Scorpion, as expected, was empty. It is not, nor has it ever been, a town where one walks around. If someone were to want exercise, they hike through the forest. I parked my car at the town square, which really just had four spaced buildings, and walked into the church. If anyone had left their home today, it would be to go to church.
Scorpion isn't a town where you only attend service on Sunday, it's a town where a spattering of people attend mass anywhere from three to seven times a week. There were two people inside. A priest, one I did not recognize, who didn't seem to notice me as he left the main chapel and entered into the small back room where the office was, and an elderly woman. I recognized the woman, she was my babysitter when I was young, Joanne Barber. We hugged, and exchanged pleasantries. She hadn't been getting up to much since her children moved out, but she was getting along, she said. When she asked why I was here, I told her.
"I'm a detective now, or, a wannabe one I guess. I'm only here for a bit, trying to figure out what happened with-"
I paused. Barb was Scorpion's version of a sort of Boo Radley, but as far as I could always tell, she was as evil as all the kids said. I hadn't known she died.
"No, no, with John," I said, "What happened with Barb?"
"Oh I see, yes, nasty business...what happened to John... Well, I must get going now. I have chores to attend to, you know how it is. You have a nice day, I hope to see you around before you leave again."
She turned, and walked out, the creaky doors of the church slamming behind her. I was left standing there, among the paintings and stained glass depictions of death, healing, crucifixions, and rebirth. Left standing there confused. Barb had died then, I supposed. As I left, I felt...odd.
I had thought the feeling that occurs when a vast and horrifying presence is suddenly vanquished would be that of relief. But it wasn't. It was something else, something empty that begged to become full again. Before I could open the church doors, something caught my eye. A new painting, at least, one that was put up in my decade long absence from the town. I shuddered looking at it, and left.
But as I got in my car again, to drive to my father's home, I would see it every time I blinked. First, what appeared was the landscape, dried and dead grass on a hilly field. A town, ramshackle and wooden, just on the horizon. Then, the face of the man being torn apart, blood spitting from his door hinge neck. Finally, the eyes, the maw, the horns, the torso and goat legs of the demon that feasted on the poor villager's flesh. I turned on the car and drove.
My only company before I got to my father's house was that of a demon and a dead woman who I never knew.
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