They all call it the demon of Bethel Cemetery.

There are many who disagree on who it was, or where it came from, but they all agree on one thing - it's out for no good.

Some said it's the servant of the devil, bent on destroying those who do not please and revere the Lord. Others, they think it's the soul of a murdered tribal warrior, bent on destroying the white man that had stolen his land and killed his people. No matter the story, the ending is always the same - if you find yourself alone in the old Bethel Cemetery when the moon is high and the hours late, you're bound for trouble from beyond.

Bethel Cemetery is located in the s-bend of the over-travelled Tracy Road. It lies cradled in a patch of dense, temperate woodland, and is heavily shaded, even on the hottest of summer days, by dense clusters of ancient, ashy oak trees and ancient, mottled magnolias. Just to the left of the old cemetery sits a tiny, square, brick Presbyterian church, tucked neatly in its own cluster of dusty, old oaks and regal, towering magnolias.

While this little red, brick church only dates back no later than the late 30's or 40's, legend has it that the original church had been burnt down in Sherman's "March to the Sea" during the Civil War. An even grimmer version of the story claimed that not only had Sherman burnt down the original church - a tiny, white washed building made from knotted clapboard - but he had imprisoned all the residents of the surrounding town inside and burnt them all alive in a show of dominance and conquest.

There is no doubt that the church had figured into the violence of the Civil War. The area had been ravaged by the "March to the Sea", a fact that could be found in any journal, diary, history book or government record of the time. In his master plan to burn the South into submission, General Sherman had happened upon the tiny town, an important train depot with local access to the Mississippi River. Here, he had found a people that had not only backed the Southern Rebellion, but were determined to see its success or die in attempting to protect it. He ensured that many of them did die, whether by fire, massacre, or other means, and their bodies were buried in marked and unmarked graves throughout the little church's cemetery.

An even darker chapter of the tiny town's history revealed that the area had also greatly figured into the slaughtering of the local native tribe, the Atokas. In the late 1700's the area had been gifted to a several Revolutionary War heroes for their loyalty and bravery in the battle against Mother Britain. However, the land was already inhabited by a large tribe of Native Americans who had lived in the area for time untold. While initial efforts were made to live side by side peacefully, tensions soon boiled, and the tribe was wiped out through disease, famine and warfare with the newly planted white men that claimed the land all around them.

These gruesome facts seemed to explain it all when the attacks began.

The first recorded attack was reported in the early 70's. A man, whose identity had been protected at the time, claimed that he had been attacked by a demon creature as he had been wondering through the cemetery late one night in autumn.

Mr. John Doe claimed to have been out on a night hunt, when he decided to cut through the cemetery to get back to his car parked on Tracy Road. As he entered the center of the cemetery, he had suddenly felt very cold and said the air had gone still. He claimed that everything had inexplicably fallen silent, and the hair on the back of his neck had risen to points. Feeling uneasy, he had turned around, coming face to face with a pair of glowing, red eyes. He had turn and run at that point, but claimed that he could hear growling just behind him, and feel the hot, stinking breath of the creature that pursue him. As he had neared the other side of the cemetery, he tripped and fell, throwing his arms over his face as he hit the ground. He had then been set upon by the demon, who had shredded his clothes and the skin of his arms and chest.

They had taken pictures of the man, showing his ripped and bloody clothing, as well as the heavy bandaging of his arms. He claimed to have never seen more of the beast than the glowing red eyes, but claimed that he had smelled the sulfurous flames of hell reeking off of it. John Doe claimed that as the beast tore at his flesh, he could hear the savage laugh of the devil and feel his pitch fork stabbing down on his flesh over and over again.

Even those who did not fear the Lord were struck with fear at the tale. Suddenly, mothers no longer let their children walk home along Tracy Road, and the church decided to put up a fence to surround the cemetery, a tall, wrought-iron fence, with a heavy black gate that bore a great heavy chain and padlock.

But curiosity has a way with cats and men.

