Long Chills

by Ronald Kelly

  Once, on a morning very much like this, men picked through the smoldering ruins of that church and removed the burnt bodies of those who had died while worshipping their profane master. Most were men who had been present the night before – men who had carried hatred in their hearts, as well as torches and gasoline cans in their hands. Clinton’s father, Wallace Harpe, had been among them, although he and a few others had only stood and watched, while the others ran through the little village, playing avenging angel and arsonist with the same self-righteous zeal.

  “Don’t look like anybody’s been in this old church in a month of Sundays,” said Boyce, smiling faintly at his pun. “How many folks did you say you saw come in here?”

  “Had to be at least two dozen,” said Clinton. He walked up the center aisle and halted before the podium. “Hey… come and take a look at this here.”

  The sheriff joined him at the dark altar. A single object sat on top. It was the fire-blackened skull of an animal… a dog from the size and shape of it. There was no meat or hair left on it. Only scorched bone remained. Clinton picked it up and held it in his hand.

  “Still warm,” he said, passing it to Boyce Griffin.

  Boyce took it and gave it a thorough examination. “That don’t prove anything, Clinton. The sun could’ve heated it up. Looks to me like the thing’s been sitting there for a mighty long time.”

  “You just ain’t gonna believe a word I said, are you?”

  “Well, hell, Clinton, what do you expect?” said the sheriff, a mite peeved at having been dragged out there on a wild goose chase. “Just look around you. This place is a damned ghost town. Nobody’s set foot on this part of Devil’s Creek in years. I can’t rightly launch an investigation when there’s no evidence that a crime has been committed.”

  “What about the killing of a man’s dog?” asked Clinton.

  Boyce shook his head and began to walk back to the doorway of the old church.

  “A shame if something did happen to Old Boone, but killing an animal ain’t grounds for a murder charge. And, if it was, who would we convict of it? You can’t slap handcuffs on a ghost, you know?”

  “Is that what you think?” snapped Clinton with anger in his eyes. “That it was some figment of my imagination?”

  “I keep thinking about all those times you’ve slept off a drinking binge at the county jail, Clinton. Now why don’t you just admit that you had a snoot full and get off this crazy business about animal sacrifices and hooded Satan worshippers.”

  “I wasn’t drunk,” proclaimed Clinton. “Not by a long shot.”

  He heard the sheriff’s sigh of frustration and the crunch of his footsteps across the ashen floor of the church house. Clinton held the warm black skull in his hands and stared into the empty eye sockets. Is that you, Old Boone? he wondered. Is this all that’s left of you now?

  The skull simply stared back mutely, giving him no answers. Clinton set the hunk of scorched bone back atop the pulpit, then reluctantly joined Boyce outside. During the ride back to Coleman, the coarse baying of a Bluetick hound echoed in the back of Clinton’s mind, as well as the panicked yelp drawn by the cold flat of honed steel against canine flesh.

  That night, Clinton Harpe sat on the back porch of his farmhouse, listening to the radio and staring into the darkness. A Hank Williams song drifted from inside the kitchen – “Lovesick Blues” from the sound of the tune. Clinton’s mind wasn’t much on lyrics that evening. He looked up at the full moon overhead, as high and bright as the one last night, and thought of Old Boone, the finest coon-hunting dog in all of Tennessee. He also thought of a night twenty years ago. A night full of confusing incidents… and unexpected visitors.

  He had been eight years old that night in the autumn of 1938. He remembered his father grabbing his hat and coat and leaving with a number of local men who drove pickup trucks and dark sedans. He had recognized a few faces from the window of his bedroom: Woody Sadler, who owned the general store at the forks, as well as others like Buster Cole and Dusty Ballard. Among those who had gone but not had a hand in the torching, was Clayburn Biggs, whose son Johnny had been brutally murdered with two boys in an old tobacco barn several years before.

  He recalled watching them head toward the southern half of Bedloe County and then climbing back into bed. He had slept fitfully, dreaming of dark forms gathered in some great structure – ominous forms that danced and changed in a tongue he had never heard before. He awoke to the sound of his father coming in the back way. There had been a bout of angry discussion between his parents, then things had died down a bit. Curiously, he opened the door of his room, which adjoined the kitchen, and saw that the room was dark and empty… except for two small forms that huddled in front of the potbelly stove.

  Clinton had entered the kitchen and walked closer. It was two children, a brother and sister, clutching a woolen blanket around their naked bodies. As he studied them from the doorway, he saw that they shared the same raven-black hair and dark liquid eyes. And they had one more thing in common. Along the flesh of their inner arms were etched a number of strange symbols. Tattoos of five-pointed stars in circles and crude beasts with spiraling horns and cloven hooves lined their bare flesh, looking vaguely sinister in the flickering light of the cast-iron stove.

  The children had merely stared at Clinton, regarding him with the glazed expression of things associated more with death than with life. Those hollow-eyed stares had put a chill in his youthful soul and driven him back to the safety of his room. When he awoke in the morning, the siblings were gone. Both his father and mother denied they had ever been there, claiming that had dreamt the entire episode.

  For many years, Clinton thought that perhaps they had been a part of some disturbing childhood nightmare. But shortly after the death of his father, Woody Sadler had told him the truth about that night. It seemed that during the confusion and chaos of the Devil’s Creek fire, two small children were discovered cringing in the shelter of a stone springhouse near the edge of the branch. Wallace Harpe and the others had spirited them away without the knowledge of their fellow vigilantes, not knowing what might happen if the others got hold of them. Clinton’s father had brought them home with him and, early the following morning, had driven them to an orphanage in Nashville, where he had left them in the care of those who knew how to handle abandoned children.

  It hadn’t been a dream then, and it certainly hadn’t been a dream last night, with the loss of Old Boone. Disturbing images kept surfacing in Clinton’s mind. Images of the hound’s head gracing the black altar, eyes glassy with death and tongue lolling from the side of its gaping mouth. Then a touch of a torch set the severed head aflame, consuming hair and hide and flesh, boiling away membrane and blood, turning the loving eyes into simmering pits of jelly. Soon, the dark forms would breathe in the heady scent of burning flesh and, as the last of the meat gave way to charred bone, they would end their chanting and disrobe. Then the church of Satan would echo with the cries of pain and pleasure, and the blackened pews would rock with the violent abandon of mass fornication.

  Clinton drove the thoughts from his mind and spat tobacco juice off the edge of the back porch, onto the bare patch of earth where Old Boone once lay in the sun and dreamt of coons and rabbits and bitches in heat. You’re just plain batty for thinking of such, he thought. But, for some reason, he couldn’t convince himself that the perverse images were false. On the contrary, his most outlandish imaginings seemed to fall short of the true horrors that must have taken place following his escape from Devil’s Creek.

  He left his place on the porch and walked back into the kitchen. His wife, Phyllis, was washing the supper dishes at the sink. She gave him a gentle smile, for she knew he was still upset about the loss of Old Boone. He returned the smile. Clinton had met Phyllis while he was working at a textile mill in Nashville. She had been a welcomed change from the loose women he usually encountered in the bars and honky-tonks. Phyllis had been a shy and prudent girl, and still was. Th
eir affection had only been shared in darkened rooms and he had never once seen her naked throughout their entire marriage. When his father died, they had taken over the responsibility of the farm and made a life for themselves. Except for pulling an occasional drunk, Clinton had done his best to make a good home for his wife of seven years.

  The sole product of their physical union sat at the kitchen table, playing with paper dollies. Six-year-old Nellie Sue beamed up at him, her smile drawing him like a magnet. He lifted her from her chair and gave her a big hug. When he returned her to her seat, he looked down at her with both pride and sadness. She was a lovely young’un, all freckled face and bright blue eyes. Her curly locks were honey blonde, taking after his own hair rather than the dark hue of her mother.

  But one flaw marred her radiant beauty. A great strawberry-red birthmark covered the left side of her face, from temple to chin. Sometimes it made Clinton’s heart ache to see the disfiguring patch of skin on her smiling face and hear the cruel remarks of the children when they went shopping in town. He was sure that Nellie Sue wasn’t the first child in Coleman to be ridiculed for being different, but it still pained him to see her suffer because of some stupid fluke of nature.

  “I’m gonna take a walk,” he told Phyllis, giving her an affectionate peck on the back of the neck. “Wanna clear my head a bit.” He saw her turn and give him an inquisitive look. “And don’t worry. I ain’t going down to the Bloody Bucket. I’ve chores to do early in the morning.”

  “Don’t be too long,” she said, then left the sink and herded their daughter off to bed. Clinton stepped out on the back porch, letting the screen door slam behind him. He stood and hoped for a cool breeze to stir, but like last night, the air hung around him like a warm and sticky blanket. He stared into the darkness, listening to the sounds of crickets and toads.

  Finally, he made up his mind. He cut across the cornfield and entered the woods that bordered his property, then headed southward.

  He must have walked for a couple of hours, picking his way through the dense growth of the forest, then taking the winding route of the creek bed toward his destination. All the while, thoughts of Old Boone festered in his brain, driving him onward. Let Boyce Griffin think what he wanted to. He knew that the slaying of Old Boone had been for real, as well as those who had been responsible. He needed to prove that to himself, if to no one else.

  Clinton reached the edge of the forest around midnight. He peered from the shelter of the trees, searching for black-robed men with guns, but he saw no one. He was beginning to wonder if maybe Boyce had been right after all, when he heard the faint sound of chanting echo from the ashen hull of the old church. He held his breath and listened to the sing-song melody of the strange words that flowed from the open windows. A fire blazed somewhere within; he could see the yellow glow flickering from inside.

  Carefully, making sure that he would not be seen, Clinton darted from one patch of shadow to another, working his way toward the side of the black structure. When he had reached the scorched wall, he stood there, breathing shallowly and gathering the nerve to take a look inside. Finally, he chanced a glance through one of the arched windows.

  Row upon row of dark, hooded forms sat in the charred pews of the old church. Others who did not have seats stood against the inner walls, arms folded, watching solemnly from the pits of their black cowls. Clinton turned his gaze on a large form standing before the pulpit. From the size and bulk of the high priest, Clinton recognized him as being the one who had killed Old Boone. The man’s hood had been replaced by the fire-burnished skull of a huge bull. Broad horns swept gracefully from the sides of the bony head, while human eyes gleamed from the shadows of the gaping eye sockets.

  The dark priest knelt beside a pale form that lay naked before him. From where Clinton stood, he could only tell that it was the form of a small child. The sight of the brute’s hands hovering a few inches above, smooth unblemished skin sent a thrill of panic through Clinton. He wished now that he had brought his gun along. If he had, perhaps he could have stopped what was about to take place. But his hands were empty and he could only watch in growing horror as a long dagger appeared in the fist of the high priest. Firelight glittered on polished steel as the blade rose, slowly and deftly, then plunged.

  Clinton closed his eyes and moaned softly. He felt as though he might pass out as the ugly sounds of slaughter echoed in his ears. When he finally found the strength to return his eyes to the grisly ceremony, he saw that the child’s head had been placed atop the altar. Blood tickled in dark rivulets down the front of the pulpit, mingling with the flaky ashes and giving the podium a slimy sheen in the muted firelight.

  He ducked below the row of side windows and made his way to the front door to get a better view. Clinton could do nothing now, but perhaps he could see something that might later identify those who performed the horrid ritual. He was sure that Boyce Griffin would take him seriously when he found out that an innocent child had been sacrificed, rather than mere dogs and livestock.

  When he reached the open doorway, he found that the head of the child had already been ignited. Flames engulfed the tiny face, licking along the smooth skin and the delicate curls of cornsilk hair. It was then that a cold dread crept like a snake through the bowls of Clinton Harpe. For as he pulled away from the concealment of the outer darkness and began to walk down the center aisle, he found himself looking into features that were as familiar to him as his own.

