Devil's Creek

by Todd Keisling

  Jack turns away, frightened by the sight, but he finds no respite here in the cavern. The members of his grandmother’s church sit in the center, their bodies pressed closely to one another, swaying in time with their singing. White shrouds are draped over their faces, obscuring their eyes and noses, so Jack can only see their mouths. The song they sing is one he has never heard before, a hymn of the Old Ways written upon the walls, and their voices form a vacuous hum that drones on and on in his ears until he fears his head might pop. Mamaw Genie joins the circle, joins their mechanical swaying, and leaves him in the flickering shadows near the edge of the room.

  His father stands outside the circle, beyond a stone altar etched with the same bizarre symbols. A low droning hum erupts from the figure as he lifts his hands to the dark, offering praise to something Jack cannot see but can feel. This unseen thing, this impossible something, it feels gigantic in his dream, a shapeless form that defies logic and wields its own gravity. A giant of dark matter, a self-contained void hanging above them all, lording over its congregation like the vastness of space. Jack can’t bring himself to follow the direction of his father’s praising hands.

  Shaking, Jack taps his grandmother’s shoulder. “Please,” he whispers, “I’m scared. Can we please go?”

  Imogene Tremly is annoyed, but her face softens when she sees the terror on his face. “Okay,” she says.

  The congregation sings and sways while their pastor reaches for the unseen, a sentient cosmos deep within the earth. Before they ascend the ladder, Jack looks back at his father, a faceless man he will never understand and never love, a figure of fear and mystery that will haunt him into adulthood. Jacob Masters turns away from the void and casts a darkening gaze upon them.

  “Sister Tremly,” he rasps, “where are you taking my son?”

  The reels swap one final time, the scene shifting from the dark of the cavern below to the golden sun-filled church above. Jack stands at the threshold, peering down the path along the side of Calvary Hill. Behind him, Mamaw Genie waits at the edge of the hole. She is panicked and afraid, and she beckons to her grandson.

  “Go,” she tells him. “Run, Jackie. For God’s sake, run!”

  And Jackie does as she commands, sprinting from the doorway and into the failing sunlight. Time has ceased to have meaning, the rules broken in this terrible dreamscape, and in the moments they spent underground an entire day has passed them by. The sun is setting, clouds rolling by overhead, obscuring the light and bleeding the world of warmth.

  Behind him, something is approaching. Something dark. Something wearing the face of his father and the skin of a man, with terrible blue eyes.

  Something hidden. Something horribly old.

  Jack runs as fast as his little legs will take him, but no matter how many times he dreams, no matter how far he pushes himself, he never outruns the thing lurking behind him. He never sees it, never gazes upon its vastness, only senses its size, a terrible dark wave seeping from the earth beneath the foundation of the old church. This impossibly formless thing, this unescapable void, it crashes over the threshold, spilling over everything in its wake, swallowing the world as it swallows minds and souls.

  The void licks at his heels, and he cries out in horror. It sweeps over him. Jack screams—

  3

  “Mamaw!”

  He woke himself with a jolt, kicking a blanket from the sofa and knocking over a lamp from the adjacent end table. Jack sat up, covered in sweat, his heart racing. Fragments of the dream reached for him from the far shadows of the room like disembodied hands, threatening to pull him back into the depths, but then his eyes focused on the sheet of sunlight filtering through the curtains.

  Jack wiped sweat from his face and looked to the floor. His grandmother’s diary lay open to the page with all the strange symbols. Most of them he’d never seen before, save for a few at the bottom of the page. Mamaw Genie had remarked near the bottom in her delicate scrawl: “Cleansing Runes.” There were four of them, scribbled in red ink:

  He studied them for a moment longer while the horrid dream seeped away from reality. For years he was haunted by the same dark vision, and no matter how often he was subjected to the phantasmagoric film, the effect was always the same: He awoke, terrified, grasping for safety from the unseen thing behind him. The terrors cost him sleep, cost him money with ongoing therapy bills, and cost him more relationships than he cared to admit. He’d told himself it was all a nightmare, the curse of an overactive imagination subjected to early childhood trauma and abuse.

