Lighthouse Horror Podcast - The Preacher House of Cedar Creek | Scary Stories

Episode Date: January 3, 2024

The gas station grew from the mist as I approached...       Story from CoffeeAndCandle  Make sure to check out more of their work at u/CoffeeAndCandle            Original Post: The Preacher House of Cedar Creek : r/nosleep  Original YouTube link: The Preacher House of Cedar Creek           For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

The gas station grew from the mist as I approached, the lights blooming in the fog as it materialized. The opening cords to queen somebody to love floated from the radio, and I turned it off. I left the nozzle in the tank and walked into the ammonia-soaked box that made up the main building. The clerk was reading a magazine behind the desk. He didn't look up at the ringing of the bell, mountain on the door, or even at my picking up to Kit Katz. It wasn't until I laid them on the counter that his dark, lazy gaze swept

up to me. Is that it? He asked. Yeah, I paid for the gas at the pump. He nodded and rung the bars up. 3.89. I laid a five on the counter. Most of the paint was gone from money sliding back and forth. The man settled back on his stool as he handed me my change. Where you headed, fella? He asked it casually, but I felt he probably knew the answer. New River. He nodded slowly. Not much up that way anymore. Visiting someone? No, I'm doing a study. On the preacher house. It wasn't a question, but I nodded. He looked at the window, his His jaw moving like he was chewing on his words. The rain beat down gentle on the aluminum roof, undercutting the pop music with a gentle tapping noise.

Yeah. What about it? I'd wait till the rain let up if I was you. I cocked my head. Why? His jaw made that same movement again, and I wondered what battle was going on in his head as he slid his hands into his hoodie pocket. I just would.

He looked me up and down. People up there won't be happy to see you. Your type. I adjusted my glasses, knowing the answer before I asked, my type. He chewed the words. You know what I mean. I do. I'm doing a thesis project on the house.

He shuffled his feet. You're going to think I'm stupid, man. Take some advice. Don't go up there. I've heard the stories. I reassured him. He looked at me, and his face changed from apprehension to something resembling pity. I extended my hand over the counter.

My name's Josh. He shook it with a hand much more calloused than mine. Renard. What an interesting name. It's nice to me, you, Renard. He nodded. Everything about the man could be described as quiet. All of his movements were small and slow. His t-shirt and jeans were earthy, somber colors. Even his eyes were a muted shade of green. If you really need to, tell them you talk to me, but only if you really. And I mean really need to. Like if someone starts giving you trouble or something. I'll have a whole mess of trouble if people find out I'm talking to you." I hesitated for a moment.

Will they? Give me trouble, I mean. Probably not. Nobody ever goes up there, especially not in the rain. Down here though. Well, why not the rain? I asked. Instead of answering, he glanced at the ring on my finger.

I wondered if I was going to have to go through this song and dance yet again. She's dead. I said flatly. After a moment, he answered, I expected as much. I cocked my head questioningly. Have a nice day, he said, picking up his magazine again. Back in the car, I pulled my tape recorder from my bag and flicked on the record switch. It wasn't for serious notes, but more for general themes and feelings.

The professor had recommended it to help us keep track of our feelings and ideas as we collected the materials for our thesis. Met a man in the gas station on the edge of, I looked around, trying to figure out what to call it. The general area. He asked where I was going and tried to dissuade me from it. He gave me his name as Renard and said to use it if anyone would be. gives me any trouble. He also told me that they wouldn't be happy to see my type.