  A great wail of anguish tore from his throat as the fire took hold. Turning the golden blonde hair into flying cinders and the brilliant blue eyes into shriveled gray blisters. And as the freckled flesh blackened and shrank away from the bone, a thicker patch of tissue remained a second longer, blazing brightly against the charred meat. A long splash of strawberry-redness stretching tautly between temple and chin.

  Then the odor of the sacrifice drifted throughout the dark church, curling its way up the nostrils of the hooded followers and driving them into a frenzy. Screams of abandonment joined Clinton’s screams of terror as the hellish congregation tore their garments asunder, exposing themselves. In an orgy of mad passion they clutched at one another – biting, clawing, rutting like wild animals. Clinton found himself standing, utterly forgotten, amid a pale sea of heaving bodies. The stench of burnt flesh was soon accompanied by the acidic taint of human sweat and sex.

  Clinton Harpe turned and fled. He left the dark church and plunged into the dark tangle of the deep forest. Like a lunatic, he tore through the woods along the moonlit channel of Devil’s Creek. The sound of his screams rang through the Tennessee hills and hollows, as well as the cries of evil rapture vented by the Church of the Alternate Father. Like Old Boone, he shot through the darkness of night, chasing an elusive target known as sanity. He could sense it ahead, dodging and darting, swiftly slipping from his grasp.

  Hours later, Clinton found himself sprinting through the corn stalks of his back field, heading for the farmhouse at a dead run. He tripped, fell, got back up and continued on. The house was dark, nary a light in the place. He struggled to understand why, then realized that it must be two or three o’clock in the morning. No lights would be burning at such an ungodly hour.

  He crossed the back porch and flung open the screen door. As he raced through the kitchen and down the hallway, toward the bedroom of his daughter, he found himself wishing for the power to scream as he had in the wilderness of Devil’s Creek. But he could not. All he could do was wheeze breathlessly as his feet pounded the hardwood floor and his hands groped through the darkness for the proper door.

  Clinton found the brass knob and nearly tore the door from its hinges. It was all a terrible nightmare, he fought to convince himself, like a lawyer trying to defend a hopelessly guilty man. She’ll be here, tucked safely in her bed and sleeping.

  Then the palms of his hands reached out for the bed and, instead of finding the warmth of his daughter’s slumbering body, they found only the cool emptiness of clean white shee
ts. “Oh, Lord God!” he wailed at the top of his lungs. “Why did they take her? Oh, Lord in heaven, why her?”

  But as Phyllis appeared next to him, eyes wide with fear and hands clutching at his thrashing form, he knew why they had taken his beloved Nellie Sue. It was because of him that she had fallen prey. It was because of his discovery of their evil coven and his interference of their most sacred and secretive ritual.

  “What’s wrong?” shrilled Phyllis in his ears. “What’s happened?”

  But he could not bring himself to answer her. He could not bring himself to do anything at all… except surrender to the dizzy pull of darkness that drew him into the depths of comforting oblivion.

  When Clinton Harpe awoke it was still dark.

  He stared up from where he lay across his daughter’s empty bed and looked up into the faces of Phyllis and Sheriff Boyce Griffin. At first, he was confused by their presence. Then the night’s horrors reclaimed his thoughts and he lurched to his feet, grabbing at the front of Boyce’s khaki uniform shirt.

  “Oh, God, Boyce, I was right!” he groaned. “I was right about what I saw last night! And I paid for it… with my child!”

  “Calm down, Clinton,” urged the lawman, putting his hands on the farmer’s lanky shoulders. “Just calm yourself down and tell me what this is all about.”

  Clinton sat on the bed and began to tell the sheriff about that night’s horrifying events. By the time he was finished, he was nearly in hysterics again. He searched for compassion and reassurance from those around him, but his tears distorted their faces and he could not tell whether they truly believed him or not.

  For a long time they simply stood and stared at him. Then Boyce gently took him by the arm and helped him to his feet. “Do you feel up to taking a ride out there?” asked the sheriff grimly.