She looked. Neatly pegged white letters under glass read: “THE POWER AND GRACE OF HE WHO WALKS BEHIND THE ROWS.” The date was July 24, 1976—the Sunday before.
“He Who Walks behind the Rows,” Burt said, turning off the ignition. “One of the nine thousand names of God only used in Nebraska, I guess. Coming?”
She didn’t smile. “I’m not going in with you.”
“Fine. Whatever you want.”
“I haven’t been in a church since I left home, and I don’t want to be in this church, and I don’t want to be in this town, Burt, I’m scared out of my mind; can’t we just go?”
“I’ll only be a minute.”
“I’ve got my keys, Burt. If you’re not back in five minutes, I’ll just drive away and leave you here.”
“Now just wait a minute, lady.”
“That’s what I’m going to do. Unless you want to assault me like a common mugger and take my keys. I suppose you could do that.”
“But you don’t think I will.”
“No.”
Her purse was on the seat between them. He snatched it up. She screamed and grabbed for the shoulder strap. He pulled it out of her reach. Not bothering to dig, he simply turned the bag upside down and let everything fall out. Her key ring glittered amid tissues, cosmetics, change, old shopping lists. She lunged for it, but he beat her again and put the keys in his own pocket.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, crying. “Give them to me.”
“No,” he said and gave her a hard, meaningless grin. “No way.”
“Please, Burt! I’m scared!” She held her hand out, pleading now.
“You’d wait two minutes and decide that was long enough.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“And then you’d drive off, laughing and saying to yourself, ‘That'll teach Burt to cross me when I want something.’ Hasn’t that pretty much been your motto during our married life? That’ll teach Burt to cross me?”
He got out of the car.
“Please, Burt?” She screamed, sliding across the seat. “Listen . . . I know . . . we’ll drive out of town and call from a phone booth, okay? I’ve got all kinds of change. I just . . . we can . . . don’t leave me alone, Burt; don’t leave me out here alone!”
He slammed the door on her cry and then leaned against the side of the T-Bird for a moment, thumbs against his closed eyes. She was pounding on the driver’s-side window and calling his name. She was going to make a wonderful impression when he finally found someone in authority to take charge of the kid’s body. Oh yes.
He turned and walked up the flagstone path to the church doors. Two or three minutes, just a look around, and he would be back out. Probably the door wasn’t even unlocked.
But it pushed in easily on silent, well-oiled hinges (reverently oiled, he thought, and that seemed funny for no really good reason), and he stepped into a vestibule so cool it was almost chilly. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness.
The first thing he noticed was a pile of wooden letters in the far corner, dusty and jumbled indifferently together. He went to them, curious. They looked as old and forgotten as the calendar in the bar and grill, unlike the rest of the vestibule, which was dust free and tidy. The letters were about two feet high, obviously part of a set. He spread them out on the carpet—there were eighteen of them—and shifted them around like anagrams. HURT BITE CRAG CHAP CS. Nope. CRAP TARGET CHIBS HUC. That wasn’t much good either. Except for the CH in CHIBS. He quickly assembled the word CHURCH and was left looking at RAP TAGET CIBS. Foolish. He was squatting here, playing idiot games with a bunch of letters while Vicky was going nuts out in the car. He started to get up and then saw it. He formed BAPTIST, leaving RAG EC, and by changing two letters he had GRACE. GRACE BAPTIST CHURCH. The letters must have been out front. They had taken them down and had thrown them indifferently in the corner, and the church had been painted since then so that you couldn’t even see where the letters had been.
Why?
It wasn’t the Grace Baptist Church anymore; that was why. So what kind of church was it? For some reason that question caused a trickle of fear, and he stood up quickly, dusting his fingers. So they had taken down a bunch of letters; so what? Maybe they had changed the place into Flip Wilson’s Church of What’s Happening Now.
But what had happened then?
He shook it off impatiently and went through the inner doors. Now he was standing at the back of the church itself; and as he looked toward the nave, he felt fear close around his heart with its banana fingers squeezing tightly. His breath drew in, loud in the pregnant silence of this place.