I flicked the recorder off. Then, after a moment, back on. It's hard to imagine this place ever being sunny. Since it's October, said the professor. I decided we'd focus on some of the darker aspects of folklore. I know you've all been surely enjoying learning all about quilting, but we'll take a break from that wonderful subject to do a little, ah, well, something a bit more spooky. He bounced on the word spooky. Dr. James had a way of lecturing, where he would often put his hands behind his back and lean or bend in time with his lectures, occasionally bouncing up a little to punctuate the end of sentences here and there. He was in rare form that day. Rather than focus on the largest examples that you all know and have surely heard about

a thousand times, I thought it'd be interesting to give you some less well-known examples of spooky folklore. The preacher house was the third, after a haunted bridge somewhere in Ohio and a goat man somewhere in Tennessee. The third was also in Tennessee, and the PowerPoint showed a yellowed photograph picturing the brick foundation of a home, with three walls still partially standing and the chimney still jutting into the air. Now the preacher house is a little known ruins set up in the hills. It's not too south from here, actually. The problem is, well, he smiled and swiveled to face the class,

very pleased with himself. Well, we know very little about it. The first mention of it. The first mention of it was recorded from the Folk Studies Department at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, but there was no mention of how old the original building was, or what exactly, was supposed to be wrong with the place. Tourists were warned away from it, but as it's close to Highway 116, it's been difficult to keep people away from the place. He changed a slide, and there was a general shuffling as every person in the lecture hall shifted in their chair to lean forward. The new slide pictured a large underground structure with murals painted on the walls, though the photos were so grainy and yellowed with age that it was hard to see what exactly the

murals were supposed to be depicting. Ah, now you see the interesting part. When a group of students from the university went to investigate, investigated some 20 years ago. They found a hatch leading beneath the old house and a large cave cut into the hillside with these murals painted on them. They had planned to do more testing, but, and this was when I myself was still in middle school, mind you. Supposedly they were contacted by the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation and told that it was some type of crime scene that needed to be investigated and that they needed to stop. All of that, naturally, has combined

together to leave us with a very spooky, he bounced on the word again. Mystery, surrounding these old ruins that, at least according to locals, no one is supposed to ever go near. Cedar Creek didn't materialize out of the mist like the gas station, but instead spread out below when I crested a hill like rooftops afloat in a sea of lazy mist. The preacher house was on the other side of town, and as I drove through the wet, quiet streets, I looked at the decaying town. If broken, boarded-up windows had been in vogue, then Cedar Creek would have been the pinnacle of fashion. But as it were, a quiet, proud desperation slunk between the buildings and crossed the cracked streets, somehow more tangible, even than the mist or the rain.

I stopped at a red light beside a diner that probably had dirt in the grout that was older than me and tried to ignore all the pale sunken faces in the windows watching my car. I still felt their eyes boring into me, long after I had left the town again. again and ascended once more into the hills. The preacher house sat alone in a meadow, half a mile down a dirt road, backed sharply by a steep rise up to the mountains. Thin, wispy grass had grown waist-high around the fragments of wall, with only a single tree in what might be considered the house's yard.

Wind sent ripples through the grass, always moving from the edges inward towards. toward the house. Everything was a little grayer than the pictures, but I hardly noticed that at first. Since my eye was drawn to something so out of place that it might have been comical, if it didn't give off such a threatening feeling. In front of the house, some ten feet from the closest fragment of wall, someone had sat an old stand payphone, the kind painted blue on the sides. I walked toward it slowly, with that familiar feeling of wondering if I might be the butt of someone's strange joke.

Still, no camera crews jumped out of the bushes or anything as I reached it, and I picked up the phone, only to hear silence. Of course, I had expected silence, but I felt a strange sense of disappointment at it. I hung it back up on the receiver then, as an experiment pushed the thing slightly. The thing was so top-heavy that, with only that slight push, it toppled over into the grass with a wet metallic clanging noise. I looked around, still waiting for some kind of punchline, but all that came was a cold gust of wind. I pulled the recorder from my pocket and click the record button.

