The Devil's Promenade: Episode 1

In the quiet rural town of Clifty in the mid-1980s, strange stories circulate about a glowing orb that appears without warning in the fields outside town. Most locals dismiss it as folklore—until two twelve-year-old best friends, Arthur and Michael, witness it themselves.

What begins as curiosity quickly becomes obsession as the boys follow the mysterious light and uncover clues buried deep within Clifty’s past. Their search reveals a forgotten trail, a hidden chamber beneath the town church, and a centuries-old secret tied to an ancient legend whispered long before the town was founded.

As the orb begins to return night after night, Arthur and Michael realize the light is more than a mystery—it’s a procession. And something from the past is walking with it.

The Devil’s Promenade is a paranormal thriller about friendship, forgotten history, and the terrifying cost of secrets a town has buried for generations.

Transcript

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SPEAKER_01 0:00

It's past midnight. The world is quiet. The signal is strong. You've found a frequency not listed on any dial. Where stories are generated, where shadows speak. This is midnight transmission broadcasting beyond reality.

SPEAKER_00 0:54

The Devil's Promenade Part One. The Light in the Field.

SPEAKER_03 1:14

Some swore it floated over Miller's Creek like a lantern carried by invisible hands. Others said it glided through the old tobacco fields beyond Widow Granger's place, low and silent, as if it were searching for something it had lost. Old men at Duffy's feed store called it swamp gas, though there wasn't a swamp within twenty miles. Church ladies whispered that it was a warning. Teenagers drove back roads at night, hoping to catch a glimpse of it, usually after telling each other they weren't scared. Arthur and Michael had heard every version. They were twelve, inseparable, and spent most of that summer on their bikes, roaming clifties gravel roads until the porch lights came on, and their mothers started hollering from the back steps. Arthur was the kind who asked too many questions and never let go of a mystery once it caught hold of him. Michael was funnier, quicker to laugh, and a little more cautious, though he'd never admit that out loud. That Friday night, with the heat still rising off the road and crickets shrilling from the ditches, they coasted their bikes to a stop outside Duffy's. The grown ups were gathered in front of the store in metal folding chairs, talking in low voices under the yellow bug light. Seen it again, said Earl Timmons, spitting tobacco juice into the dust. Out by the Hensley pasture, hovered there near a minute, then gone. Didn't hover, said Mrs. Wicker. It drifted, like it knew where it was headed. Old Jonah Pike, who claimed he remembered everything worth knowing, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. That ain't a spirit and it ain't weather, he muttered. That thing walks a path. Arthur glanced at Michael. Walks? Jonah's cloudy eyes slid toward the boys. Promenade, he said, as though the word tasted strange in his mouth. That's what my granddaddy called it. Devil's Promenade comes through town when it pleases. Follows the old trail. The old trail where? Arthur asked. But Duffy snapped Don't fill their heads with ghost nonsense. Jonah only looked away and said no more. That should have been the end of it. It should have stayed another clifty story, filed away beside haunted wells and screaming panthers in the woods. Instead, an hour later, Arthur and Michael saw it for themselves. They were cutting across the edge of Hensley pasture, walking their bikes through knee high grass silvered by moonlight. The night had gone oddly still. No crickets, no frogs. Even the breeze had died. Michael stopped first. Arthur. About fifty yards ahead, near the split rail fence a pale glow had appeared. It was no bigger than a basketball, suspended three feet above the ground, white at its centre, but ringed in shifting colours. Blue, then green, then a bruised violet that made Arthur's skin prickle. It gave off no beam, no flare. It simply existed, humming faintly like power lines in July. Neither boy moved. The orb drifted sideways, slow and deliberate, crossing the pasture toward the tree line. Arthur found his voice. Do you see that? Michael swallowed. Yeah. The thing paused. Arthur would remember that for the rest of his life, the awful certainty that it had heard him. Then the glow brightened. Not enough to blind, just enough to reveal the grass bending beneath it, though nothing touched it. A shape seemed to move inside the light, long and thin, almost like fingers pressed against frosted glass from the other side. Michael grabbed Arthur's arm. We need to go. But Arthur couldn't. He stared as the orb drifted toward the woods, stopping once at the edge of the trees as though waiting for them to follow. Then it slipped between the trunks and vanished. The night sounds returned all at once. Crickets screamed. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere down the road a screen door slammed. Arthur's chest hurt. Michael was still holding his arm hard enough to ache. We're not telling anybody, Michael said. Arthur looked toward the woods where the darkness now seemed deeper than before. No, he whispered, already knowing he didn't mean it. We're finding out what it is. And far off among the trees something answered with a sound that was almost laughter.