The space behind the pulpit was dominated by a gigantic portrait of Christ, and Burt thought: if nothing else in this town gave Vicky the screaming mimis, this would.
The Christ was grinning, vulpine. His eyes were wide and staring, reminding Burt uneasily of Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera. In each of the wide, black pupils someone (a sinner, presumably) was drowning in a lake of fire. But the oddest thing was that this Christ had green hair . . . hair which on closer examination revealed itself to be a twining mass of early summer corn. The picture was crudely done but effective. It looked like a comic-strip mural done by a gifted child—an Old Testament Christ or a pagan Christ that might slaughter his sheep for sacrifice instead of leading them.
At the foot of the left-hand rank of pews was a pipe organ, and Burt could not at first tell what was wrong with it. He walked down the left-hand aisle and saw with slowly dawning horror that all the keys had been ripped up, the stops had been pulled out . . . and the pipes themselves filled with dry corn husks. Over the organ was a carefully lettered plaque which read: “MAKE NO MUSIC EXCEPT WITH HUMAN TONGUE SAITH THE LORD GOD.”
Vicky was right. Something was terribly wrong here. He debated going back to Vicky without exploring any further, just getting into the car and leaving town as quickly as possible—never mind the Municipal Building. But it grated on him. Tell the truth, he thought. You want to give her Ban 5000 a workout before going back and admitting she was right to start with.
He would go back out in a minute or so.
He walked toward the pulpit, thinking: people must go through Gatlin all the time. There must be people in the neighboring towns who have friends and relatives here. The Nebraska SP must cruise through from time to time. And what about the power company? The stoplight had been dead. Surely they’d know if the power had been off for twelve long years. Conclusion: what seemed to have happened to Gatlin was impossible.
Still he had the creeps.
He climbed the four carpeted steps to the pulpit and looked out over the deserted pews, glimmering in the half shadows. He seemed to feel the weight of those eldritch and decidedly unchristian eyes boring into his back.
There was a large Bible on the lectern, opened to the thirty-eighth chapter of Job. Burt glanced down at it and read: “Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said, Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge? . . . Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare, if thou hast understanding.” The Lord. He Who Walks Behind The Rows. Declare if thou hast understanding. And please pass the corn.
He fluttered the pages of the Bible, and they made a dry whispering sound in the quiet—the sound that ghosts might make if there really were such things. And in a place like this you could almost believe it. Sections of the Bible had been chopped out. Mostly from the New Testament, he saw. Someone had decided to take on the job of amending Good King James with a pair of scissors.
But the Old Testament was intact.
He was about to leave the pulpit when he saw another book on a lower shelf and took it out, thinking it might be a church record of weddings and confirmations and burials.
He grimaced at the words stamped on the cover, done inexpertly in gold leaf: “THUS LET THE INIQUITOUS BE CUT DOWN SO THAT THE GROUND MAY BE FERTILE AGAIN SAITH THE LORD GOD OF HOSTS.”
There seemed
to be only one train of thought around here, and Burt didn’t care much for the track it seemed to ride on.
He opened the book to the first wide, lined sheet. A child had done the lettering, he saw immediately. In places an ink eraser had been carefully used, and while there were no misspellings, the letters were large and childishly made, drawn rather than written. The first column read:
Amos Deigan (Richard),
b. Sept. 4, 1945 Sept. 4, 1964
Isaac Renfrew (William),
b. Sept. 19, 1945 Sept. 19, 1964
Zepeniah Kirk (George),
b. Oct. 14, 1945 Oct. 14, 1964
Mary Wills (Roberta),
b. Nov. 12, 1945 Nov. 12, 1964
Yemen Hollis (Edward),
b. Jan. 5, 1946 Jan. 5, 1965
Frowning, Burt continued to turn through the pages. Three-quarters of the way through, the double columns ended abruptly.
Rachel Stigman (Donna),
b. June 21, 1957 June 21, 1976
Moses Richardson (Henry),
b. July 29, 1957
Malachai Boardman (Craig),
b. August 15, 1957
The last entry in the book was for Ruth Clawson (Sandra), b. April 30, 1961. Burt looked at the shelf where he had found this book and came up with two more. The first had the same “INIQUITOUS BE CUT DOWN” logo, and it continued the same record, the single column tracing birthdates and names. In early September of 1964 he found Job Gilman (Clayton), b. September 6, and the next entry was Eve Tobin, b. June 16, 1965. No second name in parentheses.
