stauford’s youth heard their message: it’s okay to be different. The town’s older generations didn’t agree, and they didn’t appreciate the way the station went about getting attention. Stephanie glanced at the growing mountain of wadded complaint letters next to the wastebasket. Doubt dripped slowly into the cracks of her stony resolve, seeping into the dark places, inching deeper toward her heart. Maybe Ryan was right? Maybe she should take things seriously?
Her grandma Maggie spoke up in her head. Remember what happened to Genie? Remember all the crosses they burned in her yard? She couldn’t go shopping in town anymore, had to go all the way to Landon to do it so she wouldn’t get dirty looks.
A slow chill crept along Stephanie’s shoulders. Poor Genie, gone two weeks already. Stephanie hoped Genie finally found peace, wherever she was. Her thoughts turned to Genie’s grandson, Jack. They’d lost touch after college when he’d moved away to New England. She still followed him online, though. A print of his most famous work, Midnight Baptism, hung over the toilet in her bathroom. Ryan once asked her why she put it there, and she told him it was a good conversation piece.
The painting featured a faceless man baptizing a group of blindfolded children in a lake of blood while a congregation of masturbating parishioners watched from the shore. A jaundiced moon hung overhead with craters like unblinking eyes. Most guests at her apartment were repulsed by it, some found it fascinating, and all wanted to know why the hell she had it hanging in her home.
Because my brother painted it, she’d tell them. Only that’s as far as she’d take the conversation. Any further would require more alcohol than she could handle at any given moment, and besides, these days she’d rather not relive the past.
“Steph?”
“Huh?”
Ryan shook his head, smiling. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
“No,” she said. “I was a million miles away.”
“Uh huh,” he said. “I said I’d finish up here if you want to head out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “You’ve worked ten days straight without a break. We’ve got enough pre-recorded to last us a month if necessary. Take a night off.”
Smiling, Stephanie peeled herself off the leather sofa and grabbed her purse. Her phone buzzed from within, and when she checked the lock screen, she saw a text message from her old friend Chuck.
“Speak of the devil,” she muttered.
Ryan looked away from the mixing board. “What’s that? Still here?”
“No,” she said absently. “I’m going.”
Five minutes later, she was gone.
2
The rusted yellow pickup squealed tires and kicked up rocks as Waylon turned onto Devil’s Creek Road. He snuck a glance at his partner after they passed the road sign. Zeke was fast asleep, a slim string of drool hanging limply from his lower lip.
Good, Waylon thought. Last thing I need is you shitting your pants when you see where we’re goin’.
Like everyone else in Stauford, he’d heard the stories about his friend. Who hadn’t? Anyone who’d grown up in the town heard all about the mysterious goings-on out at Devil’s Creek, heard about the Stauford Six who’d been rescued from the death cult living out there. He grew up hearing those kids came back marked somehow. Bad luck, some folks said. Cursed, his grandpappy said.
Waylon didn’t give two shits. All he cared about was delivering what he’d promised to Chief Bell, and Devil’s Creek was the place to do it. He’d driven out here once when he was a teen, on a dare from his older brother, Wayne. The place was isolated, quiet, a void of civilization where something bad happened back in the 80s. Shit, didn’t everything bad happen in the 80s?
The area was a ghost story the parents of Stauford told their children, forbidding them from venturing into the woods. Waylon knew about as much as anyone else: the old church, black magic, mutilated dog parts hanging from the trees. That last part he’d heard was how the neighboring Dog Slaughter Creek got its name, but he wasn’t sure how true it was. Regardless of how much was truth or rumor, Waylon counted on the legend to give them the privacy they needed to get their work done.
He’d once tried getting Zeke drunk enough to talk about it, but his friend clammed up when he mentioned the place. Zeke cried himself into a stupor and wouldn’t talk to Waylon for a week. When he finally came to his senses, all Zeke would tell him was he never wanted to go back there. “It’s like a nightmare I can’t wake up from,” Zeke said. “A big goddamn cloud hangin’ over my head for my whole shitty life.”
Sorry, bro. You’ll thank me when Ozzie puts a wad of twenties in your hand.
The road snaked its way into the forest. The twelve propane tanks in the back of the truck clanked against one another when he took a turn too sharply, and Zeke stirred. Waylon looked over, willing his friend back to sleep. Zeke’s eyes cracked open for an instant before closing once more.
Waylon felt a pang of regret, a slight hint of guilt for steering Zeke toward a place that terrified him, but such trivial emotions were washed away when he rounded the curve and spotted the gravel turn-off. A few more miles into the forest, and they’d come upon an overgrown trailhead. Another mile beyond, they’d find a small village of abandoned shacks left behind by the cult, suffocated with weeds and left to rot with the passage of time.
Overhead, the sun slipped behind a thick bank of clouds, draping them in shadow. A chill crept along Waylon’s arms and up the back of his neck.
Zeke awoke as the pickup skidded to a stop, kicking up gravel in the wheel wells and conjuring a cloud of dust. Waylon put the truck in park, shut off the engine, and turned to his friend.
“Ready to work, sleeping beauty?”
“Yeah,” Zeke said, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Where are we?”
“That place I told you about. Come on, let’s get movin’. I want to get set up before we lose the daylight.”
Waylon climbed out of the truck before Zeke could protest, pulled off the tarp, and went to work taking inventory. Twelve propane tanks, a roll of rubber tubing, a milk crate full of starter fluid and nasal decongestants, bottles of ammonia, cans of acetone, boxes of matches, empty pots and pans, rubber gloves, coffee filters, five gallons of distilled water, a chemistry textbook Zeke stole from the library, and a small camping stove filled the truck bed.
He looked over everything, ticking off a mental check list. The last thing h
e wanted was to get started and realize halfway through the cook they needed more starter fluid or filters.
Zeke got out of the truck and surveyed the goods.
“Did you remember masks?”
“What do you mean?” Waylon grunted, heaving one of the propane tanks out of the back. “Masks for what?”
Zeke shook his head. “For our lungs, dipshit. Didn’t you read any of the shit I gave you this morning? Don’t you have any idea what sort of fumes we’re gonna be breathing in?”
“It’ll be fine,” Waylon said. “Are you going to fuckin’ help me or not?”
Waylon led the way with one of the propane tanks in tow while Zeke followed behind, carrying the crate of chemicals and medicine. They’d need at least four trips to the truck, maybe a fifth or sixth, and Waylon tried to move as fast as he could without tripping over his own feet. Time was money out here in the woods, and they were already behind schedule.
The sun disappeared overhead as they traveled beneath the forest canopy, offering only glimpses of its brilliance in narrow sheets filtering through the leaves. Gnats swarmed around their heads, humming in their ears a warning neither man would understand. Zeke hesitated when they reached the small wooden footbridge stretching over the babbling creek. A bullfrog barked and leapt into the water when they approached, stirring up a cloud of silt from the creek bed.
Zeke cleared his throat. “Wait a minute, Waylon. This ain’t right.”
Waylon was already on the other side of the bridge. He shifted his weight, hefting the bulk of the propane tank from one arm to the other. Sweat dripped off his forehead and down the curve of his nose. Aw fuck, he thought. Here we go.
“What’s up?”
Zeke stared at the creek, squinting as sweat rolled into his eyes. “Do you know where we are?”
The question took Waylon by surprise, if only because he’d expected something far less innocent to fly out of Zeke’s mouth. He’d expected a fight, to beg and plead Zeke to stay and help him cook, but this was something else altogether. Here, then, was a moral dilemma: tell his friend the truth or play dumb?
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