SPEAKER_00 6:53

The trail no one marked.

SPEAKER_02 7:00

Arthur barely slept that night.

SPEAKER_03 7:03

Every time he closed his eyes he saw the orb hanging over the pasture, its bruised violet rim breathing in and out like it was alive. Worse than that were the shapes inside it, those long shifting impressions that had looked too deliberate to be tricks of light. By morning, Clifty had returned to normal. The sun came up hot and yellow over the fields. Trucks rattled down Main Street. Mrs. Wicker watered her flowers. Duffy swept the dust from in front of the store. It all seemed to prove the world still made sense. But Arthur knew better now. He met Michael by the old filling station just after breakfast. Michael had dark half moons under his eyes, and kept glancing over his shoulder, like something might have followed him into town. You tell your folks? Arthur asked. Michael snorted. And say what? That we saw a floating ball in Hensley pasture and it stared at Arthur mounted his bike. Then let's not tell them. Let's go ask Jonah. That got a look from Michael. Old Jonah Pike lived at the edge of Clifty, in a weathered shotgun house surrounded by junked farm equipment, broken bird houses, and a rusted tractor frame with no wheels. He answered the door in overalls and a sleeveless undershirt. His face folded up like old paper. I figured you boys come, he said before Arthur even spoke. Inside, the house smelled of pipe tobacco, coffee and damp wood. Jonah sat them at a table scarred by decades of pocket knives and coffee cups. He listened without interrupting as Arthur described the orb's light, its humming, the way it had waited at the woods. Jonah's jaw tightened. It follows the old path, he said. Ain't on maps anymore. Was here before Clifty was. Before the first church, before the feed store, before the road was even gravel. What path? Arthur asked. Jonah looked toward the window. An old native trail. Folks used it long before settlers come through. Cut straight across the ridge, past Miller's Creek, through Hensley Pasture, up to Blackthorne Hollow. Michael shifted. What's in Blackthorne Hollow? Jonah didn't answer right away. Nothing good. Arthur leaned forward. What's the orb? Jonah rubbed a thumb over his coffee mug. Some say it's a spirit lantern. Some say it's a guide. My granddaddy said it walked for the dead, same as a ferryman walks a river. But once every so often. He paused. It calls. Michael laughed, but there was no humour in it. Calls who? Jonah looked at both boys in turn. Whoever's fool enough to answer. He stood and shuffled to a shelf, returning with an old tin box. From it he pulled a folded piece of brittle paper, a hand drawn map faded almost white with age. Arthur could just make out the line of Miller's Creek, the church, Widow Granger's place, and a narrow dotted trail that curved into a patch of woods marked only with one word. Promenade. Arthur felt a chill even in the summer heat. My granddaddy copied that from an older map, Jonah said. Said there was once a procession there, long ago, torches at night, singing in no language he knew. Folks vanish sometimes. Livestock too. Michael stared at the map. Then why's everybody still here? Jonah gave a thin smile. Because most years it sleeps. Arthur touched the word promenade with one fingertip. And this year a dull breeze stirred the curtains, though the windows were shut. Jonah's smile vanished.

SPEAKER_02 11:45

This year, he said, it's walking again.

SPEAKER_00 11:52

Blackthorne Hollow.

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They waited until evening.

