Edward Lee - Creekers

After all, they were Creekers.

Nobody knew Phil was out here, even Phil himself didn’t know where he was. All he could see were the girl’s big ugly Creeker parents chasing him around the house with big sharp teeth like Kevin Furman’s dog. But then he thought, Don’t be a little wuss. She just got done saying her parents are gone. And, anyway, she’s kinda neat…

“They goan. Come on.”

Phil followed her into the house. He stopped a moment and noticed the brass knocker on the opened front door. It was the strangest thing. The knocker was a face, only the face didn’t have any nose or mouth. Just two big blank eyes staring back at him.

“Commer-on, now. Don’t be scairt. I’se-uh tole ya, they’se uh-goan.”

They’se-uh goan, Phil mimicked in thought. Can’t hurt to just go in and look around. He could tell Eagle he’d been to the haunted Creeker whorehouse, that he’d gone inside. Then Eagle and his other friends would think he was cool.

The front room wasn’t that much different from his aunt’s. Regular furniture, chairs, a big wooden highboy in the corner, and a grandfather clock. It was just a little older, that’s all. He followed Dawnie up the stairs to the left. The stairwell was dark, and the hall upstairs was even darker. But this made sense ’cos he’d heard Creekers, like most hillfolk, didn’t have electricity. “Where we going, Dawnie?” he asked on the landing. “We going to your room?”

“Naw,” she said, facing him. Again, he noticed her bubs; they were little but sticking out real nice through the old sundress she wore, and actually she’d be kinda pretty if it weren’t for the messed up hands and feet.

“Foller uh-me.”

Then she took him by the hand and led him up another, even darker, flight of stairs.

Jeez, it’s hot, he thought. Twice as hot as outside, and a lot more muggy. Once they got on the third-floor landing, Phil was so hot he felt like he was cooking. Up here was a smaller hall; more old framed pictures hung on the walls, but they were too dark to see. The only light came from a small, high little window at one end, and then he noticed a line of lights—tiny white dots shooting from each door in the hall.

Keyholes, Phil realized.

Dawnie seemed winded with some weird kind of excitement. Phil could see the grin behind the black ribbons of hair.

She squeezed his hand.

“Wanner, uh, wanner-see-um?”

“See who, Dawnie?”

“Er-um, my-um sisters?”

Her sisters? Phil didn’t know about this. He didn’t know if he wanted to meet Dawnie’s sisters. What if they were real messed up and ugly? What if they didn’t like him?

And what would Dawnie’s sisters be doing up here in all this darkness and heat?

Her hand was hot and moist. She squeezed his own hand harder.

“Wanner, uh, wanner-see-um doin’ it?”

Doing what?

All of a sudden, Phil didn’t like this. He could get in trouble. He wasn’t even supposed to be here, and he didn’t even really know where he was.

He wanted to leave.

But Dawnie pulled excitedly at his hand. Phil wanted to pull away, but for some reason he couldn’t.

She took him to the first door.

“Git-er on down,” Dawnie said and put her hands on his shoulders.

Phil knew what she meant. She wanted him to get down on his knees.

She wants me to look in the keyhole.

Phil knelt as her excited hands on his shoulders pushed harder. The bright light from the keyhole blazed on his face.

Dawnie’s hand nudged his head.

“Look-it. Looker-on in-nair.”

Phil felt woozy, kinda sick. He hadn’t felt good for the past coupla days, and right now he felt real bad. His stomach quivered, and even though it was so hot, he suddenly shivered against a chill. He knew he was coming down with the flu or something, or maybe some stomach bug he got from eating his aunt’s awful stuffed peppers.

Plus, he was scared.

“Hey, Dawnie, I’m not feeling too good. I better get on home now.”

But Dawnie wouldn’t hear of it. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, and she nudged him again.

“Go-on. Look-it.”

The keyhole blazed.

Chills coursed up his back.

Then ten-year-old Phil Straker took a deep breath, put his eye to the keyhole—

Jesus Jesus Jesus!

—and looked in.

««—»»

Eagle seemed duly amused by Phil’s recital of the story. “Yeah? So what did you see?”

“I don’t know,” Phil foolishly confessed, his elbow propped out of the truck window. “That’s the last thing I really remember, kneeling down and looking in that keyhole. Sometimes I think I remember more, sometimes I dream about it, but the only stuff that comes to mind are just little pieces, glimpses of things, like a hand or a foot, or part of a face in the shadows. Anyway, next thing I knew, it was a couple days later. I was in bed with a hundred-and-four fever.”

Eagle laughed. “Ya probably didn’t see anything; ya probably just dreamed it all on account of you were sick.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Phil said, but he didn’t really believe that, even though the doctor said that fevers frequently caused hallucinations and morbid dreams. Phil knew he could never prove it, but he also knew that the whole thing really had happened and that the House—

Phil blinked hard.

The House was real.

I just wish I could remember. I wish I could remember what I saw in that keyhole. Not just the glimpses I’ve dreamed about. Everything. Why can’t I remember it all…

“Time to forget about your haunted Creeker whorehouse,” Eagle said. He pulled the truck up another rutted, narrow road, and stopped. “We’re here.”

Blackjack had a little hovel of a cottage with clapboard shingles. It sat jammed back into the woods amid a bed of high-reaching weeds and gangling vines.

Strings of mist from the previous rain floated off the ground.

“Wasted trip,” Eagle cited. “His truck ain’t here. I knew something happened to him. I’ll bet you and Paul were right. Somebody put a hit on him.”

Phil peered through the moving mist. “Keep your shirt on. You ever think that maybe it’s just that his truck blew a gasket, and he’s got it in the shop? And look.” Phil pointed out the window. “That back window—there’s a light on.”

“Blackjack’s bedroom. Well, maybe the fucker is home after all. Come on.”

They disembarked. The night sucked up the heavy chunks of Eagle’s truck doors closing. The mist parted as they moved forward, swatting at mosquitoes and gnats. Phil seemed to inhale the thick fog, the air’s humidity sopping him at once. Pulsing nightsounds throbbed from the woods which backed the shack.

Eagle began to rap on the front door but stopped when the door, ajar, swung open. “Shit, now I know he’s here. No way Blackjack’d leave his place with the door open. He’s got guns and shit in here.”

“Guns?” Phil asked with some concern.

“Yeah, so we better announce ourselves good and loud.” Eagle stuck his head in. “Hey, Blackjack, you here? Don’t shit a brick. It’s me, Eagle.”

They waited a moment. The shack responded with silence.

“Blackjack! Come on, man, wake it up and shag ass. It’s Eagle, and I got our new driver with me.”

Nothing.

“Must be asleep or stoned,” Phil guessed.

“Yeah, come on.”

They edged inside. The place was a dump, but it wasn’t wrecked. “At least there’s one good sign. Ain’t all busted up like Paul’s joint. Wait here. I’m gonna go check out the bedroom.”

Phil nodded, glancing around. I’ve seen better-looking shithouses, he reflected of Blackjack’s interior decorating tastes. He crossed his arms, waiting, but then—