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  Devil's Creek

  Devil's Creek

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  DEVIL’S CREEK

  A Short Story

  by Paul Maitrejean

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Paul Maitrejean

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  PRAISE FOR DEVIL'S CREEK

  "A f***in' clever story. 9/10" -- bibliobabes.ca

  "Paul is an upcoming writer who brings a great edge to his books." -- Jason M. Brooks, author of The Masked Mutt: Beginnings

  **********

  DEVIL'S CREEK

  by Paul Maitrejean

  THE TENSION of waiting for her engine to die again almost made Erika miss the tiny green sign that said, Devil’s Creek: Pop. 119.

  “Great,” she muttered.

  Her return trip from researching the logging industry in northern Wisconsin had gone well up until ten miles back, when her Taurus started running funny and finally died on her. A little engine CPR, as her friend Sean had called it when he coached her over the phone, had gotten it limping along again, but it still needed immediate attention. A look at the map showed a tiny dot marked as “Devil’s Creek”. Now, judging by the population of one hundred nineteen, the odds of finding a mechanic here didn’t look so fantastic. Her hopes plummeted.

  As the wooden bridge rumbled under her tires, she got a quick overall glimpse of the village. A narrow main street cut through a one-church-and-two-bars town, a conglomeration of trailer homes and poorly constructed buildings. No sign of a garage anywhere. Plus, one of the biggest, blackest storm systems Erika had ever seen towered over the pine woods to the west, blotting out the setting sun. The weather forecast predicted severe thunderstorms for the whole night. If she didn’t find a mechanic and a place to hole up in Devil’s Creek, the next twelve hours would be interesting.

  She entered the town and pulled into a small gravel parking lot, where the wind kicked up sheets of dust and shook the volleyball net on the far side. Half a dozen pickup trucks and small cars stood in front of a steel-sided building marked as a bar only by the electric Coors sign hanging in the front window. In a small town, the best source of information was the local taproom.

  Cigarette smoke burned her nostrils the moment she walked in. A small radio blared the latest Brooks and Dunn hit. Eight or nine men, all of them in work clothes, sat at the bar, twisting around to study the newcomer. Two others paused in their game of pool, looking her up and down. A teenage boy stood playing a pinball machine, from which emanated some of the most annoying sounds Erika had ever heard.

  “Get somethin’ for ya?” The tall bartender spoke in a loud voice accustomed to yelling. Erika guessed from his build that he also fulfilled the role of bouncer when necessary.

  She smiled. “No, thanks. I was just wondering if you had a garage in town. I’m having car problems.”

  One of the guys at the bar shook his head. “Nah. Not a real one, anyhow.”

  “Car problems?” A lanky man in overalls and a John Deere cap stood up, a can of MGD in his hand. “What kind of problems?”

  “I’m not sure. A friend of mine said it might be the alternator.”

  “What make?”

  “Ford Taurus.”

  The man grinned. “I think we can help you. Hey, Verlo!”

  The kid at the pinball machine glanced up. “What?”

  “C’mere.”

  The boy abandoned his game and approached. Erika noticed dark smudges on his face. Long blond hair hung over his eyes. He wore a black shirt with the words This Is The Shirt I Wear When I Don’t Give A Crap.

  “This here’s my son Verlo.” The man slapped the boy on the back. “The kid’s thirteen, but he can fix anything on the planet.”

  “Something broke?” Verlo asked. Puberty played havoc on his voice.

  “This lady says she’s got a Taurus with a bad alternator. Ready to make a few bucks?”

  Verlo grinned. “Sure!”

  “All right. Let’s go take a look.” He gave Erika a triumphant smile.

  Erika fought down a wave of dismay.

  * * *

  VERLO AND HIS FATHER – whose name, he revealed, was Axel Krass – led Erika and her unwilling vehicle to a cluttered outbuilding about a block away from the bar. A lime green doublewide trailer home stood beside the building. Axel moved a lawn tractor and a wheelbarrow with three dead raccoons in it, making room for the Taurus. Once inside, Verlo got her to pop the hood.

  She stood in the shed’s doorway, watching the storm blow in while Verlo tinkered.

  Devil’s Creek lay strangely quiet. Few lights shone in the windows. Nobody walked around outside. Compounded with the rising wind moaning through the evergreens and the grumble of approaching thunder, the quiet struck Erika as eerie.