Someone seems to have put, and I'm not joking here, a whole damned payphone up here. It's not connected to anything. And it doesn't work, but I can't imagine a reason for it being here. Even as a prank, it seems weird. I might ask around town about it. A whole damn payphone. Like, why? I stepped over the phone and walked up the small weed-choked path

to the remainder of the brick house that had once stood there, now no more than three pieces of wall and a chimney. I stepped through what had once been the door and wandered to the other side, where I knew, the entrance lay to the more interesting part of the place. The door was like those that lead down to cellars, set in an angle descending into the ground. The wood was warped, with large gaps between the boards, and seemed to be held together entirely by the thick iron band that encircled each of the doors. Both I and the door groaned together as I managed to haul the heavy thing up and past its

center of gravity, where it swung back on its rusted hinges and, after a single bounce, lay still. Warm, thick air emanated from the open hole, smelling of wet earth and stone. The stairs that led downward weren't wood or even metal, but chiseled pieces of slate jammed into the earth. I pulled the small flashlight from my pocket and shined it down into the yawning tunnel, but there was only darkness, and nothing more. As I descended, the damp of the rain gave way and the air became softer and drier. Then, without any kind of forewarning, the stairs ended, leaving me standing at the exit to the tunnel's bottom,

staring into a darkness that seemed thicker somehow, and almost alive. I turned the flashlight up and into what people refer to as the bunker, but the light just stretched off into more darkness, and I had to tread some ways before the beam reach the far wall. I experienced then one of those feelings that happens when, even though you're expecting something, it still manages to surprise you. It's rather like seeing the Grand Canyon. We've all seen pictures of it. and yet, seeing it in person still leaves you a bit breathless. The mural painted there was beautiful.

That must be stated first. It wasn't some crude drawing, but a product of a hand that must have spent many, many years perfecting its craft. The painting showed a woodland scene, with a stream running through the center, with squirrels and foliage ridiculously detailed for their size, for the scene covered the whole ten-foot-high wall, leaving the squirrels in the foreground standing at some two or three feet tall. As my eyes adjusted though, I saw the real reason for the preacher house's reputation. The dark, shadowy figures hiding between the trees devoid of any kind of detail to humanize them.

They were simply outlined voids that were vaguely human-shaped, painted gray and black, like someone had blocked them out to paint, but just never got around finishing them. The ones in the background were maybe two feet tall, while the ones closest to the front of the painting would have stood at some eight feet tall. I stared at one of them for a moment. I knew there were two other murals covering the walls to the left and right, and the realization that those murals too were populated with these featureless entities filled me with a sudden dread that left me with the urge to be anywhere, and I mean anywhere else.

I took a deep breath and waited for the feeling to pass before taking a cursory look at the other two murals, an island scene on the left and a small farm at the foot of a large forest at the other. When I touched the wall, I found it didn't have the plasticy smooth feeling of acrylics, but still felt like plain rock, as if the rock itself had been dyed to create the murals rather than painted on. I noted my first impressions on the tape recorder. Finally, I added, walking back to the forest mural.

One of the most curious effects of the paintings is that between their detail and size and the sheer darkness down here. It's almost impossible to get a true measure on them. When I look left, I see something to the right I didn't see earlier. And when I look right to pay attention to that new thing, something in the left catches my eye again. It's such a strange trick of the eye. It creates this feeling of things appearing in the painting as you simply take in such a large amount of detail. from so close up. The town's library was an old two-story building sandwiched between and sharing walls with two apartments. The plaque outside told me that the building had apparently at one time

been home to the town's newspaper, but didn't say much else. The librarian was an ancient-looking woman whose glasses were so thick they could have doubled as binoculars and wore a perfume that smelled of wilted lavender. The library itself had only front windows and the only light inside the place was the librarian's desk lamp illuminating some old ledger that she looked up from to glare at me. Can I help you? She asked. Yes, hi, I'm looking for a, well, anything you have on the preacher house. I didn't know until that moment that an empty library could grow somehow more silent, and yet it did. The rain even seemed to slacken, like it decided it would take a stroll down the street

and come back after all this unpleasantness was over. Well, which preacher? Hancock's place, preacher Campbell, or we got preacher Gamble's house over on, no, no, I said, holding up a hand and cutting her off. I mean the preacher house. She'd well known what I meant the first time, and we both knew that. Don't know the place, she said, turning her attention back to the ledger. You have a nice day.

