Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

She looked back and saw the eyes - a multitude of eyes, red and sinister. And then she saw the teeth and the jaws that opened wide.

  "Theresa!" Her mother screamed and burst into the room. The girl was kneeling at the edge of her bed, head in her hands. She trembled and shook as if an earthquake were rattling the entire house and shaking the bed.

  In tears she turned to her mother and held out her arms.

  Mary Angetti couldn't quite remember the last time she had hugged Theresa; she guessed it had been after she had regained consciousness following the ice-skating incident. Since that day, she had been made to feel increasingly suspicious of her daughter. Originally she had praised God for providing the miracle that saved Theresa, but her daughter hadn't been the same after that recovery. Withdrawn, she was no longer the cheery, resilient girl she had been. Even after her father had died two years earlier she seemed to bounce back within several weeks; Theresa's recovery made it that much simpler for Mary to return to the real world. She was in her own well of despair after Jim's death, but Theresa's childish lack of inhibitions was refreshing – enough to remind Mary that this girl was all that she had left of Jim – that he lived on through her.

  That's what you hope, at least. Was he really the father...?

  She brushed the thought away. He was. She could see it in Theresa's eyes, in her smile. But that was all before the accident on the ice. Before Theresa began having the nightmares, began talking in her sleep, and worse – sleepwalking. Mary would wake up several nights each month to find muddy footprints tracked from the back door up the stairs to Theresa's room. Her sheets were dirty and her feet filthy. And of course, the girl had no memory of her nocturnal travels.

  All these things substantiated the Reverend's inference that while the child had been saved by a supernatural power, perhaps that power belonged to the other side.

  Mary shuddered again. But seeing her daughter in such a desolate state, reaching out to her... how could she be an instrument of evil? How?

  He is the Lord of Deception, the Prince of Lies.

  Mary felt her heart cracking while she stood, arms at her side, afraid to go to her daughter.

  He'll use everything and everyone in his plan to uproot the Lord's work.

  Theresa sobbed and Mary saw in her expression something worse than the despair she saw in her own reflection on the day of Jim's funeral.

  Nothing is as it seems with the Lord of Evil.

  "Then," Mary whispered to herself, "What chance does that give us?"

  An answer started to rise – something about faith and trust, and being shown the way through steadfast adherence and–

  But Mary pushed the repetitive words away and, deception-be-damned, she ran to her daughter and scooped her up in her arms. She held Theresa fiercely, soothing her. And she felt a wild rush of happiness in the knowledge that, superstitions of her friends notwithstanding, she had a daughter again. Flesh and blood. Frail and innocent.

  "I love you," she whispered through the child's matted blond hair. "I love you." And as Theresa hugged her back, Mary Angetti remembered that services were in little over an hour. She felt a sudden rise of dread, and in response, held Theresa tighter, as if this was going to be the last time the girl would ever be in her arms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was ten minutes before nine and already there was no space left in any of the pews. Stuart Harrelson emerged from the back room with two arms full of folding chairs and began to setting them up in the back of the church.

  Stan walked in behind Mrs. Miederman who was inching forward with a cane, and he grumbled at himself for being late. Helen was probably already sitting in the pews and yes, sure enough, she'd given away his seat away. Helen looked back, caught his eye and shot him a sharp, icy glance.

  Stan shrugged. It's not my fault I gotta shave.

  Jennifer the waitress from the diner tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to his head. Stan mumbled a quick apology and removed his hat. He slid past the Harris family and made his way to the last empty folding chair on the side. He sat, and began to wave his hat in front of his face. On the arched ceiling the fans were motionless. Figures, Stan thought. Hottest Sunday of the summer and Stuart forgets to turn on the fans.

  At least someone had the intelligence to leave the front and side doors open. Two brilliant rectangles of light dazzled at each doorway, providing the greatest illumination in the otherwise dim and dreary sanctuary. There were three rows of pews, each containing ten wooden benches crammed with the good folk of Silver Springs. The floor was a hard oak, with a carpet running between the first and second rows, to the elevated dais with the altar and the podium. There was no microphone. Reverend Zachary didn't need anything to amplify his voice, it carried well enough on its own, sometimes even rattling the metal candle holders. A medieval-style candelabra hung from the ceiling over the center of the pews.

