First of the "Sutter Creek Stories"
The Last Known Whereabouts of Reverend Potter Kline
It was six months before the fire when the bridge running over the narrowest part of the Shawnee River collapsed killing two children who against all warnings were playing on it. Everyone in Sutter Creek had either heard the accident occur or was informed about it immediately. They’d all come to see the twisted metal and broken wood wrapped around and in some cases through the carelessly dissected bodies of the young boy and girl. The expression on the faces of the deceased was eerie and grotesque, as if they’d been told how they were going to die just moments before the structure gave out.
In all the years before the fire, that day had been the darkest in the town of Sutter Creek. Not just for the loss of two more of its citizens, the youngest yet to perish, but because most believed that the curse had passed. Some felt the accident was a twisted reminder of the town’s obligation to the Reverend Potter Kline. Some said it was not an accident at all, but final retribution for the horrific scene that occurred at the Old North Church three years prior, a debt with destiny finally being collected. Whatever one believed, for the residents of Sutter Creek placing blame or conjuring explanation for all that was strange, unexplained, unfortunate, and tragic had become an intricate part of their healing process, a prerequisite for the town to grieve and ultimately move on.
Before the fire, funerals such as the one following the collapse of the bridge were unheard of in Sutter Creek. Death had always been a family affair, not a spectacle for the masses. Most of the town, including the beleaguered mayor and even the now-retired sheriff, turned out for that funeral. It took place in the resurrected Old North Church, reopened on that very day. The two small caskets were presented together, then laid to rest on opposite sides of the cemetery. Tragedy did not supersede tradition in Sutter Creek. Regardless of the rumors of paternal infidelity, the two children were not documented to be of the same family. The mother of the girl pled with the town magistrate for a simple waiver, to give her daughter’s remains the respect they deserved, however concessions had always proven dangerous in Sutter Creek, a risk the town could ill afford. Tradition, and the fear of further retribution, forced the girl’s family to inter her remains closer to the woods, nearer the back and out of the way.
Long before the fire, long before the manifestation of Reverend Klein’s curse over the town, the Old North Church was regarded as a sanctuary. These were more enlightened times, when people opened their homes to friends not yet made, when neighbors freely shared the struggles and triumphs of their personal lives, when the fields yielded crops that sustained the population of Sutter Creek five times over. The church at that time was a place where people gathered, worshiped, and kept at bay desires and possessions which lurked in their minds and hearts.
Until the fire, Sutter Creek kept time not by the counting of days, months, or years, but by the passing of events. The last recorded era in the history of the town was marked by the arrival of Potter Klein. He had an outsider’s appearance, road weary, skin beat to leather by the scorching sun and sand-swept winds of the arid plains to the south. He claimed to have traversed the land on foot, traveling a great distance in search of Sutter Creek. It was not the arrival of an outsider that dominated the conversations, rather Klein’s appearance on the very day the man the entire town referred to only as “the preacher” passed on from the yellow sickness. Potter Klein, as if in anticipation of the preacher’s passing and dismayed by the absence of a successor, took the pulpit for his own, and with great reverence he began to fill the church with a grace unfelt in the town for more than four generations. Words begat charisma, emotion begat authority. At that very moment he became their savior. And from that moment on came the darkest days of the strange, unexplained, unfortunate, and tragic in Sutter Creek.
Before the fire, the town assumed that with the bridge tragedy behind them the worst had come to pass. Two children were dead, but from this misfortune came a ray of hope—the reopening of the Old North Church. In the days following the funeral, the townspeople returned to the church in earnest. As the days and weeks passed word spread that the church was alive again, and with the return of the town’s spirit more and more began to attend. Uneasy at first, the congregation avoided any formal service since no one dared approach the pulpit, the very place where Potter Klein had robbed the town of its innocence. Rather, they simply absorbed the silence and experienced one more time what had been lost to the town since Klein’s arrival.
Then came the fire.
One month to the day following the collapse of the bridge, a meeting of silent worship drew the largest group of townspeople to the Old North Church. One hundred and seventeen to be exact for that was the number of bodies recovered. What came first to those not in attendance that afternoon was the queer odor of smoke that carried with it the stench of a brackish sea, dense and just shy of appalling. The sounds that followed were of death itself, the moans, wails, and cries of every last man, woman, and child in that church succumbing to the unknown horror of what lay behind those walls. Many of them could be heard pleading for what could only be their lives as they struggled against the doors which, not long after the fire had been extinguished, were found to be locked from the inside.
After the fire, none of the townspeople would speak the words they all longed to speak. Not a single person would dare say his name or suggest that he had returned in some unspeakable form to reclaim the church out of which he’d been cast. None of the townspeople wanted to place themselves in jeopardy, to fall victim to the curse. Not a single person would speak up expect for Samuel Haney.
There had been talk, disturbing talk about rebuilding the Old North Church, and how doing so would surely dispel any curse still looming over Sutter Creek. The town stewards, made up of a body of seventeen citizens one from each ward, met to discuss the matter at hand—the construction of a new church where organized prayer service would begin again. It was a risky proposition posing such an idea, even bordering on blasphemy according to the old laws, Potter Klein’s laws, but the stewards felt that blind fear had been tolerated long enough. The past was the past and it was time to move on.