The third book was blank.
Standing behind the pulpit, Burt thought about it.
Something had happened in 1964. Something to do with religion and corn . . . and children.
Dear God, we beg thy blessing on the crop. For Jesus’s sake, amen.
And the knife raised high to sacrifice the lamb—but had it been a lamb? Perhaps a religious mania had swept them. Alone, all alone, cut off from the outside world by hundreds of square miles of the rustling secret corn. Alone under seventy million acres of blue sky. Alone under the watchful eye of God, now a strange green God, a God of corn, grown old and strange and hungry. He Who Walks behind the Rows.
Burt felt a chill creep into his flesh.
Vicky, let me tell you a story. It’s about Amos Deigan, who was born Richard Deigan on September 4, 1945. He took the name Amos in 1964, fine old Testament name, Amos, one of the minor prophets. Well, Vicky, what happened—don’t laugh—is that Dick Deigan and his friends (Billy Renfrew, George Kirk, Roberta Wills, and Eddie Hollis, among others) they got religion, and they killed off their parents. All of them. Isn’t that a scream? Shot them in their beds, knifed them in their bathtubs, poisoned their suppers, hung them or disemboweled them, for all I know.
Why? The corn. Maybe it was dying. Maybe they got the idea somehow that it was dying because there was too much sinning. Not enough sacrifice. They would have done it in the corn, in the rows.
And somehow, Vicky, I’m quite sure of this, somehow they decided that nineteen was as old as any of them could live. Richard “Amos” Deigan, the hero of our little story, had his nineteenth birthday on September 4, 1964—the date in the book. I think maybe they killed him. Sacrificed him in the corn. Isn’t that a silly story?
But let’s look at Rachael Stigman, who was Donna Stigman until 1964. She turned nineteen on June 21, just about a month ago. Moses Richardson was born on July 29; just three days from today he’ll be nineteen. Any idea what’s going to happen to ole Mose on the twenty-ninth?
I can guess.
Burt licked his lips, which felt dry.
One other thing, Vicky. Look at this. We have Job Gilman (Clayton) born on September 16, 1964. No other births until June 16, 1965. A gap of ten months. Know what I think? They killed all the parents, even the pregnant ones; that’s what I think. And one of them got pregnant in October of 1964 and gave birth to Eve. Some sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl. Eve. The first woman.
He thumbed back through the book feverishly and found the Eve Tobin entry. Below it: Adam Greenlaw, b. July 11, 1965.
They’d be just eleven now, he thought, and his flesh began to crawl. And maybe they’re out there. Someplace.
But how could such a thing be kept secret? How could it go on?
How unless the God in question approved?
“Oh Jesus,” Burt said into the silence, and that was when the T-Bird’s horn began to blare into the afternoon, one long, continuous blast.
Burt jumped from the pulpit and ran down the center aisle. He threw open the outer vestibule door, letting in hot sunshine, dazzling. Vicky was bolt upright behind the steering wheel, both hands plastered on the horn ring, her head swiveling wildly. From all around, the children were coming. Some of them were laughing gaily. They held knives, hatchets, pipes, rocks, hammers. One girl, maybe eight, with beautiful long blonde hair, held a jack handle. Rural weapons. Not a gun among them. Burt felt a wild urge to scream out: Which of you is Adam and Eve? Who are the mothers? Who are the daughters? Fathers? Sons?
Declare, if thou hast understanding.
They came from the side streets, from the town green, through the gate in the chain-link fence around the school playground a block farther west. Some of them glanced indifferently at Burt, standing frozen on the church steps, and some nudged each other and pointed and smiled . . . the sweet smiles of children.
The girls were dressed in long, brown wool and faded sun-bonnets. The boys, like Quaker parsons, were all in black and wore round-crowned, flat-brimmed hats. They streamed across the town square toward the car, across lawns, a few coming across the front yard of what had been the Grace Baptist Church until 1964. One or two of them almost close enough to touch.
