In Riley’s case, a kid named Chad Simmons shared the town’s dark legend one sunny day on the playground of Stauford Elementary. Chad heard the story from his older brother, Dirk, who in turn heard it from an unidentified brother of someone who was actually there, man. Never mind the discrepancy of years. Such details were trivial to a young boy when there was a scary story to be heard.
Chad Simmons’s version of the story was closer to the truth but left out one integral piece Riley would not discover until years later when he was in high school. That version was announced by Jimmy Cord to the entire freshman class during a school assembly: “Ain’t your daddy one of those cursed Devil’s Creek kids?”
The question was enough to spark the curiosity of every young teenager in the school auditorium, and by the end of the day, Riley Tate’s reputation was fully metastasized.
His father looked like he’d been struck when Riley asked him about it.
“Are you one of the cursed Devil’s Creek kids?”
And for an hour afterward, Bobby Tate was behind the closed door of his bedroom, on the phone having a rather loud argument with someone whom Riley could only imagine was Jimmy Cord’s father. When his father emerged, he looked like he’d aged ten years, his eyes sunken, his cheeks drawn, his posture slouched and defeated. Bobby Tate wasn’t a drinking man, but Riley suspected if they’d had bourbon in the house, his father would’ve imbibed.
That night Riley learned the truth of his lineage, and if his mother were still alive, he would’ve held her hand or sought her embrace for comfort. Her absence hit him harder than ever before. All the kids at school were right: he was a freak from a fucked-up family.
“But try to make the most of this,” his father told him. “If I worried about what people thought of me, I wouldn’t have become a preacher.”
Riley’s decision to embrace the image everyone projected on him seemed like the easiest course of action. After going to school with most of his classmates since Kindergarten, he knew what would happen if he tried to escape the bubble in which they’d placed him. Anyone who tried to rise above their social status in Stauford was swiftly rejected and dealt with. Being the monster they thought he was made sense, and after a few days of painting his nails and wearing black clothing, Riley realized he kind of liked being that monster. It allowed him to feel comfortable in his own skin for once.
There were others who liked that monster, too. Others, like Rachel Matthews, who were drawn into the mystique he’d built around himself. Being the monster did have its benefits. And unlike his father, Riley intended to have good stories to tell his children someday.
Ben climbed into the tent. He looked down at Riley and frowned.
“Something wrong? You’re not still pissed about what my brother said, are you?”
“No,” Riley lied. “I do need to talk to you, though.”
Ben went about unrolling his sleeping bag. “About this afternoon?”
Riley paused. In the hours after school with his father, he’d almost forgotten about the incident at school. Yes, he supposed he did need to talk to Ben about it. About keeping his distance from Jimmy Cord as much as possible.
“Look,” Ben went on, “you didn’t have to do what you did. I owe you one. Thanks.”
“I didn’t, but if not me, then who?”
The boys went quiet as those words hung between them. Ben finished making his bed and climbed inside the sleeping bag. He rolled over and looked at Riley, propping his head up with one hand.
“Cord’s going to beat the shit out of you, you know.”
“Let him try.”
Ben laughed. “He’ll do more than try, jackass. I’m not the one who has to worry about him now. Hey, ain’t you going to bed?”
“No,” Riley said. “I’m not. Not yet. I told Rachel I’d meet her in the woods after lights out.”
Ben sat up. “You’re kidding.”
Riley shook his head. “I’m not.”
“To do what?”
“To talk.”
Ben’s cheeks flushed red even in the pale LED glow. “You know how much trouble you’ll be in if you get caught? I mean, your dad probably won’t let you come to any more of these trips. Shit, they’ll probably stop the girls from coming along with us, and—”
“Ben, I’m not going to get caught. We’re just going to talk.”
“Uh huh,” Ben smirked. “And hold hands like you were doing tonight. And suck face. Maybe she’ll let you touch her boobs, too.”
Riley’s cheeks filled with heat, more out of embarrassment than lust. He liked Rachel Matthews a lot, and he thought she liked him, too, but he hadn’t told her as much. Not yet. Their interactions were passing notes in class, texting one another at night, chatting on Skype. Whenever there was a project due for class, they always gravitated toward the same group. They always laughed at one another’s jokes and looked away when the other caught them staring. She liked him, wasn’t put off by the monster he claimed to be, and—
“Are you going to let her touch your knob?”
“Shut up,” Riley sneered, smacking his friend playfully on the head. “You’re not funny.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
He smirked but said nothing. His silence was enough of an answer, and Ben didn’t need words to confirm what Riley was thinking. He had thought about it, many times, and usually after they’d said goodnight to one another. But not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to talk to her more, free of open ears and prying eyes, when they could speak honestly.
And, maybe, a kiss or two.
Riley’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen. His heart leapt into this throat, and his stomach fluttered. Rachel’s message read, “Leaving in thirty min. See you soon <3”.
Ben puckered his face and made kissing sounds as Riley stretched out on his sleeping bag.
“You’re so immature,” Riley whispered, and switched off the lamp.
5
Zeke Billings wandered in the dark, blazing a trail through the forest. The hushed whisper of his father’s words seeped into his mind, while his father’s shadow trailed a few paces behind, a lithe phantom slipping over the weeds and brambles like oil through water.
