by Ronald Kelly
The porch at the front of the house was a tall one with a crawlspace underneath that served both as a root cellar and junk shed. Dud stored his summer potatoes in the dark there, as well as a jug or two of white lightning he bought from Caleb Vanleer over at Eagle Point from time to time. There was no electricity on the place—the power company had never bothered bringing it to Craven’s Mountain—and neither was there any indoor plumbing. Dud got his water from a spring on down the mountain a-ways, and as for other business, he had a one-seater outhouse in back to relieve himself in. The only other buildings on the property were a small barn, a smokehouse, and a chicken coop that had plenty of hen shit and stray feathers, but no poultry. Dud had lost a good three dozen Rock Island reds when they had come down with a strange ailment, and he had never bothered to buy any more.
Dud would like to have parked himself in the rocking chair on the front porch, but he still had the business of that dadblamed coffin to settle. The temperature seemed to have dropped another ten degrees, so he pulled on his jacket and stood at the head of the steps for a moment. The long box was still in the back of the Dodge where he’d left it.
The farmer descended the steps and crossed over to the truck. He had his hand on the door handle when he peeked into the bed at the casket again. Take another look, that voice in his head suggested. Just make sure of what you’ve got there. Could be some rings on those bony fingers that you overlooked before.
Dud ran a hand along his prickly jaw, pondering the possibility. “Wouldn’t hurt to check,” he told himself. “Them fellers down at the police station, they’d just pocket them themselves, if’n there were valuables.”
He went around to the rear of the truck, let down the tailgate, and hopped inside. As he stood there and stared down at the coffin, that familiar chill tickled his spine again. He swallowed dryly, then bent down and lifted the lid.
Dud could scarcely see the skeleton lying inside, it was so dark. Tall oaks surrounded the front of Dud’s house and shut out whatever light the half moon cast. He reached over to the side and opened a rusty red toolbox. He rummaged around in it for a while until he found a flashlight. When he turned it on, the beam was weak. He directed the dim light at the skeleton in the coffin. He checked the fingers for jewelry but was disappointed to find none. He looked around the sides, in case a ring or two might have fallen off, but still no luck.
Dud grunted in disgust. He sat down on the side wall of the truck bed and stared at the body for a minute. The clothes it wore, they reminded him of something. Something he’d seen in a movie once. It took him a while before it came to him. They looked like the clothes Robert Mitchum had worn in that movie about the crazy preacher. The one where he had the tattoos on his knuckles: LOVE and HATE. Night of the Hunter, he believed it was.
“Is that what you were, ol’ boy?” Dud asked with a grin. He took the pouch of Redman tobacco from his pocket and poked a chaw into his mouth. “Some kinda mountain preacher? Maybe you got to preaching hellfire and damnation to some moonshiner who didn’t appreciate it. Maybe he was the one who done you in, huh?”
The time-bleached skull stared at him with empty sockets. The teeth, perfectly white and firmly intact, seemed to grin, as if Dud had cracked a particularly funny joke. The canine teeth seemed a little longer—and a little sharper—than those of a normal man.
Again a shudder of uneasiness ran throughout the poor dirt farmer. He was about to pick up the coffin lid and lay it back in place when that annoying voice spoke out again.
Why don’t you pull it out? it asked. The stake. Wouldn’t take but one tug, two at the most.
Dud stared at the length of wood protruding from the skeleton’s chest. It seemed so wrong, it being there, sticking out of the poor soul’s rib cage like that. It seemed downright unnatural.
Go on… pull it out. It won’t do no harm.
The voice seemed to fill his head, numbing his brain with an odd coldness. Dud found it hard to think straight. Strangely enough, it seemed like all that mattered at that moment was pulling that confounded stake from the skeleton’s chest.
Yes! the voice urged, as he reached out and grabbed hold of the end. Do it!
Dud tried to yank it free with one hand, but it refused to budge. He stood up to gain some leverage. This time, using two hands, the stake moved a little, but still held fast. “Must be stuck clear in the spine,” muttered Dud. He placed a foot against the bottom edge of the casket, bracing himself, then tried again. This time there was a brittle pop and the stake came free.