I'm just looking for any records about when it was built or who its owners might have been, or anything like that. Her only answer was to continue staring pointedly at the ledger. Please, I'm not looking to cause trouble or anything. I promise. She still didn't look up. I sighed and turned to leave, but I only got a step before I remembered something. It wasn't exactly an emergency or anything, and it seemed a long shot, but I didn't really

have much to lose at this point. I turned back to the desk. Renard told me it was okay. She didn't move for a moment, but her jaw worked furiously as she ground her. her teeth. When she did look up, it was an angry acceptance rather than any kind of helpfulness. She pushed back from the table with alarming agility for someone so old and marched off into the gloom, muttering something that sounded angry. The sound of it moved through the shelves and up the old spiral staircase at the back of the place, then over my head before making its way back.

In her hand, she held a battered old folio with a typed label that said Preacher Family Records. You stay right here with it, she said pointedly. You can sit at that table over there. A part of me wanted to joke that she wouldn't be able to stop me if I wanted to take it with me. But something told me not only would she not find it funny, but it very well would. might be entirely wrong. I sat down at one of the long tables close to the windows and flicked on the desk lamp, then opened the folio. It took me some time to sort through the stack of documents. Most were yellowed and thin with age, and carried a smell of dust and mold. Some

were so frail I was afraid to handle them with anything other than my fingertips, lest they crumble. The The documents traced the births and deaths of the preacher clan for just over a hundred years, but detailed little else besides. The last record I found was a deed given to one Jeddhidea preacher, dated 1890, in the general area of the preacher house. There was absolutely nothing regarding what led to its current state. I took the folio back up to the librarian and thanked her. She didn't even look up.

I rented a motel room at a long one-story hotel wrapped around a parking lot, this one situated at a small dark bend on the road leading from town, surrounded by old growth cedar trees. I walked in and turned on the lamp only to find the television didn't work, and the heater only had one setting. I pulled my chair into the door and sat there, moving it backward or forward when I got hot or cold. I sat and listened to the rain, patter off the aluminum roof, and the bed of crushed cedar needles. I stared into the dark woods, spinning my wedding ring on my finger, and waiting.

After my usual two hours of sleep, I woke with no idea what I was going to do next for my thesis, which is why I was more excited than disturbed when I found that someone had slipped a note under my door, that read simply Cedar of Cedar Creek verse Alton Bransberry. After a coffee, I made my way through the chilly, sprawling hallways of the courthouse until I found the records department and asked for the case. The archivist, a small old man with wire-rimmed spectacles much too large for his face, frowned heavily when I asked him, but nevertheless led me down to the archive's reading room at the end of a long yellowed hallway that smelled of ammonia and buzzed with the sound of failing fluorescent lights. The room itself was small and carpeted with only an old steel table and chair

inside. He brought me the folio and left silently. The case concerned when Alton Bransbury, a local shop clerk who, at least according to the records, burned the preacher house to its current state in November 1912. From the records, it seemed that the trial was less to determine whether or not Bransberry was guilty or not, since he'd been found standing beside the charred ruins with a can of gasoline and sing marks on his clothes, but more to determine whether he was mentally competent enough to actually be tried by the court. The state doctor that examined Bransberry, ultimately wrote in a letter to the court that, while Bransberry doesn't carry the demeanor of a paranoiac, or have many of the telltale signs of a nervous disorder,

