Author's note: Dear avid reader, happy (early) Halloween! Thank you for your year-round support! My (MakRalston's, that is) new horror novel (based upon my pasta Grayscale) releases on Amazon Kindle and paperback October first!
If you're a narrator and would like to read the book on your channel, contact me: mindofmakralston@gmail.com
Thank you for reading and supporting independent authors, and for keeping horror and Halloween alive! Oh, yeah... Happy Halloween! Enjoy...
According to the front page of the November 3rd, 1985, edition of The Blue Ridge Beacon, “The Devil Came to Blairsville Baptist”.
That shocking headline alone, strengthened by the infamous “Satanic Panic” that was sweeping the then-conservative Reagan era, catapulted what was ultimately an isolated incident into the plethora of anecdotal evidence that America and its Judeo-Christian foundations were being eroded and invaded by ritualistic devil worshippers. For some, the “Blairsville Judgement House Incident”, as it was called, was but a drop in the bucket compared to the reported twelve thousand cases of the occult during its time. Others, however, persist that the sleepy town has never felt the same since. Some in this camp have even gone on to move away from the area, citing the incident as their prime motivation.
Pastor Douglas Michaels, head of the Blairsville Baptist Church both then and now, is not one of those people.
“I mean absolutely it was sickening,” he says from safely behind his maplewood desk in his little office behind the fellowship hall. “But we here in Blairsville are a resilient bunch. The Lord’s been faithful to us even despite the… stumblin’ blocks we’ve faced.” Pastor Douglas nods with a faint smile. Despite being born and raised in, his words, “the great state of the Georgia peach,” his accent is about as Kentucky-fried as a twelve-piece bucket of chicken.
“What about the ones who’ve left?”
“Who’s that? Y’mean the Dustin girl’s folks?”
“Among others.”
He nods long and hard, then licks his chops. “They were good folks. Christian folks. But I don’t blame ‘em for leaving this place.” He taps his desk with his fingers like he was picking up an apple. “The memories, I reckon.”
“Do they ever haunt you too?”
“O’course. Y’think it doesn’t pop into my head when I’m here alone… at night? I mean, H-E-double-hockey-sticks, we fumigated the hall days after... but I suppose it’s more than just the germies that could’ve lingered there.” He lets out a deep sigh and a shiver. “If I can help it, I steer clear. Nowadays, that room’s mostly for our Sunday potlucks or the AA meetin’s anyway.”
“But back then it was used for the Judgement House?”
“Right,” Michaels drawls. He smiles across his desk with closed lips until the steaming mug in his hand reaches them. It reads “World’s Best Pastor”, and from it, he takes a loud chug.
“What is a ‘Judgement House’ anyway?”
The supposed “World’s Best Pastor” places the mug atop his Maplewood desk with a dull thud. “Well, technically, we weren’t the first church to do the whole ‘Judgement House’ thing anyway. I believe it started in Florida, come to think of it. In a nutshell, it’s kinda like one of those ‘spook houses’ folks put on in their garages, only this one’s more of an evangelism tool. I never got the appeal… but the kids loved it. At least, the few years we put it on, they did.”
“And that includes Stephanie Dustin?”
Michaels nods. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Stephanie was one of our youth group’s best leaders, in fact. Had a real connection with the kids, y’know?” The pastor's smile erodes from his face to reveal a sadly solemn expression. “Darn shame what happened,” he says, shaking his head. “I suspect if it wasn’t for Stephanie, we would’ve never put on that ‘Judgement House’ in the first place.”
“And what about Chet Lancaster?”
Pastor Douglas’ demeanor changes on a dime. He crosses his arms above his gut. “What about ‘em?”
“Have you seen him since the incident?”
He nods. “I seen ‘em twice since. First time was right after it all happened. He was in county—juvenile detention or whatever you call it—and I had gone in on behalf of the church to visit. Y’know to pray with him and such. The congregation didn’t like that though. Especially not the Dustin girl’s folks.”
“Why not?”
He lets out another sigh. This time, his entire pudgy body trembles. “Some of the folks back then thought he might’a been… y’know.”
“Possessed?”
“Right.”