The farmer regained his balance and stood there staring at the bony remains of the preacherman. There was a hole in the center of his chest where the black vest had been buttoned around the obstruction. It was as dark as pitch in there, but the flashlight on the wall of the truck picked out the hint of a rib or two in the shadows.
Dud tossed the stake away into the night, still feeling muddled and out of sorts. He was about to reach for the coffin lid when something about the body drew his attention. It was the gap in the skeleton’s vest. There was something drifting out of it. Sort of like smoke, but more like a vapor. It resembled the fog that hung thick among the Smokies early on a frosty winter’s morning.
Startled, Dud watched as the vapor rippled from out of the empty rib cage, growing thick and strangely luminescent. It curled around the skeleton, filling the bottom of the casket. Soon the mist had rolled completely over the body, obscuring it from view. The vapor swirled gently, giving off an eerie blue glow that Dud couldn’t figure out.
“This ain’t right,” he muttered. “It just ain’t right.”
Dud was about to take a step backward when a flash of motion erupted from the mist. He heard the brittle crackle of bones and felt a tug at his britches leg. He looked down and was shocked to see what had him.
It was the right hand of the skeleton. Its bony fingers were clutching the denim of his overalls like a drowning man holding on to a life preserver.
He cried out and shook his leg, but the thing refused to let go. Then Dud noticed something odd. The cuff of the white shirt and the black suit above it: they no longer looked ancient and on the verge of crumbling into dust. In fact, they looked as new as store-bought clothing.
A mixture of horror and awe filled Dud as he stared at the skeletal hand that had him. From the tiny pores of the bones seeped a clear red fluid. It ran along the fingers and joints, coating them, thickening into a deep, greasy crimson. He watched as the stringy texture of raw muscle and ligaments formed, covering the hand, hiding the bones underneath. Then, almost as quickly, a thin layer of skin appeared. Soon it, too, had run its course. Dud could even see fine hairs on the skin, as well as the pale flats of fingernails, longer than average and wickedly sharp at the ends.
“No,” mumbled Dud. “No, it ain’t happening.”
“Oh, but it is,” said the voice.
But this time it didn’t come from Dud’s brain.
Instead, it came from the casket.
A low moan rose from the farmer’s throat as the mist parted and the occupant of the box sat up. In the ebbing glow of the flashlight, Dud saw the man’s face clearly. It was strong and lean, with bushy eyebrows over bluish-gray eyes, as well as a thick mane of iron-gray hair and a heavy mustache of the same hue. The throat gasped deeply, drawing in air as if it hadn’t breathed for nearly a century. When the lips, thin and slightly blue, parted, Dud could see a set of strong white teeth. They were the teeth of the skeleton in the box. The canines looked even longer than they had before.
Dud opened his mouth a couple of times before he actually managed to say anything. “Who… who the hell are you?” he croaked.
But the second he’d asked the question, the answer came to him. He recalled an old photograph hidden in the pages of Revelation in his late father’s Bible, a Bible that had been passed down through generations of Cravens. The tintype was of a tall, elderly man with gray hair and piercing eyes. And he was dressed in the black suit and collarless whit
e shirt of a backwoods minister.
Dud watched dumbfounded as the man rose from his casket, joints popping loudly in protest, joints that were now covered with living flesh. Those stern eyes of steely blue studied him for a moment. Then the man began to smile. But there was no humor to the gesture. None whatsoever.
“You know who I am,” he said in a rumbling baritone that sounded more like it had come from the back of a dark cave than from any human throat.
That was when Dudley Craven lost his nerve. Although it seemed impossible at first, he wrenched his gaze from that of the preacher and stumbled backward. He fell off the truck and hit the ground wrong, twisting his ankle. But he didn’t let that slow him down. He scrambled to his feet and limped blindly off into the night.
Behind him, the man in the coffin began to laugh.
Chapter Five
Austin ran with all the power his legs could muster. Behind him, in relentless pursuit, was a spawn of evil so horrendous that it could scarcely be comprehended by the intellect of man. His ears strained, searching for the least sound, perhaps the snap of a twig or the billowing of beastial breath mere inches behind him. At first, Austin heard nothing. Then it came from above, the flapping of leathery wings and the gleeful laughter of Satan himself.
Tammy Craven pulled her eyes from the book in her hands and paused for a long moment. Had she heard something? Maybe the creak of a footstep on the staircase? She listened, as focused as the hero in her book, but heard nothing else.
She went back to her reading.
Suddenly, Austin turned and saw the thing descending upon him. Horror filled him at the very sight of it. Its body was green and scaly, while its head was a hideous mixture of man and snake. Long arms tipped at the fingers in jagged claws reached out for him, while those leathery wings, tattered and frayed at the edges, beat the night air furiously. And from the fanged mouth of the serpent-demon echoed the horrid laughter of the truly damned.
Once again, Tammy paused. She laid down the horror novel and sat there in bed, listening. She was sure of it that time. The sound of a loose board in the upstairs hallway. Someone was in the house.
Tammy flung back the wedding-ring quilt that covered her and left the bed. The first thing she did was lift the mattress and tuck the paperback underneath. Then she looked toward the door. She listened but heard nothing else. That didn’t satisfy her, though. She had to look and see for herself.
As she started across the bedroom, the hardwood floor cool against the soles of her bare feet, Tammy passed in front of the dresser mirror. She glanced over at herself and frowned at what she saw: a skinny girl of twenty-six with mousy brown hair and glasses, wearing a pink flannel gown. The image in the mirror also possessed a look of perpetual worry on its plain-Jane face. Not that that was a big surprise. Tammy had possessed that expression throughout most of her married life, all five years of it.
Tammy reached the door and pressed her ear to the panel. She heard nothing. Nervously she opened the door and eased her head out into the hallway. It was dark and empty. No one had been there. It had only been her imagination.
With a sigh, she closed the door and headed back to bed. Before she got there, she decided to take no chances. She walked to the bedroom window and looked out.
Twenty yards from the house stood the Green Hollow First Baptist Church. It was an immaculate building of white brick and imported stained glass, complete with the high pinnacle of a steeple rearing heavenward. Tammy breathed easier when she saw that the lights were still on in the auditorium. That meant her husband was there, probably still practicing his sermon for tomorrow morning’s service.
Tammy pictured Wendell Craven standing at the pulpit, tall and slightly overweight, the light of self-righteous intensity shining in his eyes. If she knew Wendell, he would be down there until ten-thirty or eleven o’clock, polishing every “Hallelujah!” and “Amen!” Wendall was a perfectionist, especially where the Lord was concerned. Tammy knew that all too well. That was part of the reason she was so jumpy and on edge all the time. Wendell’s sermonizing didn’t end in his church. It continued at home, too, and unfortunately, there Tammy was the only one within earshot.
She left the window and returned to the cherrywood bed. She took the horror novel from beneath the mattress and climbed back under the covers. She opened the book and began searching for her lost place. She was anxious to see how Austin’s encounter with the snake-demon turned out.
But before she could, she heard a noise, a real noise this time. It came from the other side of the bedroom door. Frightened, she lifted her eyes from the book. The doorknob was turning.
A second later, her worst fear became reality. The door swung open and Wendell stepped in, his bulk filling the doorway. The young preacher glared at his wife, pinning her to the headboard of the bed like a butterfly to a specimen board. When he saw what she held in her hands, his face grew livid with rage. A strange mixture of disgust and triumph burned in his tiny eyes as he raised an accusing finger.
“I suspected as much!” he growled, crossing the floor so forcefully that his footsteps shook the dresser and highboy.
Tammy was helpless. She shrank back and said nothing as her husband reached the bed and jerked the paperback from her hands.
“What did I tell you about reading this trash?” he asked, causing his wife to cringe. He stared at the cover of the book with a look of repulsion. It was all dripping foil letters, bloody fangs, and serpent’s eyes. “Do you remember what I told you?”