  Stan took a deep breath and adjusted his tie. It was the only tie he owned, a wide brown one with slanting black lines. He supposed it matched his tan slacks and his hat, but he was awful tired of wearing the same thing to church every week. A quick glance around the chamber revealed the congregation a little more spiffy today than usual. Not since Christmas had he seen such an amount of garish hats and colorful dresses, bright blazers and immaculately dressed children.

  Just as well, he mused, that I'm in the back.

  The door behind the altar, which led to the storeroom and the Reverend's tower, opened and Stuart abruptly walked out. He stopped, then swiveled around. The Reverend appeared in the doorway. Zachary held a gloved hand up, telling Stuart to wait. He stood on his toes and scanned the crowd. Stern-faced, the Reverend gave Stuart some additional commands. He bowed and hastened around the altar, across the front of the pews, then slipped out the side door.

  Zachary stayed in the doorway a moment longer, still gazing over the congregation. Stan felt an urgent fear that the Reverend was looking for him. He wanted to lower his eyes, to look away, maybe to bend down and pretend to be deep in prayer... but Zachary's eyes past him over and settled on another.

  Rita Morris sat beside her husband in the fifth pew. She was fanning herself with a missal while her husband had his head bowed. Lilith Treitler sat next to Roger. She looked pale.

  Stan felt his relief melt away into unsettling curiosity. Something was going on. Something strange and frightening. Stan looked at his arm, and prayed that the thing was gone – or at the least, it wouldn't decide to make an appearance during services. Last night had been the worst, but the thing had subsided after he had made it home. In the shower before bed the growths had already diminished to about half their size. When he awoke the skin was smooth, the worms gone. Maybe they were gone for good. Maybe it was just some horrible allergic reaction to something. That was it – and now his body had finally built up a resistance to the new germ and could fight it.

  Stan hung his head and thanked God that it was over. Man, what a story this would be! No one would ever believe it, though, and there was no way he'd tell this crowd.

  He checked his watch: 8:57. Come on. Get this show on the road. I got a lawn to mow.

  An immediate pang of guilt shot out from his heart. "Sorry," he muttered under his breath.

  George Harris looked at him sharply. "What, Stan?"

  "Nothing. Just prayin' out loud." He cleared his throat and sat back. George, satisfied, looked up front, eagerly anticipating the commencement of services. Stan checked the doors again. No one else was coming. This was so unlike the old Reverend's services. Usually this was about the time people would start shuffling in, and the last few wouldn't get here until the first reading was ending.

  No doubt about it, Reverend Zachary had sure turned things around. Mostly for the better, Stan agreed. And yet... the fire and brimstone speeches of late were a bit much. And was it really necessary to close the movie theater and forbid playing that old jukebox? And what was that hooplah in the diner last night, branding poor Josh Stone as the devil i
ncarnate just because someone came here looking to kill him?

  Suddenly Stan realized that he had it right: the gunman had come to Silver Springs with the express purpose of killing Mr. Stone. Goddamn! he thought with a rush. Josh could be in terrible danger from other men like that Lloyd. True, the Reverend turned the killer around and converted him, but... there could be others. Josh had enemies, that was for sure. And since he was now a citizen of Silver Springs (and, Stan firmly believed, not a minion from Hell) then wasn't it Stan's job to offer every protection possible?

  Damn right it is.

  He would be on the lookout. He would head out to the range tomorrow to get back in the swing of shooting. How long had it been since he drew his pistol? Had he ever drawn it? He didn't think so. Stan also decided he'd have his deputy do the occasional round by the Stone place.

  A low murmur suddenly ran through the pews. Stan stood halfway up to see what the fuss was about. There, at the side door, Stuart had returned. He stood behind Mary Angetti and little Theresa. The mother's face reminded Stan of a pale sheet hung out to dry the rain; and Theresa looked positively terrified. Her eyes darted over the crowd as if every one of the people were about to sprout fangs and claws and tear her apart.