“Do you think he was?”
Pastor Douglas sighs once more. “Our church’s official position is that spiritual warfare can and will happen. To what extent? Well, that’s the question, ain’t it?” He hoarsely chuckles. “Some folks watch too many movies, I think. They see a kid lippin’ off to their folks and think their heads gon’ spin.”
“What did you think?”
“Well, if you wanna hear about demons crawlin’ under your skin… I suggest you go on down to Saint Matthew’s up the block. Might be a bit more sensational for your story. I’m not saying there ain’t demons out there—Lord knows there’s a whole spiritual plane we can’t even see—but I think they work differently. They don’t so much as possess as they, uh… influence.”
“So, do you think Chet Lancaster was ‘influenced’?”
Pastor Douglas thinks about his next words carefully and then slowly begins to nod his head. “After that first visit to the jailhouse… I think so. He didn’t wanna be prayed for or nothin’. Just wanted me to leave him alone. And… and his eyes.” He shivers despite the office’s warmth. “There was nothin’ in ‘em. Just… nothin’.”
“What about the second time you saw him?”
Pastor Douglas slowly swallows to the point where his spit audibly slides down his gullet. “That second time, he wouldn’t pray with me again. Wouldn’t even talk to me. So… I prayed by myself.”
“What’d you pray for?”
A look of guilt washes over the pastor’s face. “I prayed they wouldn’t let him out.”
Unfortunately for Pastor Douglas Michaels, the Lord did not answer his prayer. Chet Lancaster was released from the Union County Juvenile Detention Center only three months after that second meeting on account of good behavior, reducing his seven-month sentence by nearly a half.
Meanwhile, George “Georgie” Harris—a former congregant of Blairsville Baptist and, by extension, Pastor Douglas Michaels—would serve the entirety of his four-year prison sentence under a conviction of negligent homicide.
“I mean, yeah… technically Lancaster had nothing to do with it. On paper.”
“You seem to be implying something.”
George nods. His once long hair, documented eternally in both his mugshot photograph and the ones taken of the church volunteers prior to the October of 1985, no longer flaps as his head bobs. Instead, a military-styled buzz cut resumes its place.
“If you poke a sleeping bear and it wakes up and starts mauling people… did the bear really kill ‘em, or did you?”
“The bear.”
George balks like a chicken. “Whatever. I know what I did… and I know what he did.”
“Which is?”
George sighs and rubs his hand through his thinning hair. “He set me up.”
“And how exactly did he do that?”
George glares up at me with furrowed brows and an incredulous grin. “You on his side or somethin’?” he asks.
“Just playing devil’s advocate. So to speak.”
“Mmhmm,” George replies. “Figures. Media’s had their bias since the get-go.”
“What do you mean?”
George looks at me sardonically. “I mean like them failin’ to report all the weird shit he did right before it happened.”
“Such as?”
George puffs out a breath. It reeks of cheap beer. “Him goin’ out in the woods at night, parkin’ his car outside her house. We were practically goin’ steady at that point until I thought she might’ve been cheatin’ on me with Sweaty Chetty.”
“Why’d you call him that?”
“Lancaster? Have you seen the guy? He’s been sweatin’ since he was born.” He chuckles grimly to himself. “Guess that’s how he got outta the womb, slippery son of a bitch.”
“Yet you were in a love triangle with him and Stephanie?”
George lets out a cackle and slaps the kitchen table with his palm. “Love triangle,” he repeats, mocking my tone. “The only ‘love triangle’ Lancaster was ever a part of was between him, his momma, and God… and I bet God dropped out long before the incident. He’d be lucky if he was in a love… line.”
“So why suspect your then-steady girlfriend was cheating if he wasn’t a threat?”
“’Cause that’s what women do, man,” George says. His smile disappears at this point. “It’s their favorite game to play.”
“What is?”
George sighs and wipes his face. For calling Chet Lancaster sweaty, he sure is drenched in a perspiration of his own. “Steph and I were goin’ through a bit of a rough patch—”
“Thought you were going steady,” I interject.
“We were,” he corrects me, “until Bobby Owens's Homecoming party. Then ever since we were on the rocks… and not in the fun way.”