I still must declare him mentally incompetent, due in large part to his strange delusions of shadow men and the disturbing reason he gave for his actions. Those disturbing reasons were recorded later in the judge's written opinion after the the verdict. Due to Mr. Bransberry's firm belief that the preacher family homestead was inhabited by some kind of evil spirits, I must concur with the opinions of both a defendant's private doctor and the one supplied by the court, with that opinion being that Mr. Bransberry is not competent to stand trial or face punishment for his actions at this time. While one could be forgiven from mistaking Mr. Bransberry's capacity for lucidity from his easy manner and good speech,

his accounts of what led him to ultimately set the fatal fire that killed the preacher family, point unquestionably toward an addled mind. Those accounts referencing shadowy figure standing outside his house that spoke to him with the voice of his recently deceased son. When he followed these figures, he ended up at the home of the preachers. This happened, according to him, for some months, and led him to his ultimate pronouncement that this place was, in his words, cursed. Whether his condition is a result of the death of his son, some deficiency brought on by age, or a weak constitution, or some other cause, I truly believe.

that it would be a mistake to condemn a man so clearly divorced from the reality of his actions. There remains but the possibility of a post-cure trial, but I imagine he will remain a ward of the state for the rest of his days. Signed, Honorable Judge John Oppenheimer. While Mr. Bransberry's own statement was also included in the folio, I've elected to not included here due to its, shall we say, opaque nature. The handwriting changes multiple times throughout the document, becoming nigh unreadable at times. And there are breaks between paragraphs that leave one with the feeling of having skipped several pages in a book that also changed languages while you weren't looking. And there, in that small little reading room at the back of a cold,

clammy courthouse, was the first time I saw it. Perhaps it was an itch on the back of my neck or something just barely caught through the corner of my eye, but I got this sense that something wasn't right. I looked up to see a dark figure standing just through the window set in the door. It didn't disappear, but stood there as I watched. I knew, as I still know, that even though the figure had no features and no eyes, eyes to speak of, that it was, nonetheless, watching me. I knew that it could see me just as well as I could see it. And we sat like that, me at the little desk in the little room,

it's standing in the doorway, watching each other in a silence so thick it might have been water and drowned us both. Strangely, that first time, I wasn't necessarily, I wasn't necessarily necessarily scared. No, it was more like my body was waiting for me to give it some cue. After some moments, the figure turned slowly and walked back down the long hallway before entering the shadows by the stairs and disappearing from sight. When it was gone, I took a deep breath and flicked on the recorder. Unsure of what to do next, I drove back to the gas station. I'd encountered when I first drove in. Though the fog wasn't quite so bad as the day before, the station still seemed to materialize from it, the second before I passed the turnoff.

Not a soul was there, but the clerk, the same one as before, reading a weathered old paperback while Hank Williams played on the speakers. He looked up when I walked in. Hiya. Doing all right, Renard? I asked. He shrugged and looked at me flatly. Better than you, by the looks of it. The frankness of the reply caught me like a slap. I looked that bad, huh? You don't look good.

I frowned at him. There was something about the clerk that looked intensely, well, maybe not old. Worn, might be a better word for it. It was something in the eyes that gave them the impression of lights shining. out from a deep cave. I, uh, I wanted to ask you some questions if that's okay. I asked. Why me?

Well, if I'm honest, nobody else here really seems to want anything to do with me. I told you they wouldn't. I know, but why? I found out some about the house. I read the court records about that Brandsbury guy burning it down. I haven't found anything about the book. found anything about the bunker underneath or even any mention of it so far. I was wondering if you could tell me what the locals say about it. He didn't seem at all surprised by

the fact I'd read the court case, and I had suspicion that it was him who had slipped the piece of paper beneath my hotel door. We don't go up there, he said. That's what we say about it. We tell other people not to go up there. But why? Has anything happened to people that go up there? I mean, someone has to go up there. Someone hauled a whole damn payphone up there. Renard sat his book on the counter and smoothed out the cover. He looked up at me, and the expression of sheer hopelessness that covered his face almost caused me to recoil. What's the point? You're not going to listen. And if you listen, you won't believe it.

And if you believe it, you'll think it won't happen to you. Same thing all of you do when you come here. He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers, pressing so hard it left red splotches on the skin. Just go home. For once. Just. He sighed. Just listen.

