A Taste of Dove Creek

Here is the opening of Chapter Two, where the town of Dove Creek is explained. As you can see, it's a lovely little town . . . Riiiiiight. Enjoy!

Dove Creek has long been a hub of supernatural activity. Back during the oil boom of the 1970’s, the town population swelled to its all-time high. Almost overnight, it became larger than anyone ever thought possible. The oil gushed and the money flowed. Talk started up about how Dove Creek could come to rival Westview, the city on the other side of the lake. This tiny town was moving up in the world.

Then the murders started.

At first, people believed there was a serial killer on the loose. A body here, a disappearance there . . . They could find a way to justify the rising death toll. The local law enforcement even found a suspect: Wilson C. Scott. He was tried and convicted, framed for murders he didn’t commit and got a middle initial in his name just like every other notorious killer.

And the murders didn’t stop.

People fled Dove Creek just as fast as they had flocked in. Coupled with waning oil prices, the dark mark of death overshadowed any hope the town had of becoming a full-fledged city. The only people left were the ones whose families had been here for generations; my family and Gabriel’s family were among them.

There were a few people who decided to stand up and do something rather than cower in the church pews and pray like the rest of Dove Creek did – and still does. People in this town know that there are abnormal occurrences and creatures that by all accounts shouldn’t exist, but they don’t acknowledge them. Not out loud. There’s a church on every corner. There are enough seats in the pews for every man, woman, and child, and that’s not counting the choir lofts. It leaves little doubt that people know something isn’t right about this town.

Why this town? A long time ago – no one knows how long exactly – a Crossroads settled in right around Dove Creek. This is a supernatural Crossroads I’m talking about, not a place where two roads intersect and people pause and stare at each other over their steering wheels at a four-way stop. Don’t think of a crossroads as a fixed, tangible thing. It’s fluid. It’s a place where the various planes of existence blur together ever so slightly, where the veil between them is at its thinnest.

Demons figured out a way to crawl out of the Plane of Perdition to torment the Mortal Plane. It’s been Old Testament around here ever since.