“What happened at the party?”
He sighs and rubs his hand again through his nonexistent hair. “Typical relationship bullshit.” There’s a smile spread on his face for a brief second before it disappears just as quickly as it came. “I had been talking to one of the girls in our class, okay? Hell, I don’t even remember her name that’s how forgettable she was. What I do remember was that she was our teacher’s pet. Got straight A’s and everything, the whole nine yards. That’s why I was talkin’ to her that night. We weren’t flirting,” he laughs nervously, “I was tryin’ not to fail Geography. I dunno math.”
“Geometry?”
“Whatever. Steph swore up and down I was cheatin’ on her and all the convincing in the world wouldn’t change her mind. That’s who Steph was, y’see? Headstrong. Just like her mother.” His eyes dart up and to the left and then settle back onto me. “I even showed her the grade I got on that test about the triangles. A C+. C+,” he emphasizes. “I ain’t never got a C+ on a math test.”
“Did she buy it?”
George’s face droops at the sound of my question. “Did she believe me?” he rephrases. “When Sweaty Chetty started comin’ around after the party… I knew her answer.”
“She didn’t.”
George shakes his head affirmatively. “I think she was tryin’ to make me jealous.”
“And did she?”
Again, George swings his head. “It’s the game, man. That’s why Lancaster was invited to be a part of the Judgement House that year. That’s why I got so… so… pissed off. And that’s—”
“That’s when you slashed her tires.”
The man before me catches his breath in midair. Somewhere behind him, a wall clock ticks impatiently. He nods feverishly. “But I didn’t think she’d fuckin’ ride on ‘em for Christ’s sake.”
“But she did,” I reply.
He agrees with a silent series of nods. Much like Pastor Douglas Michaels, I hear him swallow audibly. “Women drivers, am I right?”
He grins painfully at me. I don’t smile back.
Donna Dustin, on the other hand, smiles brightly. In fact, her face seemingly beams the warm lamplight of her cozy living room. Through the blinds, there is a similarly shaded glow of orange-yellow as the sun sets on the sleepy neighborhood of Ducktown, Tennessee. Blairsville, and its Baptist Church of the same name, reside some thirty miles southeast on the opposite side of the state line. Despite the busy bustle of the neighborhood just beyond the blinded window behind her, Donna Dustin’s porchlight is not lit, and no candy awaits the dozens of trick-or-treaters scurrying about in the night. Halloween night.
I make a gesture toward the window, beyond it. “You don’t celebrate anymore?”
Donna’s smile remains. “Never did, sweetie.”
“Then what about the Judgement House?”
Donna sighs and looks around the room for an answer. Instead of orange and black decorations and the occasional smiley-faced pumpkin, the walls are scattered with wooden crosses and family photographs, some of which feature her late daughter, Stephanie Dustin. These photos are much older than the rest.
“The Judgement House was Stephanie’s idea,” Donna explains. “Her father and I never wanted her to go to those—as they call them—haunted houses, but we knew Stephanie’s friends always went without her. Then when we started attending Blairsville and heard about the whole ‘Judgement House’ thing… my then-husband supposed it was a fair compromise. She’d get to dress up and… well, do whatever they do on this night… but it’d be under the supervision of the church and Pastor Doug.”
“Y'know, some people say this night is a Christian one. All Hallows’ Eve.”
Donna nods as if she had expected such a response. She probably had gotten it before. “That’s because the Church tried its best to cover up its true origins. Just like Christmas. Even Easter. Halloween is a pagan night, make no mistake, sir.”
“You’re talking about Samhain,” I say, and Donna agrees. I’m surprised she’s heard the word before.
“Like you, I too do my research,” Donna says with a single nod. Even in the dim lighting, I notice now that her face is all dolled up with bright red lipstick and rose-red blush. Perhaps she expected an interview captured on camera, or maybe she simply was as old-fashioned as her ideals.
I’m about to ask a follow-up question when Donna cuts me off. “All I’ll say, sir, is that if tonight is as ‘holy’ (she air-quotes) of a night as I’ve come to believe, I have no doubts Mr. Lancaster will be in full celebration.”