Not everyone agreed that rebuilding was the proper solution. During the ratification meeting, Samuel Haney announced he had a plan, a rare feat of participation from the man who’s father was driven out of Sutter Creek by Potter Klein for hanging a crucifix on his front door since according to his interpretation of scripture totems were a sign of spiritual weakness. But times had changed since then, and becoming involved was obviously Samuel Haney’s way of restoring balance to his life.
Samuel Haney volunteered to locate the Reverend Potter Klein, though doing so meant leaving Sutter Creek. This notion that brought several audible gasps from the overcrowded meeting house. Everyone present, young and old, was well aware that leaving Sutter Creek meant there was no returning, no possible way back. Regardless, the motion was quickly accepted and drew a unanimous vote from the stewards. While questions about the sanity of such a venture preceded the show of hands, the stewards were aware of its necessity. The town could not, would not, survive much longer so long as the Reverend Potter Klein walked the earth.
Two days later, with a tattered map and Klein’s partially burned and smoke stained journal buried in a canvas pack, Samuel Haney departed on foot, across the makeshift rope bridge spanning the Shawnee River heading in the direction of the salt flats and the arid plains beyond. Against all hopes, not a soul came to see him off.
It was six months before the fire when the bridge running over the narrowest part of the Shawnee River collapsed killing two children who against all warnings were playing on it. Everyone in Sutter Creek had either heard the accident occur or was informed about it immediately. They’d all come to see the twisted metal and broken wood wrapped around and in some cases through the carelessly dissected bodies of the young boy and girl. The expression on the faces of the deceased was eerie and grotesque, as if they’d been told how they were going to die just moments before the structure gave out.
In all the years before the fire, that day had been the darkest in the town of Sutter Creek. Not just for the loss of two more of its citizens, the youngest yet to perish, but because most believed that the curse had passed. Some felt the accident was a twisted reminder of the town’s obligation to the Reverend Potter Kline. Some said it was not an accident at all, but final retribution for the horrific scene that occurred at the Old North Church three years prior, a debt with destiny finally being collected. Whatever one believed, for the residents of Sutter Creek placing blame or conjuring explanation for all that was strange, unexplained, unfortunate, and tragic had become an intricate part of their healing process, a prerequisite for the town to grieve and ultimately move on.
Before the fire, funerals such as the one following the collapse of the bridge were unheard of in Sutter Creek. Death had always been a family affair, not a spectacle for the masses. Most of the town, including the beleaguered mayor and even the now-retired sheriff, turned out for that funeral. It took place in the resurrected Old North Church, reopened on that very day. The two small caskets were presented together, then laid to rest on opposite sides of the cemetery. Tragedy did not supersede tradition in Sutter Creek. Regardless of the rumors of paternal infidelity, the two children were not documented to be of the same family. The mother of the girl pled with the town magistrate for a simple waiver, to give her daughter’s remains the respect they deserved, however concessions had always proven dangerous in Sutter Creek, a risk the town could ill afford. Tradition, and the fear of further retribution, forced the girl’s family to inter her remains closer to the woods, nearer the back and out of the way.
Long before the fire, long before the manifestation of Reverend Klein’s curse over the town, the Old North Church was regarded as a sanctuary. These were more enlightened times, when people opened their homes to friends not yet made, when neighbors freely shared the struggles and triumphs of their personal lives, when the fields yielded crops that sustained the population of Sutter Creek five times over. The church at that time was a place where people gathered, worshiped, and kept at bay desires and possessions which lurked in their minds and hearts.
Until the fire, Sutter Creek kept time not by the counting of days, months, or years, but by the passing of events. The last recorded era in the history of the town was marked by the arrival of Potter Klein. He had an outsider’s appearance, road weary, skin beat to leather by the scorching sun and sand-swept winds of the arid plains to the south. He claimed to have traversed the land on foot, traveling a great distance in search of Sutter Creek. It was not the arrival of an outsider that dominated the conversations, rather Klein’s appearance on the very day the man the entire town referred to only as “the preacher” passed on from the yellow sickness. Potter Klein, as if in anticipation of the preacher’s passing and dismayed by the absence of a successor, took the pulpit for his own, and with great reverence he began to fill the church with a grace unfelt in the town for more than four generations. Words begat charisma, emotion begat authority. At that very moment he became their savior. And from that moment on came the darkest days of the strange, unexplained, unfortunate, and tragic in Sutter Creek.
Before the fire, the town assumed that with the bridge tragedy behind them the worst had come to pass. Two children were dead, but from this misfortune came a ray of hope—the reopening of the Old North Church. In the days following the funeral, the townspeople returned to the church in earnest. As the days and weeks passed word spread that the church was alive again, and with the return of the town’s spirit more and more began to attend. Uneasy at first, the congregation avoided any formal service since no one dared approach the pulpit, the very place where Potter Klein had robbed the town of its innocence. Rather, they simply absorbed the silence and experienced one more time what had been lost to the town since Klein’s arrival.
Then came the fire.
One month to the day following the collapse of the bridge, a meeting of silent worship drew the largest group of townspeople to the Old North Church. One hundred and seventeen to be exact for that was the number of bodies recovered. What came first to those not in attendance that afternoon was the queer odor of smoke that carried with it the stench of a brackish sea, dense and just shy of appalling. The sounds that followed were of death itself, the moans, wails, and cries of every last man, woman, and child in that church succumbing to the unknown horror of what lay behind those walls. Many of them could be heard pleading for what could only be their lives as they struggled against the doors which, not long after the fire had been extinguished, were found to be locked from the inside.
After the fire, none of the townspeople would speak the words they all longed to speak. