Free The Devil Walks in Mattingly by Billy Coffey

said, “See? This here promises to be as undemanding as I thought, Charlie Givens.”
    “Undemandin’ as you thought,” Charlie said. But there was a look of disappointment on his face, like he’d gotten all dressed up for the prom only to have his date not show. “I need me some beer, Taylor. I’m all antsy.”
    “Well, get you some and get paid out that register so we can go. I got a sneaker-wearin’ something to locate.”
    The side door opened before Charlie could move. Two people walked through. At first Taylor thought the old man in front was the one whose trail had led them there, went so far as to see if there were sneakers on the man’s feet, but was saddened to find an old pair of boots there instead. Yet there was a curious glint to him, a shine that Taylor found unsettling. Years of hard living in the Hollow had taught him to see what others could not, and what Taylor saw in that old man weresecrets he could not decipher. His eyes met Taylor’s. The old man smiled. Taylor couldn’t understand why until he stepped aside. Then he knew.
    The boy behind was still of schooling age, no older than Taylor when he had came to the Hollow to stay. His clothes were baggy and his hair unkempt. Wide eyes peeked out from behind pale skin that looked stretched too tight. Taylor saw a crushing sadness in the boy, some deep and unknown pain he took as proof that Charlie had been right after all. This was the place. And their arrival had been no mere twist of chance; it had been destiny.
    “You work here?” Charlie asked.
    It was a man who answered. “Sure do. How ya doing?”
    “Here he is, Taylor,” Charlie said. “I found’m.”
    Taylor kept his eyes on the boy. To the man, he said, “Yo, where’s your beer, old-timer?”
    “Don’t sell any.”
    The old man kept his smile. Taylor saw what was written there— I’m so glad you came, this boy hurts so .
    “You don’t sell no beer? You hear that, Charlie? This man ain’t got no beer to sell.”
    “Man don’t sell no beer’s a stupid man,” Charlie said, and then something—either blood thirst or alcohol—made him bend over and laugh.
    “There’s a Texaco down the road a-ways,” the man said. “Timmy’ll sell you some beer.”
    He looked at Taylor and smiled again, as though that information was important.
    Taylor nodded, understanding. “You tryin’ to get rid of us?”
    “Nope, just trying to help you out and trying to close up.”
    Just trying to help you out , Taylor thought. He asked, “You got a bathroom in here?”
    “Back in the corner.”
    Taylor moved to the back of the store, his body pulsing with adrenaline. He found the door and flipped a switch inside that bathed the small room in a pale yellow and started a rickety fan in the ceiling. A toilet sat in the corner, a sink and mirror to the right. Taylor went to the mirror, drawn there by what he saw.
    The river that cut through the Hollow flowed too fast and too gray to offer reflection, and Taylor had kept away from the still pools of rainwater and melted snow that settled in the deep places of the forest. He feared if he ever beheld himself, what he’d find staring back would be more monster than good man. Yet what looked back at him now was no demon, but a hoary face worn old before his time. The reflection did not frighten him, but it tired Taylor of what he’d been brought there to do. He remembered in his former life the farm next to his grandpappy’s burning on one cold January night, and the firemen who had charged headlong into the flames. They had been normal men—town men—called to do extraordinary things. Not because it had been what they’d wanted to do, but because it was their duty. Taylor felt much like those men now.
    He tightened the leather braid around his hair and jerked the door open to find Charlie pointing a lighter at the boy. The old man had put himself between them. He held a push broom at his side.
    “What’s goin’ on here?” Taylor