  Stan's heart skipped a beat. What was this? Zachary must have ordered Stuart to round up these two because they might skip a week of services. What was going on here? Religion, Stan thought suddenly, not quite sure where the notion came from, should be a personal process. But it seemed the Reverend was turning this into a concentration camp.

  It's true.

  Stan suddenly shivered. The house visits, the drawing of sins, the threats of hellish presences. This was no religion. Stan felt the blood drain from his face as he watched Stuart lead the Angettis to the front row. He ordered a couple to move to the back to make room for these two.

  This was a nightmare, Stan realized, and then he understood that no one else saw things in this light. They went on, impatiently anticipating the Reverend's appearance, hoping to see an inspiring ceremony after the bread breaking.

  The Ceremony... As if donning a new pair of glasses, Stan abruptly perceived everything in a different light. The Ceremony wasn't something to ease the sinner a step closer to heaven, although some people might be terrified into taking that path. It was something else, the Reverend's way of tightening his grip on Silver Springs. Strangling the people, suffocating their privacy and squeezing out their identities. Stan looked around the church; and on every face he saw the same blank expression, devoid of personality, lacking in something that was basic to every honest churchgoer: hope. He saw fear, a lot of fear. He saw self-loathing, saw confusion. Stan now understood that all week long these people donned masks of joviality and purpose, hiding their true faces and true features. And once a week they tossed the masks away and came here, starving for the Reverend's words, the tidbits of purpose and meaning he tossed out like scraps to his dogs.

  My town, Stan thought with a surge of anger. He's done this to my town.

  9:00.

  His vision settled on Mrs. Angetti and Theresa. There, he admitted, he saw faces without the masks. True humanity revealed among a mass of deception. He saw courage in Mary's eyes, and saw love when she looked at her daughter.

  Stan considered getting up and walking out. Now was the time. He could say he was going for a glass of water, or that he felt ill. That way he wouldn't have to suffer through the farce that was about to be played out for these deluded people. But then he realized he wanted to stay. Wanted to see what the fuss was. Why Rita Morris and the Angettis were singled out by Zachary before the service.

  He sat back and decided to wait.

  It wasn't long. At 9:01 Reverend Zachary, garbed in black with a white sash around his shoulders, made his appearance. There was no music, no hymns. That, Stan recalled, was another change from the old system. Every eye focused on the Reverend as he made his way to the altar. He bowed before the cross, turned and addressed the congregation.

  He said the greetings and the opening prayer. The congregation responded accordingly, and with great volume despite the heat. Instead of a lay person providing the first reading, Reverend Zachary himself walked to the podium.

  "My flock," he said, the lines in his face smoothing into a serious expression. "Today is a special day for Silver Springs." He paused and allowed his gaze to wander the crowd, letting it linger on each and every one of the churchgoers. His silvery beard was neatly trimmed, his hair slick and drawing away from his face.

  "Today," he said in a calm, demurred voice as if reading from the local paper, "is the day we rid ourselves of the evil in our midst!"

  A murmur of astonishment rushed through the people; excited whispers, hushed questions.

  Zachary bent over the podium and slammed his palm down onto the wood. The heavy crack reverberated across the walls and caused half the townspeople to flinch. "The Gospel last week taught the parable of the sower. And of the seeds that could not grow in the earth overrun with weeds.

  "We are that earth, Silver Springs! The seeds have been planted, and many fine trees have sprung upwards, reaching towards God's light." He held up a hand, and paused. "But weeds have also appeared, as they always do around things of beauty. And we know why. For beauty is God's signature, and the Devil cannot abide beauty. He plants weeds in the rich earth to stifle the growth of strong trees."

  Stan gave a low whistle. He understood why the crowd was entranced. Hell, he understood why he himself had been entranced those first few years. Until... Stan scratched his head. When had he fallen out of adoration for the Reverend? Was it simply the change in the direction of his messages? If so, why then was Stan the only one affected?

