Golden rays of morning sunlight filtered through the single-glass windowpane, illuminating an elderly man sitting quietly on a cushioned pew, head bent in prayer. His trembling hands held an ancient pair of reading glasses with lenses so marred and scratched it was a wonder he could see anything through them. Outside, a yellow Kentucky warbler sang joyfully, welcoming the warm spring breeze blowing in from the south and the pale green leaves covering the Appalachian countryside.
“Amen,” the old man said aloud, finishing his prayer. He stretched out his arthritic, tired legs. Both knees popped like the BB gun he had used in his younger days to shoo away the hungry crows from his garden. He grimaced at the sound—a constant reminder of his age—and at the pain that was his daily companion. Something told him, perhaps it was the Lord whispering to him, to enjoy the warm season. Come this time next year, his old legs wouldn’t be much use to him anymore.
A silence enveloped the church valley. The yellow warblers hushed. The blowing wind stopped and the air grew still. A chill spread across the old man’s body. He’d lived long enough to know the way of the spirits, to listen when they shouted across the heavens to warn the other side of danger.
Outside, a small alien paused at the foot of the steps. It glanced upward at the white-painted spire that held the brass bell used for calling the congregation on Sunday mornings. The broad leaves of a tall sycamore shadowed the church from the midday sun, giving protection and comfort. The alien climbed the nine wooden steps up to the doorway and entered through the ornate entrance. Angels and demons welcomed it inside.
The alien moved with a grace befitting its slender build and smooth, alabaster skin. The old man had seen one of these before. A Shadow, they’d called it. It had been…what…twenty-three years since last he’d seen one? But there it was, no mistaking. Those large almond eyes in an oval, slightly humanoid face. No mouth. Skin that resembled the plastic of his sister’s childhood dolls. Shadows wore no clothes, nor did they demonstrate modesty, avarice, or lust. The man wondered if the Shadows had succeeded in the Garden where man had failed.
Many other thoughts crossed his mind as he watched the alien walk forward. He watched as it touched the back of each pew with padded white fingers. It made little noise, no perceptible sounds of breathing, and even the sound of its bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor was muted like feathers falling from the sky.
The old man stood up. After all, this was the Lord’s House and he had a duty to perform. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Preacher Jeremiah Jones.”
The Shadow paused. Those big, strange eyes stared back at Jeremiah and then at the old wooden cross hanging from the stucco wall behind the pulpit. A moment of worry passed through the preacher’s bones. Worry fueled by the deadly sin of pride. The cross had been in the church for 300 years; a true artifact, handmade to perfection and passed down through the protective custody of thirty-one preachers at Harlan Baptist Church. He often considered it divine, almost in the same sense the Roman Church had once believed in miraculous power of objects such as grails and ancient shrouds. It didn’t take the awestruck presence of a Shadow to convince him of the power of the cross that hung at his back each and every Sunday morning during his sermon.
“I am…John.”
“Amen, praise Jesus!” The preacher skipped a holy dance unlike anything he’d done since his snake-handling days as a deacon back at the one room Pentecostal church down around Martin’s Fork. The Shadow had touched a finger to a green box hanging around its neck by a piece of yellow string, activating some type of voice machine.
Last time the preacher had seen one of these creatures, they didn’t have such vocal contraptions. But that was twenty-three years ago. Right before his last trip down the Cumberland River to Nashville as the town’s supply runner. Now Larson and Cullen handled the duties, two buck-toothed lads, both crazy on the shine and the women. They’d landed in jail a number of times at lift outpost while waiting for the teams of men to carry their raft around Cumberland Falls and delayed the town’s supplies, but for the most part, they got the job done.
“I come from the University of Kentucky,” John said through his green box. “I am an anthropologist.”
That caught Jeremiah’s attention. An anthropologist? This did not bode well. The fair folks of Harlan had been living in their utopia of isolation for over forty years. Due to the inaccessibility of the countryside and the fright caused by the Collapse, the only people who had visited the world outside these mountains were the raft captains looking to sell timber for supplies. That meant Larson and Cullen, him, and his dead buddy Maxie Henson. Many of the folks around these parts had never seen a Shadow, let alone such fancy things as newspapers, bathrooms, or people not born and bred in Harlan.
“Your church is wonderful,” John said. “We do not have these back at the University, or anywhere else.”
A world without the Word of God? No wonder He sent the Collapse on us, foreseeing our heathen ways. “Praise Jesus,” was all Jeremiah could muster in response. The typically loquacious man found himself silenced by the visitor.
The Shadow stepped up to the pew and looked out over the church. “I would like to hear you sermonize.”
“Yes…yes, I mean, of course. Tomorrow morning, 10 a.m. sharp. The bell can be heard for three miles off on a clear day, I reckon.”
John nodded and continued on to the front of the little church until it reached the holy cross hanging from the wall. “This is a lovely religious artifact. How wonderful it is,” it said.
“Praise Jesus,” Jeremiah said again.
A child ran into the church, breaking up the shared moment of reverie. It was little Mikey Smith from down Baxter. Mikey usually helped clean the building before services. “Hey Preacher, momma’s made a blackberry pie and….” He’d spotted the Shadow behind the pulpit, watched as it lovingly stroked the cross. The boy’s face turned white.
“It’s okay, Mikey. We have a visitor from Lexington,” Jeremiah said. “This is John.”
Like a frightened squirrel, the kid made a skidding turn in his sandals and sprinted back out of the church, hollering for his momma.
Jeremiah felt a twinge of worry tickle his nerves. He remembered the calling of the spirits. “Now I don’t want to be unseemly in God’s house, John, but I think you best be heading back down the river. Nothing but trouble to be found here for your kind.”
John turned around and looked at the preacher. Those eyes, so beautiful. Jeremiah recalled a snippet of a fairytale he’d once heard…My, what big eyes you have….
“You ask that I leave? But there is so much to see and document. You know that I bring no harm to you.”
“But it’s not safe.”
“Preacher Jeremiah. I want to worship with you.”
Jeremiah swallowed hard as he heard the sudden commotion build outside the church. That didn’t take long. Larson and Cullen, the town’s raft captains—and the town’s de facto leaders—came stomping up the wooden steps. Once inside, they slammed the door shut behind them hard enough to rattle the church bell. Both carried shotguns.
“I’ll be goddamn, Cullen, it’s one of those little grey freaks.”
“Mr. Larson,” Jeremiah admonished, “you know better than to take the name of the Lord in vain!”
Larson leveled his shotgun at Jeremiah. “Shut your mouth, old man. You know how I feel about you and your church. Scaring people with your talk of hell and damnation, but you know what, I’ve seen hell and damnation, I see it every six weeks when me and Cullen go up the river, so I don’t want to hear a goddamn word out of you.” Larson’s stone-cold gaze froze Jeremiah’s tongue.
Cullen carried a ridiculously large double-barreled shotgun. At present, it was pointed at John’s head.
“Why you here, Grey?” Larson asked.
“To study,” John answered.
Cullen and Larson laughed. “We don’t want no studying. Why you think we’re stuck ass-deep in these here hills?” Larson said.
“I do not know,” John said. “Appalachian cultural history shows a tendency toward xenophobia.”
Cullen looked at Larson. “Xeno-what?”
“You got two choices, Grey. Tell us why you’re here and die quickly. Or don’t tell us and die a slow, agonizing, painful death.”
“I am an anthropologist,” John said. If the alien showed fear through its voice, the box didn’t register it.
“A what?” Larson asked Cullen. “I got to tell ya, it might be fun to set this one loose in the woods. Ol’ Blue hasn’t had a good hunt all year.”
The pair laughed and poked each other in the ribs.
Larson nodded at Cullen. “Cover me while I tie this ol’ boy up.” The husky riverboat captain grabbed the alien and forced its arms behind its back. He drew out two feet of hemp cord from a baggy pocket and tied John’s arms together.
“Is that necessary,” Jeremiah objected. “He’s not here to harm nobody. He came to worship.”
Larson pushed John forward until all three stood in front of the preacher. “You old fool, when was the last time you been up the river? Twenty years? You have no idea what’s changed in that time, what the Greys do. You haven’t seen the rows of crucified children along the crumbling highways. You haven’t witnessed the execution of women by flogging in the public squares. Next time you get to thinking this Grey isn’t here to harm nobody, you think about that, will you?” To accentuate his point, Larson lifted the nearest of the pews and knocked it over. Hymnals and Bibles clattered across the floor. “Come on, Cullen.”