The next reported attack happened not even 6 months later. A young girl made the claim this time, and the facts were nearly identical to the first report. She had been out in the cemetery with her boyfriend, a star on the local football team, at an hour past midnight. It was a chill autumn month, and they decided it would be fun to find the demon of Bethel Cemetery. They had been wondering around in the cold, sharing a flask of whiskey between them, when they had heard growling in the underbrush that lined the new, heavy fence. Her boyfriend had grabbed her hand as the red eyes had appeared in the darkness. They had turned and run, but the handsome football quarterback had sustained grievous scratches, and his letterman jacket had been torn to bits before they could make it into the cab of his truck parked just yards away.

More and more stories began to circulate. Each one rang to a similar tune - red eyes, growls, scratches, dark shapes and exploding fireballs of light. Every few months, someone would step forward with a new tale, a new experience.

The demon of Bethel Cemetery was born.

Now, everyone in the town knows to avoid Bethel Cemetery, especially when the moon is high and the night is bright. It is said that if you enter the cemetery during the full moon, you are guaranteed to meet with the demon, and that the night you see him might very well be your last.

To us, the inheritors of this town, this is the place of shadow and death. It is a glance into the abyss of unknown - the gaping mouth of hell. To the people of the tiny town of Atoka, Bethel Cemetery is the haunt of the past and the future; the place where the seeds of yesterday's tragedy are sowed to yield a crop of hateful evil and discourse. This is where we stand, toe to toe with our past, and are forced to look into its bloody, glowing red eyes.

Once, on Long Island, there lived a girl named Mary.

Her mother died while birthing her and her young father was torn with grief, believing Mary to be responsible for his wife's death.

Soon enough, Mary was a teenager now, and boy she was beautiful.

Every time her father looked at her, he saw his beloved wife's face.

Though he was a respected priest, you always long for what's prohibited the most.

The first time he had her was by the springhouse, where the water runs fresh and still today.

The next time, he moved her into his bed.

Every night, the neighbors heard animalistic noises from the mansion, but didn't think anything of it.

Eventually, Mary went mad. One day, she went into the forest, where she was a regular visitor.

She took the hatchet that was always there and called the animals to her.

With the hatchet, she ripped them slowly limb by limb.

Then she wandered into the mansion, hatchet tucked into her dress, and slipped into bed with her father like she did every night.

While she was standing above him, she took the hatchet and swung.

Once.

Twice.

Again and again.

Then she slipped into the bed besides the bloody corpse and slept.

The neighbors hadn't seen her father in weeks, so they broke into the house.

They found Mary sleeping peacefully besides a rotten and bloated corpse, hatchet in her hand.

It was a crime, so they hanged her in a tree besides the mansion. It's still there today.

It's said that if you're brave enough to pee on the tree, you'll return to the car and find it won't start. Then, on the curves on the road back, you'll be driven off the path by a screaming woman in white.

If you look into Mary's house in the dead of night, you'll see a light burning. And Mary stands in the window, holding a bloody hatchet, looking out at the tree where she met her death.

The house at the end of the road had only one distinguishing feature from the other white clapboard houses that peppered the neighborhood. It was decrepit. It was run down in every way except for the bright flowers. It had been this way for as long as Will lived on Coronado Avenue.

Will had moved there as a teen and he’d heard stories about the young woman who was killed in the streetcar accident years ago. He’d heard neighbors describe in penetrating detail the blood on the body around her ears and her neck. Her limbs were bent in odd directions. The Baumgartner’s only daughter was home from college that weekend. Her folks still lived in the house two doors down, aging and doddering with their house falling down around them, except for the window boxes. They kept geraniums in their flower boxes in the spring and summer then switched them out for Mums in the fall. In the winter, Mrs. Baumgartner kept the boxes filled with plastic flowers. She could not stand to see them empty.

Will thought that maybe those winter flowers were Pansies. “Mother would know,” he’d think, “I ought to ask her.” But he forgot most days, getting distracted by the television or the food cooking or the sight of Betsy Parsons sunning herself in the yard next to theirs. She had the most beautiful skin Will had ever seen, taut and smooth. Even in the winter she would sit on the lawn chair in the backyard and unbutton her blouse to let the sun sink into her pores. Will thought that perhaps she knew he was there, watching. Her goosebumped chest exposed only enough to give a taste of what might lurk less than a centimeter beyond the cotton poplin. Will wanted to shout, “You’ll get frostbite!” to her, but he did not want to break their silent relationship, his voyeuristic hunger, her exhibitionistic bounty.