“The shotgun!” Burt yelled. “Vicky, get the shotgun!”
But she was frozen in her panic; he could see that from the closed windows.
They converged on the Thunderbird. The axes and hatchets and chunks of pipe began to rise and fall. My God, am I seeing this? he thought frozenly. An arrow of chrome fell off the side of the car. The hood ornament went flying. Knives scrawled spirals through the sidewalls of the tires, and the car settled. The horn blared on and on. The windshield and side windows went opaque and cracked under the onslaught . . . and then the safety glass sprayed inward, and he could see again. Vicky was crouched back, only one hand on the horn ring now, the other thrown up to protect her face. Eager young hands reached in, fumbling for the lock-unlock button. She beat them away wildly. The horn became intermittent and then stopped altogether.
The beaten and dented driver’s-side door was hauled open. They were trying to drag her out, but her hands were wrapped around the steering wheel. Then one of them leaned in, knife in hand, and—
His paralysis broke, and he plunged down the steps, almost falling, and ran down the flagstone walk, toward them. One of them, a boy of about sixteen with long red hair spilling out from beneath his hat, turned toward him, almost casually, and something flicked through the air. Burt’s left arm jerked backward, and for a moment he had the absurd thought that he had been punched at long distance. Then the pain came, so sharp and sudden that the world went gray.
He examined his arm with a stupid sort of wonder. A buck and a half Pensy jackknife was growing out of it like a strange tumor. The sleeve of his J.C. Penny sport shirt was turning red. He looked at it for what seemed like forever, trying to understand how he could have grown a jackknife . . . was it possible?
When he looked up, the boy with the red hair was almost on top of him. He was grinning, confident.
“Hey, you bastard,” Burt said. His voice was creaking, shocked.
“Remand your soul to God, for you will stand before His throne momentarily,” the boy with the red hair said and clawed for Burt’s eyes.
Burt stepped back, pulled the Pensy out of his arm, and stuck it into the red-haired boy’s throat. The gush of blood was immediate, gigantic. Burt was splashed with it. T
he red-haired boy began to gobble and walk in a large circle. He clawed at the knife, trying to pull it free, and was unable. Burt watched him, jaw hanging agape. None of this was happening. It was a dream. The red-haired boy gobbled and walked. Now his sound was the only one in the hot early afternoon. The others watched, stunned.
This part of it wasn’t in the script, Burt thought numbly. Vicky and I, we were in the script. And the boy in the corn, who had been trying to run away. But not one of their own. He stared at them savagely, wanting to scream, “How do you like it?"
The red-haired boy gave one last weak gobble and sank to his knees. He stared up at Burt for a moment, and then his hands dropped away from the haft of the knife, and he fell forward.
A soft sighing sound from the children gathered around the Thunderbird. They stared at Burt. Burt stared back at them, fascinated . . . and that was when he noticed that Vicky was gone.
“Where is she?” he asked. “Where did you take her?”
One of the boys raised a blood-streaked hunting knife toward his throat and made a sawing motion there. He grinned.
From somewhere in back, an older boy’s voice, soft: “Get him.”
The boys began to walk toward him. Burt backed up. They began to walk faster. Burt backed up faster. The shotgun, the god-damned shotgun! Out of reach. The sun cut their shadows darkly on the green church lawn . . . and then he was on the sidewalk. He turned and ran.
“Kill him!” someone roared, and they came after him.
He ran, but not quite blindly. He skirted the Municipal Building—no help there, they would corner him like a rat— and ran on up Main Street, which opened out and became the highway again two blocks farther up. He and Vicky would have been on that road now and away, if he had only listened.
His loafers slapped against the sidewalk. Ahead of him he could see a few more business buildings, including The Gatlin Ice Cream Shoppe and—sure enough—the Bijou Theater. The dust-clotted marquee letters read: “NOW HOWING L MITED EN AGEMEN ELI A TH TAYLOR CLEOPA RA.” Beyond the next cross street was a gas station that marked the edge of town. And beyond that the corn, closing back into the sides of the road. A green tide of corn.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 6 Page 17