I gave him a moment. But before I asked again, What happens to people at the preacher house? His fingers still pressed into his forehead. His face was entirely covered from view when he answered. They just don't come back. So they just vanish. He nodded. For a bit, there was only the sound of Hank Williams floating above us and the hum of the soda refrigerator.

When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice. Like he was afraid to let the words out into the world. When I was little, they, they told us stories whenever someone died. We were always told to ignore the voices in the woods. They'd gather all the kids up and tell us. Then they'd tell us again. Then they'd make us repeat it to them. Then repeat it again.

And it happened every time. Sometimes someone died. The same message. Don't talk to them. Don't do what they say. What did they say? I asked him. Did you ever hear them?

He looked out the gas station's windows towards the thick woods across the road, barely more than a dark splotch through the mist. I don't hear them. Sometimes they're out there, though. He pointed toward the road. I thought of the black figure I'd seen standing inside the courthouse. They attract people, he said. His voice growing even quieter, so I had to lean in to make out the words.

I don't know how. People find out about the place, though. when they're at their worst, and they come looking. He looked down, and I followed his gaze to my wedding ring. He looked back up, and the silent implication was clear. A large truck pulled into the station, belching black smoke from its tailpipe. You need to leave. People can't think I'm talking to you.

But you told me to tell people if I talked to you. I said only if you really, really needed to. I'd rather not have my tires slashed if I can help it. Thanks. Please go. The panic in his face told me that he was being serious, so I quickly laid a doll around the counter and walked out with a bag of chips and a Coke. The two men in the truck watched me sullenly.

I waved at them, and one of them spit out the winter. Later that night, I finally called my mom. Since the phones inside the rooms also didn't work, I used the payphone beside the office. She was glad to hear from me, and if I'm honest, I felt guilty for not calling her sooner. I could almost hear her nose wrinkling through the phone as she went. What on earth are you doing all the way down there? I'm writing my thesis on a house down here. It's a neat little place.

I wouldn't put it past them to shoot you. You know how people are. You know, down there. Yeah, Mom. Have you decided what you're going to do with this master's degree now that you're about to have it? And just like that, the conversation traveled down a path worn smooth by so many comings and goings.

I looked out into the rainy parking lot, the single street lamp in the middle barely stretched to the woods all around us, turning everything a slight shade of orange. Not yet, Mom. She sighed. I know, Mom. I'm not going to start. I know better. You'll do what you'll do, and I've already made my feelings about this very clear. I waited for the beat of silence that always followed before she continued. But I do wish you'd just come home and... She kept on, but her voice trailed off for me as I continued to look out at the parking lot and started to notice the dark shapes standing at the edges of the light, like outlines of tall people

that hadn't been filled in. None of them moved, and I wasn't sure if they'd been standing there the whole time or had simply materialized from the dark mist like the gas station. Are you even listening to me? She snapped. Sorry, Mom. Someone was telling me they needed to use the phone. There was an impatient huff. There's not even more than one phone at the hotel?

What kind of whor-a-day-in are you at? I got to go, Mom. He needs to use the phone. Just call me tomorrow if you can. I miss you and your dad misses you, Josh. Gina's parents ask about you. I will. I hung up the phone before the conversation could reach the point where she started with the

aphorisms. I walked to the edge of the covered awning that ran the length of the little motel and looked at the dark figure standing there. I took my phone from my pocket and slowly waved. They didn't wave back. I walked back to my room. Inside, I took my tape recorder from my pocket and clicked record, but instead of speaking into it, I laid it on the little table beside the bed and did my best to sleep.

I spent the next day with that acerbic old woman pouring over the library's collections, which consisted almost entirely of old journals, diaries, and handwritten store ledgers, while the the ledgers were of little interest, even in a single day I found perhaps a dozen references recorded in various diaries, all following the pattern Renard described. A deaf followed by the voices. One woman recorded how glad she was that she didn't have kids after her husband's death because his voice outside her bedroom windows was almost too much for her, an adult to bear, and she couldn't imagine a child being able to sit all night through such a thing.