He would have to go back downtown before too long. The internship at his uncle’s law office required that he spend one late night a week working on the paperwork. He came home for an hour in between so that he could get a good meal and perhaps a peek at Betsy Parsons. One day he thought he might work up the nerve to call on her but not today

....

The light in the law office was terrible. The office sported windows all around which lent more light than necessary in the daytime and nothing but streetlamps and desk lamps at night. No one else worked this late. He sometimes brought a flashlight to keep up with the briefs. He worked slow, his uncle complained about it. Will did what he could, cursing the day he took that internship. He’d much preferred to stay in San Diego where the weather was perfect. but the finances weren’t there.

He thought about the sun and the light, the long limbs and tender flesh that Betsy Parsons hid under those button-down shirts. And then he thought about the plastic Pansies in Mrs. Baumgartner’s window boxes. After 10 years, they had faded from their once vibrant purple. At one time, his mother had said they even looked almost real but now the plastic of them was evident. He would ask his mother about those Pansies, he thought. He was so distracted by the idea that he finally packed up his paperwork, shut off his desk lamp and walked from the office building to the streetcar stop.

...

She was the only other person waiting. Her hair was red, glistening in the strange, harsh street lamp light. She turned her head to greet him, smiling, her red lipstick catching Will by surprise. She blushed and looked away. He’d never seen her before, but he felt he knew her somehow. Will gripped his briefcase and tried not to stare as they waited. He considered making conversation, “What’s a nice girl doing out here on a night like this...” or something very like, but he couldn’t. He just smiled to himself, stamping his feet in the cold.

The street car came and he allowed her to enter first, waving his hand toward the entry and smiling at her in a way he hoped was not creepy. She smiled in return, her blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “Thank you,” she said in a soft, sweet voice. Will thought that she was like an angel. He thought about Betsy and her unbuttoned shirt, how coarse he seemed to him now. This girl was refined, perfect like the weather he missed in San Diego. She was warm and pleasant.

He sat down across from her in the empty streetcar before he even realized it. She spoke first, telling him that she liked his eyes, that he seemed kind. She asked him his name, about his family, about his college, about his internship. He talked about himself all the way home until she reached up and pulled the line to signal her stop.

“Will you walk me home?” she asked and he nodded. She kept him entranced as he stood up to exit, not even paying attention to their surroundings. She asked questions about his ambitions, about his heartbreak, about his hopes for life and he talked as though he was a man just finding a voice for the first time. When they reached her porch he walked her up the steps. He stood next to her smiling and said, “This has been, well, amazing. Can I call on you again sometime?” She nodded, but her eyes were wandering to the door behind him. Will saw that she tried to smile and he thought that maybe he’d done something wrong.

He clapped his hand to his head, “I haven’t even asked your name!” he blurted out, sure that he’d found his error.“It’s Violet,” she said and gestured for his to knock, “I’ve forgotten my key. My parents will be so worried.” Will stepped to the door immediately. Gallant and energetic, he rapped on the door three times and turned to smile at her. Violet returned the smile and something nagged at the back of his head, he knew her somehow.

He tried to form a question for her, for Violet, but a fog hung around him so that he could not seem to think of anything but the window boxes in his neighbor’s windows and just as words began to take shape in his brain the front door was opened. Will turned to see Mr. Baumgartner there, weary eyed and overweight. Will barely registered him before he said, “I’ve walked your daughter, Violet, home, sir.”

The effect of the window box image and the aging neighbor, the soft-voiced woman, the red hair and lovely lips suddenly struck him as Mrs. Baumgartner peeked out from behind her husband. She gently moved him aside and looked at Will with those same blue eyes. She shook her head and Will looked behind him to see the woman had disappeared. “But she was here...” he stammered.Mrs. Baumgartner reached out and patted him on his arm. Her husband shuffled away from the door of the decrepit place and disappeared into the dark walls of the house. “You’re not the first to bring her home, son,” she said gently. “She’s been trying to come home for years.”

The mystical being hides away and secretly tends to herself, they said "she's the most beautiful creature and yet she'll give you hell" but still many hunts her down. At nights she sings a depressing yet mesmerizing tune that draws in her next victim and eventually they disappear never to be heard of or from again.