SPEAKER_03 11:59

Neither of them said it aloud, but both knew they were going back. Once Arthur had seen the map, once Michael had heard the way Jonah said walking again. There was no returning to ordinary summer days. The mystery had taken hold. At dusk they rode out past the church, down the washboard road, and cut through the narrow cattlegate near Hensley Pasture. Arthur had brought a flashlight, his father's pocket knife, a notebook, and a disposable camera with only seven exposures left. Michael brought a baseball bat he claimed was for snakes. The woods at the pasture's edge seemed different now, less like trees, more like a doorway. You still think this is a good idea? Michael asked. No, Arthur said. But we're doing it anyway. They entered under a roof of oak and hickory branches. The light dropped fast. The path, if it had ever been one, had long since disappeared beneath roots, weeds, and fallen leaves, but Arthur noticed something strange. Even in the deep brush, there was a winding strip where the undergrowth thinned unnaturally, as though feet had passed over it too many times for too many years. They followed that ribbon of bare earth into the trees. Ten minutes later, the woods opened into Blackthorne Hollow. Arthur had heard the name all his life, but he'd imagined a small dip in the land. This was different. The hollow was wide and bowl shaped, ringed with black, twisted trees that leaned inward like spectators. In the centre stood a circle of stones half sunk in the earth. No house, no barn. Nothing man made except those stones. And even they didn't look local. Michael lowered the bat. Who put those there? Arthur stepped closer. The stones were carved. Not deeply and not with letters he recognized. Spirals, handprints, horned shapes. One stone held a symbol like a man with antlers or branches growing from his head. That wasn't made by anybody around here, Michael muttered. Then Arthur saw the ash. It formed a grey black trail across the ground, as though something had burned there recently in a line leading from the center circle to the eastern ridge. He crouched and touched it. Cold. No fire smell, he said. Michael didn't answer. The humming had begun again. Faint at first, easy to mistake for insects, then steadier, electric, familiar. Arthur stood. The orb emerged from behind one of the black trees. It floated into the hollow with the same silent deliberation as before, white at its core, colours rippling around it. But here, in the bowl of the hollow, it seemed brighter, stronger. The carvings on the stones caught its light and almost glowed back. Michael whispered Arthur. The orb moved to the centre of the stone circle and stopped. Then, one by one, the carved symbols began to shine. Not bright, just enough to outline themselves in a dull orange, as though heat lived somewhere deep inside them. Arthur felt his pulse hammering against his throat. A wind swept the hollow, though the trees above the rim were still, and from somewhere beyond the circle came footsteps. Arthur swung the flashlight toward the sound. The beam jittered over the eastern ridge. For an instant he saw someone standing there, tall, thin, wrapped in something dark and ragged. Antlers rose above its head, or branches, or horns. He couldn't tell. Its eyes caught the orb light and flashed silver. Michael grabbed Arthur so hard the flashlight dropped. When Arthur snatched it up again, the ridge was empty. But the orb had changed. Inside its bright centre, the shapes were clearer now. Not fingers. Hands. Many hands pressing outward. Then the light darted suddenly toward the boys. Michael shouted. Arthur stumbled backward. The orb stopped inches from Arthur's face, filling his vision with white fire and violet edges. He heard a sound, not with his ears, but somewhere inside his skull. A voice. Not words exactly. More like an invitation. Come and see. Arthur reeled. Then the orb shot away into the trees, faster than any living thing, leaving the humming behind like a fading echo. The hollow went dark. Michael was breathing hard. We are done. You hear me? Done. Arthur looked at the ridge where the figure had stood. In the dirt between the stones were fresh tracks. Not hoof prints, not footprints, something in between.

SPEAKER_00 18:10

Stories buried under churches.

SPEAKER_03 18:16

By Sunday morning, Arthur had developed a new habit, listening harder than anyone else. At church, while Reverend Boone preached about judgment and mercy, Arthur barely heard him. He watched the older folks instead. Every time the Reverend mentioned wickedness in the land, three people looked toward the back windows, in the direction of Blackthorne Hollow. After the service, while their parents talked on the church lawn, Arthur and Michael lingered near the sidesteps where old women gossiped under paper fans. It's been more active this summer, whispered one. Hush, said another. Children are around. Children been around for all of it, said a third. Arthur pretended to be interested in a June bug crawling along the railing. Michael pretended not to know him. Then Mrs. Cora Bellamy, who was old enough to have remembered everybody else's secrets, lowered her voice and said My grandmother said the first settlers built the church where they did on purpose, to cover what came before. Arthur looked up. Mrs. Bellamy saw him listening and snapped her fan shut. Don't you go poking around in old ground, Arthur Belle. Nothing good ever comes up. That afternoon he wrote down everything he could remember in his notebook. Michael sat on Arthur's bedroom floor, working a loose thread from the baseball back grip. So the church is covering something, Arthur said. The trail leads to the hollow. The orb lights up the stones, and there was somebody standing on the ridge. Michael looked up. Or something. Arthur nodded. Jonah said there used to be a procession. Michael frowned. Promenade. The word lingered in the room. Arthur flipped to a blank page and started making connections. Church Hollow Old Trail Orb Carved stones Procession Missing People. He drew arrows until the page looked like a madman's wall. Then his mother called from downstairs that supper was ready. That night, after meatloaf and canned green beans, Arthur did what he wasn't supposed to. He slipped out of bed, took a flashlight, and biked alone to the church. The building sat pale in moonlight, its white clapboard siding looking almost blue. The graveyard behind it dipped gently toward a line of cedar trees. Arthur leaned his bike against the fence and crept around to the rear, where the older stone stood. He didn't know what he was looking for until he found it. At the very back of the graveyard, behind the oldest marked graves, was a flat stretch of ground with no headstones at all. The grass there grew patchy and strange. In the centre stood a single stone marker, squat and weathered, with no name on it. Arthur crouched and brushed away dirt. There was a carving. The same horned figure from Blackthorne Hollow. The flashlight trembled in his hand. Arthur he nearly screamed. Michael emerged from behind a cedar tree, pale and annoyed. You left your window open. Figured you were up to something stupid. Arthur shone the light at the marker. Michael's expression changed immediately. Oh, he said quietly. That's bad. The air around them turned cold. Then they heard singing. Not from the church, not from the road, from below them. Low voices too many to count, rising from the earth in a slow, rhythmic murmur. Arthur and Michael froze. The nameless stone began to vibrate under Arthur's hand. The singing swelled for three long seconds, then stopped all at once. Silence rushed in. Michael backed away first. We're leaving. Arthur didn't argue. They ran for their bikes, gravel snapping beneath their shoes. As they tore down the road, Arthur looked back once. A pale orb was floating above the church steeple watching them.