Another account from one Mrs. Lanesbury recorded that after the death of her newborn, she and her husband would cover their heads with pillows and blankets each night for weeks to smother the sound of crying coming from the woods. Perhaps the most chilling account I read occurred from a man whose wife and two children perished in a fire that consumed his farmhouse. While he stayed with his neighbors, the man and his host would hear the voices of his wife and children, not outside the house, but above them in the house's attic. I recorded as many of them as I could in that day under the disapproving glances of that ancient crone until my back and neck hurt from bending over and my fingers

cramped from writing. I stayed until she tapped me on the shoulder with a slimy smile perched on her face like a bat. I'm afraid you'll have to leave, she said, with all the sorrow of a lottery winner, don't you know the library closes at seven? I blinked at her. If only there was someone that worked here who could have informed me. The bat that made up her smile ruffled its wings a bit as her eyes fell on my engagement ring. I'm sure your wife must have the patience of a saint to tolerate your charming conversation every night. Everyone's patient when they're dead.

There's a sick joy in seeing people backpedal when they realize they've just spoken ill of the dead. It's a distinct kind of shame that cows even the prickliest personality and sends most people into a stammering fit. I could see, even as I said it, that the old woman wasn't most people, though, and I got the distinct impression as she stood there smiling at me, that she had lost the capacity for shame long before I was even born. Whether she had lost it amidst the cut-throat business of small-town gossip and intrigue, or it had simply been slowly pressed from her by the weight of the years, I couldn't say.

But she didn't waver a second before she replied, Lucky her. For dinner, I stopped at a small rain-soaked diner close to the edge of town with those old-fashioned red stools at the bar. The place smelled of must and old fat and was unbearably warm despite the old windows. It was tinged slightly yellow from years of soaking up nicotine. The cook held an unlit cigar in his mouth, that he swiveled from one side to the other like a pendulum. He didn't glare at me or scowl, but simply watched me out of the corner of his eye, turning between me and the old television in the corner, like he couldn't figure out which might be

more entertaining. I plugged headphones into my tape recorder to listen to the recording of the night before, but the only noise was my own snoring. The longer I listened, the more of that feeling I felt. It was the same that I'd felt when I picked up that phone outside the preacher house, a sort of nervous apprehension, mixed with something like hope. Again, though, there was nothing, and the old cook gently sat the burger down at my table, with a sound no louder than the rain pattering down outside.

I dipped a fry in ketchup and looked out the window, knowing already what I'd see. The parking lot was a cracked old thing with potholes that could swallow a child. The only light was a floodlight bolted to the front of the building, and at the edge of its reach, I saw them there again. Come on, I thought. Say something. Let me hear it. I turned to find the cook watching.

me intently with that same blank expression on his face, and I realized I'd been muttering the words I was thinking. I looked at him, looked pointedly at the figure standing in the rain, and then back at him. He raised a thick, calloused finger in front of his lips, then slowly shook his head. That night I again sat the tape recorder beside my bed. The rain had slowed to a thin misting, but the air was so heavy and wet that the cold night soaked into my bones and I couldn't get warm even in the heat of the room. I laid in the dark shivering until I heard the gentle knocks.

There were three of them at a time, not fast or slow, not hard or gentle. They were just there. I threw the covers from my shivering legs. and patted across to the door. I had the dead bolt engaged and the chain locked in its place. I placed my ear to the cold wood. Gina? I asked. The knocking ceased in the middle of a sequence. Again, that strange feeling of a dreadful kind of hope flooded my mind, and again there was no reply. The only noise at all, besides the splat of rain dripping from the awning, was a kind of static

noise that swelled and pulsed like a television and a power surge. I unlock the deadbolt, thinking I might peek through the crack in the door allowed by the chain lock. I turned the knob, ready to crack the door open, when something stayed my hand. It was old fear, like the cedar trees were old growth. It was the feeling of facing something beyond my ken in every way, shape, and form, like a caveman watching an eclipse. It made my heart start to race, even as it made each beat painful.