Do you know what the darkness told me, child?
“What, Father?”
Jacob, it said, you will spill your seed in my name, and from your seed you will spill your blood, and from your blood you will set alight the world from which paradise will grow. Paradise, son. Heaven on earth. A true heaven, born of ash and cinder, cities built upon the charred bones of the damned. Their sins will flow, and they will drown beneath waters of their own making. Do you understand?
Mosquitoes hummed about his ears and cheeks as he stumbled forward, pushing away fragile limbs that swung and scratched his face. He thought he heard himself say yes, he did understand, but the sound of his voice was miles away, his vision clouded in a darkened fog. There were worms in his mind, inching their way to his heart. He felt them there, darkened tendrils seeking for more of what made him himself, sipping at his life force, tasting it.
Zeke felt less in control with each step, his functions usurped by the slender fingers working in his brain and the dark shadow following close behind. He felt his father’s fingertips on his shoulder more than once, steering him forward into the unknown. Zeke welcomed the touch, welcomed the comfort it brought him. All his life he’d longed for a real father to show him the way, and now, after decades of mistakes and tribulations, he finally got his wish.
Only Jacob was so much more.
Blood of my blood, my seed, my little lamb. I’ve so many secrets to share with you. Secrets of the earth, of the grave, of our new lord. The heretics pulled a veil down over your virgin eyes and hid the true world away from you. I promise you, child, there is so much more. This body you wear, this pain you feel, all this flesh is nothing more than a shroud. Our new lord will show you. Our new lord will show all your brothers and sisters.
Soon, my son. We must acquire our lord’s idol. And there is something else we must do. We must build paradise on earth one stone at a time, and we will need help.
“Help, Father?”
Twigs snapped beneath Zeke’s heavy boots. The murk in his eyes cleared enough for him to see the dying embers of a campfire ahead. Lazy tendrils of smoke sought the air above, and the pungent aroma made his nostrils tingle. He heard the muffled laughter of children. Boys and girls.
Yes, my son. The babes of the earth, for their innocence will sway the hearts of the damned. From these seeds of Babylon, a new paradise will grow.
The shadow urged him forward. Zeke obeyed.
6
Jack Tremly awoke from fevered dreams of faceless things in the dark, kicking the blanket from his legs and sitting up with a short cry. The creatures of his night terrors faded away into the dimly lit living room of his grandmother’s house, a place both familiar and foreign to him beyond the threshold of sleep. Sweat beaded on his forehead and bare chest. Once he had his bearings, Jack wiped his face with the blanket, an old afghan Imogene knitted when he was a teenager. He stared at it for a few minutes, trying to remember when he covered himself but coming up short.
What he did remember was drinking way too much at the restaurant. Stephanie gave him a ride home, and after waving goodbye to her, he’d wandered into his grandmother’s house for the first time in decades, the alcohol in his system robbing him of any nostalgic fanfare. After a piss that lasted for years, he’d fallen face-first into the old sofa and promptly passed out. He didn’t remember taking off his shirt or wrapping himself in a blanket.
The lights were still on, the squeaky ceiling fan spinning above, and everything was just how he’d remembered it. Mamaw Genie’s brown armchair sat in the opposite corner of the room, with a stack of magazines and newspapers propped up on one side of the ottoman. Her cabinet stereo and turntable, end tables, lamps, coffee table, and even her old wooden console television were in the same places they’d always been.
Everything used to be bigger, he thought, smiling at his foolishness. Of course it did. He’d spent most of his young life here, and he was sure if he checked the kitchen doorframe, the check marks indicating his growth spurts would still be there. Even the cabinet and loveseat with her princess-style rotary phone were still there next to the living room entrance, and he recalled the phone number as easily as his social security number or ATM pin.
He whispered the number to himself. Saying the words aloud made his heart hurt.
Jack climbed to his feet, swaying slightly as his head spun, and he resolved to get a drink of water before the worst of his inevitable hangover set in.
Once his thirst was sated and the world stopped tumbling over itself, Jack returned to the living room and opened one of the windows. A cool breeze blew back the curtains, covering his bare skin in gooseflesh, and he welcomed the sensation.
Something caught his eye when he switched off the lights. A dim glow emanated from beyond the living room.
“What the hell?”
A thin slug of anxiety crawled across his mind, covering him in a film of unease. The glow felt familiar, and for as much as he wanted to go back to sleep, his mind wouldn’t leave it alone. There was a memory there, half-buried in the shadowy folds of his brain, one tip exposed and yearning to be unearthed. Jack knew himself well enough to know sleep wouldn’t come until he discovered the source.
Exhausted, his head still fuzzy from the booze, Jack wandered down the hall. The light, he discovered, wasn’t coming from the first floor at all. Nothing out of the ordinary was plugged into the walls of the dining room or kitchen. Light seeped down the far wall of the foyer like slow-moving water, capturing motes of floating dust. He followed it up the side of the wall to the stairwell. From where he stood, the upstairs hall was bathed in sapphire.