  “Well, it’s your alternator, all right.” Axel stepped beside her, wiping grease off his hands with a dirty rag. “She’s on her last leg. But that’s okay. We got a junkyard on the other side of town. I remember a Taurus gettin’ hauled in there just this spring. We can take the alternator out of it.” He paused. “Providing mice haven’t gotten at the wiring yet.”

  “Looks like the town’s bunkering in,” Erika said. “Expecting a humdinger of a storm?”

  Axel nodded. “Yeah. Of course, the legends make it worse.”

  She gave him a curious look.

  He tossed the rag inside and smiled. “It’s just a bunch of superstitious horse manure. They say the Angel of Death visits Devil’s Creek every seventy years. And according to old Fillmore Schwartz, tomorrow will be the anniversary of the last visit. Seventy years to the day. He says this storm is a har . . . har . . . har-something-or-other . . . like a messenger to say the Angel is on his way.”

  “Harbinger?”

  Axel snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s the word he used. Harbinger.”

  “Every seventy years, huh?”

  “Yep. The legend goes all the way back to when Indians had a little village right here, before the white man came. Like I said, though, it’s all nonsense.”

  A deep rushing sound eased into their conversation – a distant, muffled roar that approached like a speeding train. Erika looked to the west. The stormclouds roiled overhead, a deep churning black that grew even more ominous as the sun vanished for the night. Over the trees, a heavy grey sheet blotted out all the storm’s features and moved in on Devil’s Creek at an intimidating pace.

  “Here she comes,” Axel said.

  The storm hit like a hammer. Rain crashed down in undulating waves, blown in a wind that tore small branches off the tossing trees and carried them away. Lightning lit the rain, turning each drop into tiny points of falling fire.

  “Shoot.” Verlo slammed the hood and came to stand beside Axel. “We ain’t getting to the junkyard in this.”

  “Not tonight, we aren’t.” Axel shrugged. “Oh, well. We needed the rain.”

  Erika sighed. “Looks like I’m staying in Devil’s Creek tonight. Where’s a good place to crash?”

  “Marlys over at the café has an upstairs room she rents out,” Verlo said. “Thirty bucks a night, and you get breakfast free.”

  “Good coffee, too,” Axel said.

  Erika opened her trunk and pulled out her suitcase and an umbrella. “Looks like that’s where I’m headed, then.” She locked her car. “How long do you think this rain will last?”

  “A couple hours, easy,” Axel said. “Maybe longer. Fillmore Schwartz says the one seventy years ago lasted nearly twenty-four hours. Flooding and the works.” H
e shrugged. “But that’s only if you believe the old fart.”

  * * *

  THE ACCUMULATED SMELL of years’ worth of breakfasts permeated the Devil’s Creek Café as Erika stumbled through the door, a little jangling bell announcing her entry. She dripped with water. The wind had caught her umbrella and tried to yank it away, and she’d spent more time wrestling the umbrella than keeping it between herself and the rain. She shook her head and pushed strands of sopped red hair away from her face.

  “You look like you need a cup of coffee.”

  Erika blinked water out of her eyes. A scrawny weathered woman in Levis and an apron stood holding a broom in one hand, taking in her drenched customer.

  “That sounds really good.”

  The woman gestured to a coat rack near the door. “Leave your stuff there and come take a stool. I’ve got a fresh pot on right now.”

  Erika dumped her suitcase and hung her umbrella and rain coat on the wooden pegs. When she reached the counter, a steaming cup of coffee waited for her.

  “Thanks.” She sat down and took a grateful sip. She looked up at the woman. “Are you Marlys?”

  “Uh-huh.” Marlys wiped the counter with a damp rag.

  “Good. They say you’ve got a room I can rent for the night.”

  “You heard right. Comes along with breakfast, too.” Marlys studied her. “I’ve never seen you before. Where you from?”

  “A little east of La Crosse.”

  Marlys leaned on the counter with folded arms. “Then I’m guessing the storm forced you into Devil’s Creek. Nobody drives all the way from the other end of the state just to come here.”

  “Actually, car trouble. Axel Krass is helping me.”

  “If you want to live, young lady, I suggest you leave immediately.”

  The voice came from behind. Startled, Erika turned.

  An old man sat in a corner booth, a half-eaten sandwich on a plate before him. He looked at her with light grey eyes, his bony fingers holding a glass of iced tea. Lighting flashed in the rain-battered window behind him.