Tammy’s voice was a whisper. “There’s nothing wrong with those books, Wendell,” she said. “They’re harmless.”
Wendell looked on the verge of exploding. “Harmless? You call this garbage harmless? It’s the tongue of Lucifer put to paper, that’s what it is! And those responsible for writing such crap are nothing but the devil’s followers! Drunkards and drug addicts and worshipers of Satan! Blasphemers in the eyes of God!”
“Please, Wendell,” pleaded Tammy. “It’s not like that. It’s only make believe, like a children’s book…”
The preacher laughed, but it was a laugh full of pity and contempt. “No, my dear, it is not like a children’s book. These books deal with the minions of hell! Witches and demons and vampires! Depravity like this could only come from the minds of the wicked.” He yanked the book open so violently that the spine cracked. “Look at this! Profanity and fornication on every page!”
Tammy reached out with a trembling hand. “Please, dear. Don’t be so upset.”
Again that condescending laugh. “I am far past upset, Tammy! I am outraged!” He glared at the book in his hand, then began to rip it to shreds, page by page. “Didn’t I warn you about the sin of reading such profane material? Didn’t I?”
She was near tears now, her nerves pushed to the edge. “Yes,” she replied meekly. “You did.”
Wendell flung the mutilated book aside, then reached out for her. He grabbed one of her wrists in his ham-sized fist. “Then we must pray for your redemption,” he told her. “We must ask the Lord to show His mercy.”
Tammy began to cry then. Her wrist felt like it was trapped in a shop vise. “Stop it, Wendell! You’re hurting me!”
“Sometimes the will of God does hurt,” he told her as he dragged her bodily from the bed. “Sometimes it requires a strong hand to teach the sinful. Now, get on your knees and pray!”
Tammy sobbed as she righted herself and knelt next to the bed. Her small hands jittered as she clasped them together.
Wendell stood above her, a hand on the back of her neck, pressing her head into a repentive bow. “Lord Almighty in Heaven, please find it in Your benevolent heart to forgive this lowly sinner. Her ways are those of the misguided and the ignorant. Forgive her, oh Lord, and deny her not Your blessing. Also, forgive me, Savior, for she is the one who clings unto me and therefore it is my responsibility to guide her in the ways of the righteous. I have failed at that duty and am truly sorry. Please give me the strength and ability to
overcome these shortcomings and spread Your divine word in a manner You approve of. In Jesus’ name, Amen!”
Tammy felt her husband’s hand squeeze the nape of her neck. “Amen,” she echoed softly.
A moment later, she felt herself being lifted gently from the floor. “There, there, my dear,” said Wendell, his voice tender. “The Lord has forgiven you now. There’s no more need for tears.”
As her husband’s arms embraced her, Tammy wanted to break away and run. But she didn’t. She did as she had done since the night of their honeymoon. She played the part of the obedient wife and suppressed her true feelings. She nestled against him, exhausted, feeling more anguish than comfort.
“No more of these books?” he asked in a fatherly tone of voice. “Agreed?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “No more.”
“Good,” he said. He gave her a hug, then sat her down on the bed. “I’m going back down to the church now. I still have some work to do on my sermon. I’ll be back up in an hour or two. Why don’t you go on to bed? I want you bright-eyed and beautiful for your Sunday school class tomorrow morning. Okay?”
Tammy stared up dully at her husband. The salt of her tears speckled the inside of her glasses, making it hard to see. “Okay,” was all she said.
Wendell Craven bent down and kissed his wife’s forehead. Then, picking up the torn paperback, he left the bedroom. A minute later, she heard the slam of the back door and Wendell’s footsteps on the sidewalk that ran between the parsonage and the church parking lot.
When Tammy was sure he was gone, she removed her glasses and laid them on the nightstand beside her bed.
After turning off the lamp, she curled up in bed and lay there for a long time. She shook violently, as if suffering from a palsy, unable to stop. Hot tears resurfaced, spilling past her clenched eyelids and dampening the pillow beneath her head. Her wrist still ached where Wendell had grabbed it. There would be bruises there in the morning. They wouldn’t be the first.