Instead of opening the door, I placed my palms against the wood and held it fast. Bracing against a push that never came. The knocking never resumed, and when I finally gathered the courage to peek through the window, there was once again nothing. I walked outside, but there was no voice or ghostly laughter. There was nothing but the rain and the hum of the street lamp. There were no marks on the ground and no people about. the figures at the edge of the woods were gone.

That was when I felt something wet on my cheek and found that, to my surprise, I was crying. The next morning I awoke to find another note. This one taped my hotel door. It read, Mr. Hollins, were afraid that due to complaints from other guests were unable to accommodate you any longer. Please vacate by the usual check-out time. We're sorry for any inconvenience this may cause. In other words, since you can't leave shit alone, get out. I was already planning on leaving that day, but it never feels good to be kicked out of somewhere. The lady at the front desk wouldn't even look at me while she checked me out. Hell, she didn't

even speak. She just meekly reached for my key and, you know, gave me a receipt. Then again, maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe she just had some really interesting shoes. While I loaded my bags back into the car, I noticed something that sent a different kind of shiver down my spine. I just slammed the trunk and turned around to stretch my back. When I noticed that, out of about 11 rooms in the hotel, six of them had people in the windows. Actual people with actual human features, all watching me. They didn't look particularly angry or scared, but they had a, back the way you came look. It wasn't exactly angry, but it's the look you get when you get lost on a country road and

have to stop and ask for directions. Where's Interstate 10? Back the way you came. Where can I find a pay phone? Back the way. way you came." I drove away from the old hotel. The clouds were finally beginning to break, and a morning sky was peeking out blue from between them. It was only late morning, but was already warm enough for me to roll the windows down one of the last warm days of autumn. It amazed me how different the place looked in the sunshine.

The houses were still old, with peeling paint and dark windows, but in the sun they did have a lazy, comfortable kind of charm to them. That charm pervaded the whole town as I drove through. Old brick always looks warm in the sunlight, and despite boarded-up windows and the uneven streets, I found myself driving slower to savor the trip through the town. As I ascended into the mountains once again, I was unsure whether everything I'd experienced might have been some dream, or maybe some weird mental break. Then again, though, monsters are always easy to laugh at, in the sunshine. When I emerged from the little copse of trees that separated the preacher house from the road,

I saw that someone, or something, had stood the payphone upright once again. There was still mud coating one side of it where I'd pushed it over. In the birdsong and the crisp rustling of dying leaves, I stood in front of it for a long moment, trying to decide just how much to indulge in a fantasy that I knew deep in my heart wouldn't help me. Then I picked up the phone. Gina? Nothing.

I hung it back up and walked over to the stairs leading down to the so-called bunker. The door was still resting open on its hinges. The light didn't reach far down the steep stairs, but it reached far enough to just barely illuminate the dark figures standing inside. They watched me, and I watched them, and a silent invitation was exchanged. They knew what I wanted, and I knew what they wanted. They were smart. They were smart enough to know that for others the voice was the bait. They were smart enough to know that for me it was the prize. I didn't take my eyes off them, as I pulled the door closed, dropping it into place with

the sound of rusted hinges and a loud bang. I walked back to the car, the birdsong still filling the quiet little clearing and sat in my car for a long, long time, just crying. The final drive through town was slow, and I stopped for coffee at a little shop. The girl behind the counter asked if I was okay, and I told her I was. The gas station didn't materialize this time, but rolled up as I crested the hill. I waved out the window as I passed. I don't know if Renard saw.

He was probably reading his book. He probably didn't even look up. I like to think he did. And he saw I listened to him. But then again, I've always been prone to flights of fancy.