They left, pushing the tiny alien in front of them.
* * * *
Preacher Jeremiah climbed the rocky steps leading to his grandson’s hovel. Like most of the community’s dwellings, Jake’s home was built into the side of a steep, forested hill—the ground flattened with only the strength and will of men, women, and tools. The mud-hut wasn’t much to look at, but all the same, Jeremiah felt that old vice of pride reach into his heart and swell. The boy had done well with his life.
Jeremiah, paused, caught his breath and rattled the straw curtain that served as the door during the spring season. He wanted to kneel over, put his hands on his knees and gasp, but it wouldn’t do for them to see him like that.
Jake’s wife came to the door. She pushed the curtain back and invited the preacher inside.
“Howdy, Jeanette. How’s the family?” The mundane was a great stress reliever in times of crisis.
“Oh, you know how they are. Momma’s down in her back, does nothing but sits in that old rocker of hers and cusses at the flies and wasps. She just ain’t been the same since Daddy died.”
Jeremiah nodded, sadly. “I reckon not, Jeanette. Not many of us are when we lose someone close.”
“Jake is down at the creek gathering water,” she said, getting to the crux of the visit and away from the depressing talk.
Jeremiah liked the young woman. Strong at heart, not one to dwell on past sadness. “I need to see him, it’s kind of urgent. Think you can give him a holler?”
Jeanette smiled. “Of course, just a second.” She disappeared behind the curtain and went outside. A few seconds later her deep voice rolled out across the hillside.
“Thanks,” he said, as Jeanette came back inside. She poured him a cup of ginseng tea and took a seat at the table with him. Jeremiah played with the cross he wore on a leather strap tied around his neck, a nervous habit he had picked up during his many trips…and prayers…while managing the boat upriver during the harsh winter seasons.
As he finished the last of the tea, a strapping young man appeared with two aluminum pails filled with water. “Care for a drink, Granddad?”
“No thanks. I need to ask a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“I need you and Jeanette to ride downriver with me.”
Jeanette let out a noise that sounded like a bark. Jake set the buckets down and frowned.
“Only Larson and Cullen are allowed downriver. You know the rules. You used to be a captain.”
“Of course I know the rules,” Jeremiah said. He slapped his hand against the table in frustration. “A Shadow came into the church this morning and they took him.”
Jeanette gasped. “One came into the church? I thought nobody knew we existed.”
“I guess they do now. It said it wanted to worship with me.”
“You think Larson and Cullen are going to hurt the Grey?” Jake asked.
“John, its name is John, and I think they plan on killing it.”
“We can’t go downriver. If they’re going to kill…John, they’ll do it before we even reach the mouth.”
“Maybe not,” the preacher said, “but we have to warn the university. John says he is an anthropologist from Lexington. Don’t you see? When John doesn’t return, the university will send someone else down to investigate his disappearance. Are we going to let Larson and Cullen kill that person, or that alien, too? Whatever the case, more Shadows will come—they’ll make us leave Harlan. They won’t understand we’re not all like Larson and Cullen.”
Jake stood up. He placed his hands on Jeremiah’s shoulders. “Grandfather, how old are you? Eighty-seven? That’s a long time to live, and I know you’ve seen a lot, done a lot more than I ever will. But sometimes there’s nothing to be done.”
“Jake…” the old man whispered.
“And maybe Larson and Cullen know some things you don’t?” Jeanette added, breaking her silence.
Jeremiah stood up, his knees popping, sending the pain of the arthritis shooting through his body. He hugged his grandson. “I know you mean well. May God be with you.” He nodded to Jeanette and walked out through the straw curtain into the bright daylight.
* * * *
The preacher slowly worked his way back down the hillside to his church. What he saw almost made his heart fall through the pit of his stomach.
Tied to a freshly built crucifix that had been planted right in front of Harlan Baptist Church was John the Grey. Wood and brush was being collected and deposited around the alien’s feet. Cullen watched over the proceedings with a quiet menace and a shotgun resting over his shoulder.