Her statement is a perfect segue. “So, you think Chet Lancaster is a devil worshipper?”
Donna squawks out an ironic chuckle. “I know he is,” she clarifies. “You think any God-fearing person would’ve done what he did? Sure… Georgie Harris slashed the tires… but the boy was angry and seeing red. ‘A hot temper shows great foolishness’, y’know? That’s a Proverb. Yes… it was a horrible accident… but I’ve forgiven him.”
“What about Chet Lancaster?”
Donna thinks. Beneath her makeup, her face wrinkles. “As best as I humanly can I’ve forgiven him, yes. You have to keep in mind, sir… that display haunts me. I see it in my dreams. My nightmares.”
“You’re referring to the Judgement House?”
“What Chet Lancaster did to it, yes,” she answers. “What he… did with her. All under the guise of that… awful mask.”
“The Devil mask?”
Donna nods apprehensively. She then takes a longing glance at the photograph of Stephanie on the wall. “He really got into that role; Stephanie told me.”
“When was this?”
“A few weeks before the accident,” Donna explains. “When they were doing rehearsal.”
“They rehearsed the Judgement House?”
“Oh, sure,” Donna nods. “It required a lot of acting apparently. Nothing we weren’t used to in our household, though. Stephanie was a regular thespian. Quite good, too.” At this point, Donna tears up some and her eyes fade to red. “Shame she couldn’t… follow that dream, y’know?” Donna excuses herself and then clears her throat. She continues in a shakier tone. “From what I saw, she was playing one of the sinners—the people that go to hell when they die—and she had gotten Chet to play The Devil. I guess the boy was… socially awkward and wanted to be a part of it. Apparently, he was a thespian too. Real method actor, though.”
“How so?”
Donna smiles a bit and then it completely vanishes. “Stephy told me that he had been a part of their Easter production that Spring. I guess he had played one of the Jesuses—they had a couple for the different scenes—and had fasted for a week before the show. Starved himself, more or less, from what Stephanie said.”
“Why’s that?”
Donna shrugs. “To ‘get into character’, I guess. Year before he did the same thing. For that production—I think it was the church’s version of A Christmas Carol—he was nothing but an extra. A week before the show started, he broke his leg… but insisted to be in it.”
I squint at her questioningly. She continues.
“He had been cast as one of the poor people on the street. A crippled one with a crutch like Tiny Tim, y’know?” Her eyes widen at this point. “Stephy said there was a rumor goin’ ‘round that he broke the leg himself just to walk with a hobble.”
“Tiny Tim didn’t have a broken leg. He was ill.”
“And so is Chet Lancaster!” she exclaims. “But not just sick in the head,” she says, pressing a red-nailed fingertip into her temple, “but ill in spirit. The man needs Jesus.”
“So, do you think he’s possessed?”
Donna takes in an exacerbated breath. “I don’t see how he couldn’t be. I mean, he desecrated the grave, the church… stalked my daughter… used her body like that. And I know Georgie must’ve told you about how they saw him goin’ out into the woods all by his lonesome. I know the kind of witchcraft they do out there in the Appalachians. So, yeah… he’s possessed alright. Or, at least, he was.”
I nod. “Pastor Michaels didn’t think so.”
“No?” she asks. Her brows furrow.
“He said Lancaster was ‘influenced’, but not possessed.”
Donna’s face expands from its narrowed, curious gaze. Now it becomes fuller and sadder. “I could believe that,” she says. Her tone indicates that, for her, the issue is resolved, and her follow-up question suggests as much. “When was your interview with the pastor?”
“Two days ago.”
Donna nods agreeably. “And what about Georgie?”
“Yesterday.”
“Oh, Lord Jesus!” she gasps. “You must’ve just missed it.”
“Missed what?”
“The fire,” Donna explains. “Happened last night. I only know because I’ve kept in touch with the Harrises and got the call this morning. They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Donna sighs and braces herself. “Georgie is dead,” she says, holding back tears. “They found his body all… burnt up in his house. What was left of it anyway.”
“What time was that at? When they found him?”
“About nine-thirty last night,” she says.
“Jesus.”
