The Devils Church

“We are all going to die,” Ty Williamson whispered, his voice cool and even-toned. “Some of us just have a better go at things than others.”

“The first time he led us down to River Road, hairs stood on fervent end as shockwaves coursed through our veins. It should have been a sign of all the terrible things to come but we were young and dumb and impressionable; teenagers willing to do whatever to impress the handsome, outcast kid. It was a classic ‘deadly combination’. I’m just glad I survived, I’m not sure how, but he didn’t kill us…I never even would have put the pieces together. He seemed so normal. I mean, honestly, what happens when the regular, ordinary boy grows up to be the devil? Naturally, there wasn’t much by the way of fun back in those days and surely no indication of the monster he’d become, and besides, it was just normal fun—as the sheriff would say—boys would be boys—pushing past the boundaries we knew to be wrong.”

--R. Smith, Daily Chronicles news excerpt, 1998.

Old Williamson Road—was always known as ‘the river the road killed’. Maybe this wasn’t so far off from the truth. It was like the universe had an inkling of what would happen long before the evil would inhabit the grounds. There were many rumors of unspeakable things taking place at the dead-end street; there were no signs, no warnings visible from the road. Just the feeling of dread washing over you, it was how the town kept irregular, non-local folk out, or so Maren’s caretaker—Ms. Beth— said. But it always bothered Maren that the people being found were all locals in some form or fashion—new transplants to the town as well as members of wealthy, founding families.

All women, all young, all pretty, and all completely unsolved.

Eventually the town, Maren included, learned not to go too far off the beaten path. Unfamiliar things were known to happen to unfamiliar people and less could be said about Ty Williamson.

Bodies were piling up, rising from the muddy shallows, revealing secrets thought to be long buried—but that’s what happens when you trust a river the road killed. A place where caution tape and red metal flags marked areas bones had been unearthed. A place exactly two-miles from the old Williamson farm. The church had bought most of the land outright—made sense considering they’d purchased a graveyard, technically speaking. Might as well make it proper and bless the land, repurposing it in a positive way. The old barn turned into a church, weddings were even held here. Fifteen bodies had been reburied in freshly dug graves, the first to christen the new site.

The Williamson name was still etched on a dilapidated wooden arch outside, the word ‘cemetery’ added later, the new sign tacked under in stark contrast. Nearly a decade had passed since Maren’s mother—Lyla Stevens had been killed and not much had changed, maybe this was for the best since no new bodies had surfaced. Some speculated the killer was dead, or incarcerated, or even better yet, maybe he moved. The pressure was heavy in the old town, but alas, all good things must come to an end.

SOMETIMES simpler is better, or so Maren had been told.

Today would be no such day.

Maren had seen the devil, she’d spotted his work, stumbling across him in the worst of places, church.

If you weren’t aware, the devil attends church. He holds the pulpit, spewing the word of god himself; many gods, many words.

Maren was raised to know better.

Don’t talk to strangers, don’t listen to their luring tongues, their lashing looks, or give in to their sinful ways. It was, after-all, what had happened to her own mother some twelve years before. Maren was six, times were different, and all things considered, Maren had grown into a quiet, introspective, pretty young lady. Stunning was the better description—with her mom’s tepid blue-green eyes and ashen blonde hair blown out into soft, layered waves. It was a miracle she’d made it this far untainted.

Surely, if there was a killer amongst them, they would be drawn to Maren. If not out of curiosity, maybe for the striking resemblance. It would be uncanny, unsettling, and all-too-familiar. It’s what the gossip mills whispered. There was a killer in their midst and Maren was orbiting just outside his grasps, baiting him, waiting for him, but why? Did she want him to expose himself? He’d never been caught. Her mom was the last body to be found on Old Williamson Road. Would she be next? An unwitting victim of circumstance?

Gasps sounded the moment Maren stepped into the faded, chipped wooden doors and over the dusty bronze doorway. She’d been going to the new church for a year now and locals were still haunted by the likeness in her features. It happened overnight, one day she was invisible, and the next she was being poked, prodded and scrutinized.

In all truthfulness, Maren had resigned herself to never knowing what happened. She wasn’t sure if she needed that sort of closure. Her mom was gone. Maren had grown into her own, she’d survived in conditions others would falter and maybe that is what made her so alluring.

