by Dan Dillard
***
Robyn Scott and her daughter found another restaurant to manage out in Colorado. That was far enough away for them to live with. They were happy to remember it as an earthquake although the nightmares seeped in and reminded them of the wicked truth of it all. When they got a hankering to see the ocean, they went to the west coast.
Only Rusty knew the actual truth of what happened. He had looked death in the eye and said, “Meep meep.” He had finally stomped that roadrunner’s ass and taken all of crazy town down with it.
Folks who lived just outside of Smithville knew it wasn’t an earthquake. Many families moved, but those who stayed in the area told tales of that weekend. Murderous tales that included ghosts, skeletons and the evil things men, women and children do. The stories got around, became legend and some were even published in a “Haunted Tales of the Southeast” by a handful of terrible authors—many of whom had never even been to the southeast.
Rescue crews, once they could get into the area, found nothing. Devastated and hopeful relatives and morbid thrill seekers flocked to the edges where the national guard had erected barricades and for several months, it was mayhem. Thousands of grieving family members came to lay wreaths and light candles and see the place where Hell opened her mouth and swallowed part of the world. No bodies were recovered. No relics were unearthed. No ruins were found.
Eventually, the barricades came down and the crowds dissipated. The fickle interests of the world’s population moved on to other disasters, wars, the latest Hollywood gossip and blockbuster films, social media and the internet. There was talk of a federal holiday, but nothing came of it.
Geologists and scientists filtered in and out doing studies and taking samples. They used seismometers and accelerometers to predict future earthquakes with no results. They argued plate tectonics and looked for other explanations, but the arguments lived only amongst scientific circles and conspiracy theorists. Eventually, the thumbs up came for visitors.
Hikers and campers slowly made their way in from the mainland and boaters came from the sea to walk the new shorelines where Smithville used to be. Stories about demons and witchcraft grew out of the surrounding towns and rural areas. Hell’s Chimney was the punch line. It was a direct vein in to the devil’s heart.
It was six months before the insects came back, followed soon after by the wildlife. Nature flourished and five years later, much of the land ownership had been sorted out in the courts. Insurance payments were settled and development began again. By 2015, the pine trees were twelve to fifteen feet tall, small businesses thrived, houses dotted the area by the hundreds and it was once again incorporated.
Names were tossed into the hat and voted on. Genesis, Little Phoenix, Southport, and even Smithville were all considered and snubbed. In the end, the committee decided to go with local legend and named it Hell’s Chimney, NC. Within the six square miles that the new area occupied, thirteen churches sprung up. Insurance, the locals called it. The sign on the new stretch of highway 211 that cut through the center all the way to the water boasted a population of seven hundred and fourteen.
Tourist trap businesses claiming to be situated over the original site sold t-shirts, plaques and coffee mugs that read I’VE BEEN TO HELL’S CHIMNEY AND SURVIVED or I WINTERED IN HELL THIS YEAR with a cartoon picture of a horned Santa Claus. More businesses moved in and neighborhoods sprouted up like weeds.
Everyone who lived there said they knew where the epicenter of the horrible 2005 disaster was, earthquake or otherwise. Only the few survivors—those who lived on the outskirts of the mess that unfolded—knew of Loretta Gates. They still didn’t know the truth. Only Robyn and Kelly knew that connection, but they never came back.
There was a natural spring that bubbled up where’s the Gates home used to stand. It formed a little pond and people came to fill their empty milk jugs full of drinking water. The community tried to enshrine the place, claiming the water had mystical powers. They built a circular brick wall, one foot high and twelve feet in diameter around that spring. On the day the wall was finished, the mayor affixed to it a plaque that read:
IF YOU DRINK FROM THESE WATERS,
YOU’LL ALWAYS COME BACK.
The next day the bubbling spring had moved outside of that brick ring, perhaps ten feet away. In a few more days, another spring began to bubble twenty feet away. Then another and another.
Some days, the sulfur smell that rises from beneath is obvious, but most of the time it is very faint, covered by the scents of the flourishing woods that surround it. Almost nonexistent.
END.
FROM THE AUTHOR
First, let me say “Thanks for reading!” It means a lot...even if you hated DIG.
Writing takes work, encouragement, hair pulling, talking to one’s self (often in public places), research, some insanity, a bit of experience with one’s own written and spoken language, the occasional binge drinking spell...and then you have to put it out there in front of the world. What’s worse? Not being read, or being read by a lot of people? Well, I have severe stage fright and that includes simply shaking hands with someone new. In high school I was in a couple garage bands, and strangely, I could sing in front of a crowd...but ask me to read something I made up in my head and I would sweat, bubble with nausea, turn pale and wither like a week old bouquet of flowers. I even skipped class a few times due to speech requirements or presentations. Even with all of that--it’s worse to not be read. So thank you.
About me? Midwest, former US Navy, wife, two kids, pets, boring day job, disturbing love of macabre, occult, horror related things. The usual.
More of my books can be found anywhere e-books are sold. Look for:
THE JOURNEYMAN
THE WICKED
LIGHT AS A FEATHER
THE TOOTHLESS DEAD
GIVING UP THE GHOST
HOW TO EAT A HUMAN BEING
LUNACY
THE UNAUTHORIZED AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ETHAN JACOBS
WHAT TANGLED WEBS
DEMONS AND OTHER INCONVENIENCES
For more info, find Dan at the following cyberhaunts:
www.facebook.com/demonauthor
twitter.com/demonauthor
www.demonauthor.com
[email protected]