“Yes. May Jesus be with his soul. Amen.”
“So, where do you think he is now?”
Donna is caught off-guard by my question. “Where he is?” she asks for clarity. I nod. “Well… I suppose his folks are arranging the funeral. If he’s not in the casket by now, I bet they’ve got him down at the city morgue.” I watch her shudder at the thought of this as though she were reliving an old, haunted memory.
“Do you think he’s in hell?”
Her eyes bulge. “Goodness, no!” she exclaims. “What kind of question is that?”
“He’s responsible for your daughter’s death.”
“My daughter’s death was an accident,” she says firmly. “I know Georgie was upset with her—that much is obvious—but he’d’ve never wanted to hurt her, much less—” her voice trails off.
“Kill her?”
Donna nods without looking at me. “What wasn’t an accident was what Chet Lancaster did.”
“Which was?”
The beam from Donna’s face is gone now. “Don’t you already know?”
“Humor me.”
She takes in a long breath and her face reddens. “He dug up my daughter and brought her body to the church. Our church.” Donna lets out a heavy breath. “There. Are you happy?”
“What did he do with her?”
Donna’s voice trembles. “I-it wasn’t her anymore,” she clarifies. “It was just her body. A husk.”
“Well, what did he do with her body then?”
Like the others, I hear a gob of spit glide down Donna’s throat. “You know darn well what he did.”
“I wanna hear it from you.”
“Well, I don’t wanna talk about it,” she says, shaking her head passionately. Tears begin to stream down her cheeks.
“I know he hung her up in the ‘Hell room’, right? Covered her up in plastic Halloween chains? Red strobe light—?”
“Yes, I know what he did!” she exclaims, cutting me off. “I’ll never forget it for as long as I live. Her body all… mangled up as it was. The embalmers did what they could, but the accident left her all—” she shakes her head. “And, of course, I had to be the one to identify her. See her like that.”
I nod. “Do you think she’s still there?”
Donna looks up at me with tear-filled eyes that shake as she speaks. “Still where?”
“In hell?”
Donna gasps in disgust. “Why on earth would you ask me that?” She shakes her head furiously. “What paper are you even with anyway?”
“Who said I was with the paper?”
“You said you wanted an—” she starts to say but then stops cold in her tracks. Again, I hear her swallow.
“Let me ask you again, Missus Dustin. Do you think your daughter Stephanie’s in hell right now?”
The next breath that escapes her comes from Donna’s nose alone. “I think you should leave, sir.”
“I think I’ll leave you the way I left Pastor Michaels.”
“H-how’s that?”
I shrug. “They’ll find out tomorrow morning. He’s still in his office, I bet. Shame they’ll have to fumigate the place again.”
Hot breath from Donna’s nose fills the cold air between us. “And Georgie?” she asks. “I’m guessin’ you… killed him, too?”
“You’d call it killed.”
“W-what would you call it?”
I thought about her question carefully, supposing it might be the last one she’d ever ask.
“Earlier you brought up Samhain. You said you did your research. You remember that?”
Donna nods carefully. A look of realization is plastered across her face.
“Then you might remember the bonfires. The sacrifices.”
“Witchcraft,” Donna hushes.
I nod. “I mean… Chet said George would burn fast and bright, and boy did he.”
“S-so—" Donna chokes out, “Chet sent you?”
I nod again.
“W-why not do all this himself, then? And why now?”
“I guess you could say the 'stars have aligned'," I tell her. "They've aligned for us. For Chet. That's why he couldn't be here, to see you face-to-face. He’s busy preparing.”
“For what?”
“Tonight.”
I can hear Donna actively holding her breath.
“He wanted me to assure you that none of this was personal. All just… ‘part of the plan’.”
“Whose plan?” Donna asks. I’m about to answer but she answers herself. “I know whose plan.” Donna sighs but before she can catch her breath I stand from the couch across the living room, no longer cozy. “All this over a Judgement House?” she asks, frantically as if pushing out the words.
I can’t help but grin and remove the dagger Chet had given me from my coat pocket. “This is the Judgement House.”
Written by MakRalston
Content is available under CC BY-SA