  "Friends, the weeds have come." The Reverend fixed them all with a commanding look. "And we cannot be lax in our efforts now. It is not enough simply to hear the word and accept it. No. We must cultivate it, water the message, and most importantly, we must weed out the evil!"

  A cry came from the front of the church, shrill and terrified.

  Stan sat up straight and peered over the tops of women's hats. Theresa Angetti had buried her face against her mother's chest. Mary was stroking the child's head, whispering into her ear. When she looked up at the Reverend, fear seemed to drip from her eyes.

  Zachary took a deep breath. "God taught us to be merciful," he said, as if in an afterthought. "But mercy is only meant for those who are willing to accept the Lord."

  Murmurs of agreement. Some 'Amens'.

  "My people," Zachary said, waving an arm over them. "What would you say if I told you that despite our best efforts, the weeds have sprouted and grown right here among our very brethren?"

  Shocked whispers, protestations. Some nods of understanding. Stuart walked solemnly down the space between the last aisle and the wall. His head just cleared each candle as he moved determinedly closer to the back. Stan fidgeted, fearing the Reverend's trusted aide would come to him bearing a message. But soon, Stan breathed a sigh of relief; Stuart had stopped about halfway down the aisle. He turned and folded his arms.

  The hairs at the back of Stan's neck rose like antennae. Stuart, he saw, was standing at the end of the pew in which Rita Morris sat. He seemed to be watching the Reverend closely, waiting for some kind of signal.

  "Some weeds I have tried to remove," Zachary continued. "I have transplanted the affected plants in the hopes that, free from the Devil's influence, they could grow." He slowly shook his head and looked down at his feet. "But a few of these plants have completely turned their back on their Creator and have embraced the Devil's empty promises!"

  His eyes blazed like searing coals and again he scorched every member in the church. "The time has come!" He raised his arms slowly, struggling as if against a heavy weight.

  "Time to weed out the evil!"

  His right arm descended, making a fist, stopping halfway, at a right angle to his body. The index finger extended, pointing in Stan's direction, over the first four rows of
pews.

  Pointing directly at Rita Morris.

  The woman bolted to her feet. Her jaw hung open. It was obvious she hadn't been paying attention to most of the sermon; she never did, and she only came on Sundays as a favor to her husband. But she had caught the last few accusations made by the Reverend, and now – to be formally pointed out in front of everyone...

  "EVIL!" Reverend Zachary shouted at the top of his lungs, and stepped away from the podium, still pointing at Rita. The worshippers were gaining a feverish energy. They turned and glared, whispering. And some of them began to pound the wood pews with their fists.

  Stan gasped, and lost sight of Rita as the five rows behind her simultaneously got to their feet. The Harris family also stood, rising onto their chairs even, to get a better look.

  Son of a bitch. Stan cursed to himself and jumped on his chair. What he saw nearly sent him reeling. Roger had his wife in some kind of hold from behind, keeping her from running away. Stuart gripped one of her arms, and Lilith held the other. They were bodily dragging her out of the pew while the Reverend descended the steps and circled the first row of pews.

  "Take her outside of this place of worship," he commanded, over the rising pitch of the congregation. "To the back," he said to Stuart and pointed to the door. "Where everything is ready."

  Rita kicked Stuart in the shin and pulled free of Lilith's grasp. "What the hell!" she screeched and lurched out of Roger's grasp. She raced down the aisle, straight toward the Reverend. Her hands were out like claws, reaching for his throat.

  Someone in the first row jumped into the aisle and caught her around the waist. In a moment Roger and Stuart were there to help restrain her.

  "Son of a motherfu–"

  Stuart slapped his hand over her mouth.

  "Silence her!" Zachary moved in and stood in front of Rita while she struggled against her captors. Stuart removed his hand slowly, satisfied Rita would be silent. The Reverend leaned forward and laid a gloved hand on her chin, squeezing her cheeks inward. A shocked glaze fell over her eyes like a curtain; she was shuddering uncontrollably, her mouth working but forming no coherent words.