  Except it wasn’t. His mind wandered to the stone idol, which he’d left inside the old roll-top desk upstairs. A chill crawled over him, stretching from his neck all the way to his feet. Jack glanced at the diary. Mamaw Genie could only speculate on its nature, even after dedicating years to researching its existence, but death found her before she could discern its secrets. The only truth she’d gleaned from her research was it should be kept as far away from its infernal altar as possible.

  A dull thump reverberated in his skull, and he closed his eyes to stem the tide of discomfort crashing at the base of his forehead. His evening exploits had caught up to him, and he considered going back to sleep when he remembered he’d left his car downtown.

  He reached for his phone and called Stephanie for a ride. She answered after the second ring.

  “Yeah?”

  He smirked. “That’s how you answer the phone?”

  “It is when I’ve had too much to drink,” she croaked. “What’s up?”

  “Need a ride into town to pick up my car.”

  “The things I do for my favorite brother. Give me an hour.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and was about to say goodbye when she hung up. An hour afforded him time to clean himself up, but before he stood, he reached down to collect his grandmother’s notebook. He flipped back to the first page and Mamaw Genie’s note. He read her words again for comfort, despite their grim warning:

  My darling Jackie,

  If you’re reading this, I am gone, and Chuck has delivered the key to you per my wishes. I can’t imagine how confused you must be, finding this among my things, but I hope to set things straight with you by the end of these pages. I began keeping this book many years ago, but I didn’t do it for nostalgia like most grandmas might. I guess I didn’t do a lot of things like most grandmas, but I tried to raise you right, and give you the best life I could considering all that happened.

  Everything I’ve done here was to keep you safe, honey. Those people in Stauford are going to say nasty things about me when I’m gone, that I was a witch and a pagan, a devil worshiper from the old church, that I practiced black magic.

  You and I both know which parts are true, but I never told you why. Let me do that now while I’m still breathing. I can only hope you won’t put this down in anger, that you’ll read through to the end and weigh my words in your heart.

  Because this concerns you, Jackie. This concerns all your brothers and sisters. It’s about what happened at Devil’s Creek.

  He frowned, flipping back to the end of the book. The last few pages were blank, the notes incomplete. One of the pages had been torn out.

  “You did the best you could,” he whispered, his eyes flooding with tears as he set the black notebook aside. A small beige business card fell from between the blank pages and landed on his lap. He squinted at the print: “Tyler M. Booth, Ph.D. – Department of Anthropology, Sue Bennett College.”

  He flipped the card over. His grandmother’s notable scrawl filled the back side with an address and phone number.

  “Huh,” he mumbled, tucking the card back into the notebook. He remembered when Sue Bennett College shut down back in the 90s due to low attendance. Jack couldn’t remember his grandmother ever having ties to the school or its faculty. Then again, he supposed, his childhood memories weren’t what they used to be. He left the notebook on the end table, but as he went about showering and getting dressed, his idle thoughts retu
rned to the blank pages and the business card tucked away between them.

  4

  Stephanie Green canceled her brother’s call and buried her face in her pillow. The phone had disturbed her beauty rest, although there was nothing beautiful about it. Nightmares plagued her all night, but now their remains lay fractured and burned in the waking light. Each time she attempted to piece together what they once were, their ashes slipped through her fingers.

  She was no stranger to nightmares, of course. Her therapist told her they were normal for victims of traumatic experiences, a category into which she fit neatly, comfortably, perhaps even happily. Jack probably fit as neatly into their shared niche, but while he’d embraced the trauma in his art, she doubted he did so with as much enthusiasm as she did. Still, it was great to see him last night, and while she fought the urge to mute her phone and return to the disturbing wasteland of her dreams, she considered inviting him to the studio for an interview.