SPEAKER_00 23:25

The man in the records room.

SPEAKER_02 23:31

Clifty didn't have a library exactly.

SPEAKER_03 23:34

It had the town records room, two shelves of donated books in the back of City Hall, and Miss Evelyn Choke, who acted as though both were sacred. Arthur convinced his mother he needed to return a school atlas. By noon, he and Michael were in the records room pretending to search for county maps, while Miss Evelyn sorted index cards with the solemnity of a surgeon. Arthur finally approached her desk. Miss Chot, do you have any old maps of Clifty? Like really old? Her glasses dipped low on her nose. For what purpose? School project, Arthur lied. Michael coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Miss Evelyn studied them. History ought to be treated carefully. Most folks only go digging because they want a story that flatters themselves. She rose with a crackle of starch and disappeared into the back. She returned carrying a leather bound county ledger, and a box of rolled plats tied with ribbon. These stay in the room. You tear one, I tell both your mothers. Arthur opened the ledger first. Most of it was land transfers and tax marks, but near the front was a copied entry dated eighteen nineteen, yellowed and shaky with age, settlement raised on old ceremonial ground, local guidance received from shore men before winter advised never to pass the hollow after nightfall. Arthur read it twice. Michael pointed lower on the page. There another entry, this one from eighteen twenty one three gone from Winter Camp Tracks found leading toward the old walk Nobodies. Minister says Devil has claimed the promenade and all pagan remnants to be buried beneath a house of God. Arthur felt the skin on his neck tighten. Buried beneath a house of God. The church, Michael said. Miss Evelyn's voice came from behind them. Yes. They both jumped. She had come soundlessly to their table and was staring at the open page without surprise. Arthur realized, with a jolt, that she already knew what they were looking for. You boys have seen something, she said. Arthur hesitated, then nodded. Miss Evelyn sighed and pulled out the chair across from them. My grandfather was sexton at that church for forty years. Before he died, he told me there was another foundation below the current one. Stonework older than the town itself. The first preacher ordered it covered, called it heathen architecture. What was it? Arthur asked. She folded her hands. He never knew, but there were tales, night gatherings before settlement, figures in hides and antlers, lights with no flame. Michael swallowed. The orb Miss Evelyn looked sharply at him. Has it returned? Neither boy answered. That was answer enough. She reached into the ledger box and removed a thin packet wrapped in cloth. Inside was a brittle newspaper clipping from nineteen thirty seven. The headline read Local Boy missing after light seen in hollow. Beneath it was a grainy photograph of a boy about their age, hair slicked flat, eyes too serious for a child. Arthur read aloud. Thomas Redding, age twelve, vanished after telling family he had heard music in the woods. Search parties found only his cap near Blackthorne Hollow. Several witnesses reported a strange glow in the area on the preceding night. Michael looked sick. Twelve Miss Evelyn nodded. There were others before him, though fewer once folks learned to stay away. It always takes the curious first. Arthur stared at the clipping. Takes them where? Miss Evelyn's face tightened with something like pity. That is the only part history never gave back. Before either of them could speak again, a shadow crossed the high window. The room dimmed for a heartbeat as if a cloud had passed. But outside the day was clear. Miss Evelyn rose so suddenly her chair scraped. Close the ledger. Why? Arthur asked. Her voice had gone thin. Because something is standing outside the window, and I do not want it seeing what page you're on.

SPEAKER_02 29:03

This concludes part one of this four part series.

SPEAKER_01 29:08

The signal is fading, but it's never gone for long. Until next time. Keep listening. This was Midnight Transmission.