As a child I was scared as hell of going to the river, too afraid that said 'river Mumma' half woman half fish would capture me. But then I've never really seen any evidence of such mysterious being lying around so I laughed it off. Of course someone would eventually go missing and of course my soul would wonder off into a dark dream pursuing a path that I'd be too scared to travel while being conscious. I dreamt of a beautiful woman sitting on a rock singing sad melody combing her hair and it captured my heart pulling me in ; I was in a trance. Eventually my heart rate spiked and I woke up sweating profusely. Ah! It was just a dream.

Many said that if one found her comb they'd have three wishes or wealth but eventually you'd die because she would either sink your town or kill off everyone if her possession is not returned. To say the tale of dear river Mumma didn't give me hell as a child is a total and utter lie but then now that I've grown up a little Ive stop believing and said story only stays as a childhood tale that maybe I will share with my child or grandchildren someday.

I bite my lip to keep from making any noise as the night animals sing their songs and dance in the light of the waning moonlight.

I can't make a single noise. Otherwise they'll notice and it'll all be ruined.

The night animals are doing their nightly ritual. Every night, I creep silently down to the forest and hide behind the big birch tree next to the circle where the nightshade blooms.

I look at my watch, which glows faintly in the dark. 11:59:40.

Twenty seconds later, the forest comes alive.

The wolf howling in front of me is black, with these creepy red eyes. I named her Eviana, the name of feminine sin. She's the first one to change, growing taller and more humanoid until a teenage girl with black hair and pale skin takes her place.

An oak tree standing alone in the corner fleshens until it turns into a brunette boy with emerald eyes. Young Heart, about my age, stands and looks at his companions through glasses, then begins to sway and sing.

The spider on the ground largens until it's a six-foot tall man with black hair and gold eyes. Araneus glances around, emotionless, until another spider, his younger sister Chne, drops down behind him in all her black beauty.

They're all deathly beautiful, but there's one thing. All of their eyes are black instead of white, making their irises glow in the night light.

Soon enough, all the animals and even some plants have changed and are in a circle of rhythm and song, waiting for the God and Goddess to join them.

Then they come.

A small, pale fox glowing with a dark aura flutters down, folding majestic wings against his body. Soon enough, a boy about my age with flaxen hair materialises, red eyes glowing against black behind glasses with obsidian rims. Linus, meaning "flaxen" in Latin, smiles and bows to the changelings waiting for him in the circle as he folds his pale wings.

Meanwhile, a raven with an aura of heavenly light descends from the sky amidst murder of crows, red eyes flashing. A girl about my age with raven-black hair stands imposingly next to her brother, giant black wings glowing blue and purple in the moonlight. Engel narrows her bloodred eyes, her black ponytail flowing in the wind.

Then Linus catches my eye and nods once.

Twice.

I walk up to him and Engel, cutting through the crowd of changelings and arriving in front of the devil and the angel.

Then we all begin to dance.

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There's a legend here, where I live.

If you go into the woods at midnight, the forest will come alive.

Then the devil fox and the angel raven will welcome you into their deathly embraces...

And you'll dance to the song of the moon

Whisper the words of the rain

Die in a midnight of pleasure

Then do it all over again

When scraping boats dash my snout carelessly, I wonder if they have heard the tale of one even my kin fear. We growl, push, and sometimes even leap up in grand imitation of the Maw That Stands.

Once, on the darkest night when mounds were best for hiding, I saw a lone boat and quietly watched.

Dip,

dip,

went the man and I know not why they come.

I only know the tall shape that looks the same as scaly swimmers and walks as well as man. It eats all that is flesh, scales or no.

The man went dip, dip, and some were more angry and foolish.

They surrounded the boat and

growled, bumping and jumping.

I stayed back and watched as crashing sounds announced the Maw That Stands.

In few claw strokes he swiped at the knot of them and none survived.

I have heard that by their fire beast, Men will tell their young this tale differently, and none know why the Maw That Stands only took his fill of the scaled swimmers, letting the man quickly escape in his boat.

I only know he turned his glowing green eye right where I lay.

Then walked away.