  The prospect was enticing enough to drag her from her near-comatose state. Stephanie opened her eyes and glared at the sunlight streaming through her bedroom window.

  “Be gone,” she mumbled, plodding down the hallway to the bathroom. “You’re not wanted here, sunlight. Your presence offends me.”

  After relieving herself, Stephanie stared at her brother’s painting hanging above the toilet. She found she couldn’t stare at it for long. The grotesque image of faceless men and women surrounding the children in the water recalled too many dark memories, shadowy things tiptoeing on the line between dream and reality, tinged with just enough detail that made her question their nature.

  Instead, Stephanie considered the source of the macabre piece. Seeing Jack last night was a welcome surprise, something she’d not thought would happen again. They’d not spoken since college, and even then, their conversations were in passing, the two of them too busy with their own lives to acknowledge the other. Years later, Stephanie grew to accept their limited interaction had more to do with the pain of their shared past. Chuck kept in touch, primarily through Imogene, and later discussions with Stephanie revealed a sort of survivor’s guilt rooted in the heart of Jack’s decision to leave town. Jack’s mother was the only one of their mothers to survive, although without her sanity intact, and while he’d never said as much, Stephanie long suspected he blamed himself for their mutual predicament.

  Staring at the grim painting before her, Stephanie decided she’d ask him for an interview. Not only would it be good for the station, it would be good for her to better understand him. Knowing how far apart they’d drifted over the years made her heart hurt. She’d bridge that chasm between them somehow, and if she knew anything about artists, the best way to get them to talk was by bringing up their art.

  There were two voicemails waiting for her when she got out of the shower. The first was a morning update from Cindy, wrapping up her shift at the station. The second was from Chuck: “Stephanie, I’m headed over to Bobby’s. Something happened last night. Call me when you wake up.”

  Stephanie hesitated, her thumb hovering over the “call back” option on the screen. The last time Bobby Tate had a crisis, it was because he’d found “Satanic paraphernalia” in Riley’s bedroom. Said paraphernalia turned out to be a Slayer album, loaned to him by a friend at school, and a collection of stories by H.P. Lovecraft he’d checked out from the school library.

  She returned to that day in Bobby’s house, when she’d witnessed him losing his mind over such insignificant things, and she questioned if today’s crisis was something similar. Maybe he’d found porn on Riley’s computer, or worse, a collection of albums by Ghost or Marilyn Manson. Maybe—and she hoped this was the case—his son had finally renounced the faith of his father, having grown tired of the oppressive Christian regime which Bobby lorded over with an iron fist.

  Oh, if only. She wanted to be present for the fallout if that’s what happened—but she doubted it. The truth was Stephanie would be there for her brother regardless of the nature of his crisis, because she still cared about him despite their differences, despite the fact his congregation was out to murder her business, and despite that he was subconsciously pushing his son away.

  Something her grandmother Maggie once told her flitted through her mind with the lithe wings of a butterfly. Family’s family. You can’t change that, Steph. When everything’s breakin’ down, who else can you turn to but family?

  Stephanie dressed and texted Jack. She’d already made up her mind to go check on Bobby by the time she reached the front door.

  5

  Saturday was a cloudy one for Stauford, the sky painted in wide swathes of graying clouds stretching over the town, sealing in a late summer humidity that would not relent. Stephanie drove with her AC cranked as high as it would go, but even with the cool air blasting her face, sweat still dotted her forehead.

  She escaped the early Saturday traffic by turning at the corner of Main Street and Kidd Avenue, passing under the railroad tracks. She knew these byways well, having learned to drive in the neighborhood beyond Stauford’s football field and recreational center, and when she crossed the bridge over Layne Camp Creek, a memory of grandma Maggie playing backseat driver crept into her mind. “Brake, for God’s sake, Stephanie! You’re going to kill us both!”