It felt like it took his creaky old legs decades to reach the church’s front lawn where, instead of alien burnings, they held their annual summertime tent revival. Jeremiah’s heart pounded, black specks invaded his vision. Dying would almost be worth not having to witness this travesty.
Reaching the crucifix and the alien, he began to kick out the shrubbery and boards of wood building up around John’s feet. Cullen forced himself between the wild old preacher and their Grey captive, before shoving him backwards to the ground.
The shotgun was leveled at the preacher’s face. “Out of respect for who you are, I’m not going to kill you tonight. But if you don’t get on out of here, you might just go up in flames like this Grey.”
“You can’t do this. Anything but burning…” Jeremiah objected. Cullen pressed the shotgun barrels against the preacher’s forehead.
“One more word, and I’ll send you to kingdom come.”
Jeremiah looked past the double barrels, into the placid face of John the grey. A Kentucky yellow warbler landed on top of the horizontal bar of the crucifix and skipped around, chirping a beautiful melody. John looked up with his big almond eyes and whistled.
Jake and Jeanette came rushing to the lawn and picked up their grandfather by his arms.
“You can’t let this happen, Jake,” Jeremiah pleaded. “We have to go.”
A crowd gathered around. Some brought more wood. Others just milled around, somber faces unwilling to screw up the courage to object to the pending murder.
“Hush, Granddad. It’s just another one of your fits.”
* * * *
As the evening faded to night, and the stars and moon made their appearance in the heavens, Larson struck flint to an oil-soaked torch. Jeremiah had discovered that Larson had dragged every single member of their community to the show, all 128 of them, to bear witness.
Jeremiah sat with his back against a grand old sycamore tree that spread its branches over the yard and church. Men stood around while chewing tobacco, participating in idle gossip with their friends and neighbors. Children circled around him and the tree, laughing as they played a new game called “catch the Grey.” Across the way, he spotted little Mikey with his mother sharing a picnic of buttermilk biscuits and chicken with blackberry pie for dessert.
It wasn’t until Larson took a spot in front of the crucifix that the festivities ceased. For the second time that day, Jeremiah felt the spirits chill his body.
“Decades ago,” Larson bellowed to his congregation, “the Collapse nearly destroyed our civilization. War, famine, plagues…” Larson leveled his gaze at Jeremiah. “All of it in Biblical proportions. Two years later the Shadows appeared, just in time to become our saviors. And since those hard times, we have pressed on in Harlan, relying only on ourselves, our families, our friends.”
Larson turned around and faced John, the torchlight sparkled in the alien’s eyes. “We must send a message to the race that brought on the Collapse. We know what you did. We know how.”
Preacher Jeremiah blocked out the rest. Jake started to hold his grandfather back, but he backed down when his grandfather took a path away from the crowd.
Jeremiah walked upwind of the senseless murder, of the soon-to-be burning alien flesh. Was this truly senseless? Was there any chance Larson and Cullen told the truth about what they had seen? He couldn’t be sure. Nobody could be sure, at least not the people in this community.
A yellow warbler sang off in the distance. Or was that the sound of John being burned alive?
Perhaps Larson and Cullen did know a few things. But the old preacher man had learned his share of lessons during his years as riverboat captain, as well. Most importantly, he knew the melting flesh of a Shadow cast off a smoky neurotoxin strong enough to kill a horse.
Now he heard the screams. The sound of a double-barrel shotgun firing—soon they’d all be dead. Like a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah.
Jason Sizemore’s fiction has appeared in numerous genre ‘zines including: Aeon, Murky Depths, Shroud Magazine, and Dark Discoveries. His collection of Appalachian horror, Irredeemable, will be appearing in 2010 from Shroud Publishing.
This story first appeared in issue #2 of Murky Depths and appears in the Apex Publications anthology Harlan County Horrors (edited by Mari Adkins).
A young writer and editor from Appalachia Kentucky, Jason Sizemore has seen his fiction appear in nearly two dozen books and magazines. He’s a prolific non-fiction writer, having dozens of essays, reviews, and editorials published in print and on the web on varied subjects such as gaming, geek culture, and politics. He earned his college degree from Transylvania University, making him an ideal candidate to head a horror magazine. He was a 2006 Stoker Award nominee for his work on the Aegri Somnia anthology.
APEXOLOGY: Horror