  Marlys gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Fillmore. Give it a rest.”

  “I mean it.” The old man raised an eyebrow. “She’d best leave town.”

  Erika looked at him for a moment. “Is this about the Angel of Death legend?”

  He set his iced tea on the table. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “A little.”

  “Tonight is exactly seventy years from the last time the Angel came to Devil’s Creek.” He spoke with the precision of education. “He’s returning tonight. He never comes for the old or the sickly. He comes for somebody healthy. Somebody who by rights shouldn’t die.”

  “Why?”

  An expression of suppressed anger flickered across Fillmore's aged face. “Because he’s a thief. That’s what he does. He steals souls. Souls to which he has no right.”

  Erika picked up her coffee and left the counter. She slid into the booth, across the table from the old man. “Were you here when he came last time?”

  “I certainly was. I saw him myself.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “There’s little to tell. A storm much like this rose, and lasted until the next morning. At the time, the only way out of town was across the bridge, but the flood washed it out. He came at dark and walked up and down the street. Nobody escaped town. Something always happened to stop them. The storm was the worst any here had ever seen.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He wore a black robe or cloak with a hood, much like what medieval monks wore a thousand years ago. He walked through the storm easily, because the storm was his.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “But I got a look at his face.”

  Erika nursed her coffee, letting it warm her. “Can you tell me about it?”

  “I was a young man at the time. I had my eye on a pretty girl who lived on the end of this street. While most of the townsfolk stayed in the church and prayed, her father refused to believe that the Angel of Death had come. So he kept his family in their house. But I decided to go see her, the storm be damned.” He took a sip of iced tea.

  “And?”

  “And I nearly ran into him head on. I saw into his hood.” Fillmore stared out the window, remembering. The lightning cast eerie shadows over his crags and wrinkles. “He had a dead face, as pale as ashes. His mouth was a crossways slash. His eyes were black empty spaces.” He sat back again, returning his attention to Erika. “I thought surely he would kill me. I stood still, terrified. I stared at him, and he looked at me. Then he walked away.”

  “Who did he take?”

  “Maribeth. My girl.” His jaw tightened. “He stole her, and my ambitions and dreams along with her.” He pondered for a few moments, then picked up his sandwich. “He’s coming back tonight.

  Anyone in this town is open game for him.”

  He took a bite out of his sandwich. Erika watched his wizened mouth work, and a tiny coldness seeped into the center of her chest.

  * * *

  THE SIGNAL ICON of her cell phone’s LCD display showed no bars. Erika held the phone high, tried various corners of her tiny rented room above the café. Nothing. She’d truly stumbled upon Podunk, Wisconsin.

  She turned off her cell and stuffed it back into her suitcase, then pulled out her laptop.

  Nothing stopped her from work, anyway. She brought up the word processing program, kicked back on the creaky bed, and set to work.

  Al Markam walks the length of a massive pine log, measuring it. He then shoots a spot of yellow spray paint on the log’s end. “Logging is a struggling industry now,” he says –

  A crack of thunder blasted overhead, startling her. The small lamp beside her bed flickered.

  Erika set her computer aside and walked to the window, where she could look up and down the main drag. Rain still fell in massive volumes. Water rushed down the street in small, manic rapids and poured from overtaxed gutters. Rain spouts exploded their contents like hoses. Tree branches lay scattered everywhere. Trees whipped about as if trying to uproot themselves.

  If this kept up much longer, Fillmore Schwartz’s prognostication of flood would become reality, if it hadn’t already.

  She started to turn away, but a motion outside caught her attention. She paused and squinted, bringing her face close to the glass.

  The steel awning over the window, while groaning and rattling in the wind, still kept the torrents of rain from obliterating her view. In the direction of the bridge, where occasional cars stood parked on either side of the main drag, somebody walked along the middle of the street, into the wind. Erika watched in disbelief. Who in their right mind would try to walk outside in weather like this?

  The wind shifted, sending rain sluicing across the panes. Her view blurred.

  “Shoot.” Erika wiped at the glass out of reflex.

  The figure now appeared as a smudge through the rain rattling against the glass, moving steadily down the street. The streetlights flickered. Lightning flashed, the blazing white glare throwing the walker’s shadow in a long streak of black.

  Then, just as the person came directly before the café, they turned and moved toward the front door.