Sitting just feet away from her caretaker, Ms. Beth, Maren wore the same knee-length powdered blue button-down dress and platform off-colored doc-martens she always wore to church. She had just turned eighteen and wasn’t even sure of the path she wanted for herself. All she knew was this town had less to offer than the local piggly-wiggly.

Of course, as do all teenagers, Maren thought she’d known better. Never believing the words of men who passed around multiple collection baskets, or who’d given too-long of a hug after sermon; their grip lingering, burrowing through to her cage of ribs encased in Sunday’s best, hoping to sneak a gander at what lie beneath. Was one of these men a killer, the killer?

Maren knew better. She’d seen the worst mankind had to offer. Her lips bright red, but not painted—having bitten through the skin during a particularly inflaming lecture.

“It never stops,”—a warm, brooding voice sounded from over her shoulder, interrupting any thoughts of escape she once had. A young man with relaxed posture, and an oversized button up leaned close, his arms in silent prayer over the back of the bench, inviting her in.

Maren smiled back politely, barely taking her eyes from the pew in front. Relaxing some, her nails had dug tiny “C” shaped indentions into her forearm—turning the daisy white skin a shade of tender pink.

“They have refreshments already set up if you think you can sneak away, we’ve heard enough church talk for one lifetime.”

Curiously, Maren turned to face a boy she’d seen around town quite a bit—Ty Williamson. The boy whose father now owned a good part of the church. He was tall and lanky, with lean muscle and a solid, square jaw. He had a handsome face, his blonde hair and blue eyes matched similarly to her own and he had the sort of grin one would call “devilish”.

He was just the kind of boy that one might feel comfortable enough to leave with. They were, after-all, in a church. How bad could it possibly be? It was a modest place where the same faces fluttered by Sunday in, and Sunday out. Maren always felt so isolated, never paying attention to the blur of “be unto you,” or “as god wills,” being passed around as heartily as the next set of collection baskets—of which go around twice an hour—as though someone might find a new set of pennies to drop in during the three-hour sermon.

“If we leave now, we can beat the crowd.” he smiled, his eyes captivating all of Maren’s attention as though she knew him somehow. She answered by excusing herself, exiting out a side door and meeting the young Williamson boy by the banquet hall. The lunch for today was the same as always— fried spaghetti, garlic bread, wilted salad, and pitchers of the sweetest tea. It was a hard pass.

“I thought you might want to go on an adventure.” Ty mused, swiping a couple rolls of garlic bread. “All this talk about redemption and evil spirits is making me itch.”

They’d continued down another part of the old Williamson farm until the dirt ran into trees and a tiny clearing appeared.

“I want to show you something, think you will find it interesting. One of my favorite places in all the land. A secret world all its own.”

Maren had seen this before, the type of place her mom had been buried, but that couldn’t be. They were nearly a mile away from that site and Maren never, ever went near there.

“What is this, where are you taking me?” Maren hissed, her fingers burrowing back into the skin of her arms.

“What if I don’t want to kill you,” Ty began, pushing through the brush. “It was something I tossed around, watching you from the back of church but you are nothing like your mom. With me, you are safe...”

He paused, “what if I want to keep you for myself, never letting go. We have something different, something people would kill for, and yet, that would be selfish of me to take your life. I know you feel it.” Ty stared off into space, a space Maren couldn’t see herself in.

“We barely know each other,” Maren whispered, her voice an octave lower than Ty’s had been. The taste of blood sent a familiar shockwave through her body, rousing her senses, her teeth sinking firmly into the inside of her lips. The chapped skin giving way, exposing the fresh, raw skin underneath. Something she did almost daily, if not hourly, out of sheer tension.

“Your mom used to do that,” Ty whispered again, eyes nodding to Maren’s wounded lips. “I never meant to hurt you, or your mom. She just wouldn’t listen, but you, you are different. You see me in ways no one else ever could. That’s why I brought you here.”

Maren shivered. Never expecting to end up here, being led to the latest set of freshly dug graves with a killer right in front of her. What happens when the devil himself invites you into his corner? What happens then? Do you keep his secrets or do you die to expose them?