Maybe it’s a nightlight, he thought, but his curiosity held him there. He looked up, dazed and half-dreaming, wondering if he could add somnambulism to his list of sleep-related ailments. He flipped on the upstairs light and ascended the steps. Imogene’s bedroom door was slightly ajar, offering a slim crack into the room beyond. The glow pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like something taking deep breaths.
Jack stood in the hallway, watching the ebb and flow of the light spill from the room. His head hurt the longer he stared at the light, and he forced himself to look away. The nagging feeling he’d seen this light before prodded his curiosity despite the uneasiness he felt. Each passing second was another he wanted to turn in retreat, but he couldn’t get the light out of his head. He was drawn to it, each slow pulse a beacon calling out to him.
“The hell with it,” he mumbled, forcing himself forward. He pushed open the door and flipped on the bedroom light.
Mamaw Genie’s room was as he remembered it, save a few exceptions. Her wardrobe still stood in the far corner adjacent to her four-post canopy bed, her boudoir was still cluttered with boxes of jewelry, perfumes, and cans of hairspray, and the cedar chest full of extra blankets and linens still sat at the foot of the bed.
New to the room, however, were two additions. The first was a signed and numbered print of his painting Midnight Baptism he’d sent her, which now hung on the wall next to the window. She’d given it a home in a nice wooden frame that probably set her back a few hundred dollars, given the size.
The second addition was her old roll-top desk. Light pulsed from between the slats of the lid.
He crossed the room and pushed against the lid, but the wooden slats wouldn’t move. With his fingertips pressed against it, Jack felt a soft vibration coursing through the lid. The whole desk hummed in time with the pulsing light, and after giving the lid another shove, he noticed a keyhole in the center. Light seeped out of the metal opening. He ran his finger over it, remembering the wooden box he’d received in Chuck’s office.
“Okay, Mamaw. What’ve you got hidden in there?”
Five minutes later, after rummaging through the pockets of his discarded jeans, Jack returned with the key in hand. He didn’t wait to collect his wits. He was tired, the hour was late, and he had shit to do tomorrow. Jack pushed the key into the desk and turned until the lock gave way. A moment later, the lid rolled upward, and the air left Jack’s lungs in a series of hitched exhalations.
No, he thought, his mouth suddenly dry. This isn’t real. It was all a nightmare. It can’t be.
Sitting on the desk surface, beside a wrinkled notebook, was a stone idol carved to look like an obscene grinning child. He knew that grin all too well. It had haunted his sleep since he was a kid. The sickly blue light pulsed from its grimy surface.
Jack fell to his knees and stared at the ancient thing, his tired mind racing with questions. What was it doing here? Why did Mamaw Genie keep this awful thing? What little Jack remembered of it was the stuff of nightmares—memories of sermons in the old church, memories of being down in the pit with his father, molested and raped in the light of this malignant rock.
A moment passed before Jack realized he was crying. Tears flooded his eyes, occulting the items on the desk. He wiped his face, plucked the notebook from the desk, and closed the lid.
Why did you leave this for me to find, Mamaw?
He leaned against the side of the bed and held the notebook to his chest like a protective sigil. A series of low sobs rocked him, filling him with tremors of emotion he’d not felt in years, and for the first time since he was a child, Jack Tremly truly felt afraid.
7
Ben lay alone in the dark of the tent, listening to the chatter of crickets while trying to sleep. His idle thoughts wandered into places they weren’t supposed to go. Places like the locker room of Stauford High where the girls track team changed and showered. He thought of the day he saw Rachel Matthews doing stretches in the gym, thought of her legs, firm and smooth and covered in a glistening sheen of sweat.
He thought of her now, somewhere in the woods
with Riley, sucking face, touching each other, and his whole body shuddered, suddenly flush with a heat and stiffness in his boxers. He thought about touching himself there, maybe working himself up in his hand like he did at home but stopped short of doing the deed.
No, he thought. That ain’t right. Not here.
But he wanted to. God, he wanted to. It’s not that he liked Rachel Matthews, not really. She had an obnoxious laugh, wore too much perfume, and didn’t have an ass to speak of, but those legs killed him every time she walked by in biology class—
Crack.
The sound stole his attention, and he jerked his hands out of his sleeping bag. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, his throat, his skull. Was Riley back so soon? The last thing he wanted was for Riley to catch him jerking off in their tent. He sucked in his breath and waited, listening for his friend’s footsteps, the eventual unzipping of the tent.
Minutes passed, and the forest remained still around him.
Must’ve been an animal, he thought, slipping his hand back into the warmth of his boxers. But the sudden noise and fear of being caught drove away his lust, and the urge was no longer there. Disappointed, Ben rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, listening to the lull of crickets.
His thoughts drifted away from Rachel Matthews’s toned legs and into darker spaces, twirling in circles until his mind wound itself down. He thought back to the story his brother Daniel told over the campfire an hour before. A slow, creeping fear emerged from somewhere in the darkness of his eyelids, driven on the back of a charging possibility some parts of Daniel’s story might be true.
Don’t be stupid, he scolded himself. You’re too old to believe in the boogeyman.
To which a nagging, curious voice in the back of his head squeaked, What about the Devil?
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