  Stephanie had braked, but not before hitting the gas pedal at the wrong time, shooting her grandmother’s old Ford over the curb and toward the hill overlooking the creek. The look on Maggie Green’s face when they finally came to a halt was something she’d never forgotten: the utter terror, the surprise, the humor of it all. Those were better days, and when she crossed the bridge, Stephanie felt a hint of sadness wash over her, complemented by the dull sky above.

  Kidd Avenue forked at Granger and Harmon Streets, and Stephanie took a right onto Granger, driving through their old neighborhood. Maggie Green’s house was fourth on the left, an old brick two-story in which Stephanie spent most of her youth after the incident at Devil’s Creek. She slowed as she drove by, pleased to see the current owners were taking care of the place. Even the tire swing was still there, suspended from the great arm of the old oak standing in the front yard beside the driveway.

  Seeing the old place took her back to lazy summers when Jack and Chuck biked to her house to plan a day of misadventures. Her house was the midway point between them, with Chuck all the way on the other side of the creek. Susan, Bobby, and Zeke were scattered across opposite parts of town, beyond Moore Hill and Gordon Hill, respectively. Bobby joined them a few times, even Zeke for that matter, but never Susan. She’d always kept to herself, but even more so as they grew older. Zeke’s visits stopped when he moved in with Susan and her grandfather, and Bobby’s stopped when he found Jesus.

  Their differences and absences aside, Stephanie had fond memories of traveling the roads of Stauford with her brothers, splashing across the shallows of Layne Camp Creek on warmer days, fishing in the deeper parts, and catching the wind to cool off as they rode their bikes down the inclines of Gordon Hill. Those days lasted forever in her memory, like warm impressionist paintings where the sun is always setting, the sky on the cusp of fading from orange to purple, and the fireflies indistinguishable from the stars. They’d made an unspoken pact to stick together in those forgotten afternoons, taking care of each other even when the rest of the world was against them.

  Somehow, in the wisdom of their youth, they’d decided to make the most of what life dealt them. Somehow, in the years since, they’d lost sight of that decision, and some more than others.

  She sighed. Those were better days, indeed.

  When she reached the end of the block, Stephanie took a left onto Brennen Road and continued up the hill toward Standard Avenue; there, when she looked to turn right, she saw the weathervane atop the Tremly house. When she was a kid, she’d pretend the old Victorian was like a castle, filled with secret corridors and books of magic. Jack’s grandmother Imogene was like a sorceress to her, the black eyepatch a strange badge o
f honor. She didn’t learn about all the rumors until she was a teenager, and by then she and Jack had drifted apart, their adventures more infrequent, given away in favor of newer friends with lighter pasts.

  All those rumors, she thought. Old lady Tremly’s a witch, she eats children and bathes in the blood of virgins, and she worships the devil beneath the light of a full moon. She rolled her eyes. Such stories were ridiculous, and yet…she wondered if there wasn’t some truth to them. The rumors had to start somewhere, and she hoped to reconcile those stories with Jack this evening, if he’d let her. She and Chuck had a tacit agreement not to discuss what happened all those years ago, but Jack was a different story.

  She turned off Standard Avenue and up the driveway toward the Tremly place. Jack sat on the edge of the porch, a sketchbook in his lap. He was sketching one of the trees in the front yard.

  Stephanie slowed to a stop and lowered her window. “How much for the drawing?”

  Jack Tremly closed the sketchbook and tucked it into his messenger bag. “Twelve grand.” He smiled. “For thirteen, I’ll even sign it.”

  “Deal,” she said, unlocking the door. He climbed in beside her and buckled up. “I guess you do that often?”

  “What, sketch?”

  She nodded, turning the car around in the driveway. “Yeah, I mean, isn’t it like riding a bike? Once you know how to do it…”

  “Nah, it’s not like that,” Jack said. “You always have to practice, like playing a piano. You have to warm up, keep your fingers limber, and remind them how to draw the right shapes.”

  “Is that how you did Midnight Baptism?”

  He crossed his arms and blushed. “Is this an interview?”