"Deacon Ash"

Chapter 6: Deacon Ash

CHAPTER 6: Deacon Ash

The dog raised its hindquarters and had moved toward the door, its huge head swaying from side to side inches from the floor. I flipped my cell phone closed and shoved it into my pocket. I prowled through my duffel bag for my flashlight and snagged my nine millimeter from my waistband. Pistol in one hand and flashlight in the other I followed the dog until he had stopped a short distance from the door and assumed his guard position.

I stood a safe distance away and listened to the wretched singing. Curiosity had won me over and I moved past the blackish-red guardian and opened the front door. I was unable to see anything beyond my Bronco. I turned on my flashlight and scanned the thick blackness for the source of the singing.

A sudden flash of lightning had momentarily lifted the veil of darkness and revealed an old man. I trained my eyes on him for a moment, waiting in anticipation for more natural illumination to come my way. All I had had to go by was the awful singing meshed in an awful southern accent. Worse yet, it had been repeatedly the same verse.

Whaaat a friend we have in Jeeesus...alllll our sins and griefs to bearrrr...Whaaat a privilege to carrrrrry...Evvvverything to God in prayerrrr.

Remembering that I had my flashlight, I turned it on and shined it in the old man's general direction where I had last seen him. He had come into view just enough for me to take note of his lethargic gait. Seconds later the bulb went kaput. I banged the flashlight on my thigh and pressed the "on" switch in rapid succession without success. I gave up on it and set it on the porch.

I had seen enough of the old man to notice that he was tall and gaunt wearing a suit. As if nature had honored my need for light, a series of lightning flashes brightened the vicinity providing more details. He was a decrepit man in a dark grey suit, white shirt underneath, and sporting a blood red tie. He was bald on top and the whitest of white buffont hair on the sides of his skinny head sprouted at least three inches from his skull. A smile was spread across his long, emaciated face.

I had expected a greeting or at least an immediate explanation from the encroacher as to why he had walked up the dirt road toward my house. Though delayed, the greeting did come and I returned my pistol to my waistband.

"Good evening," the old man said.

His southern drawl had pricked my eardrums.

"You lost?" I asked with an attitude backed by Jim Beam and coke.

"Naw, I ain't lost," the old man said.

"Well what can I do for you?" I asked.

It was difficult to see him in the absence of the lightning.

"Oh, nothing really," the old man said.

I looked up at the sky, then back at the old man.

"You must be doing something to be out here with this storm brewing," I said.

The silhouette of the old man's head shifted upward at the sky. "Aww, shucks. It's always like this when I'm out and about," he said, unfazed.

"You may want to get back home before you get caught out in it," I hinted.

"Do tell. Once I find what I'm looking for I'll be on my way," he said.

"Good luck," I said.

I turned around to head back inside the house, a subliminal gesture that it was time for him to leave.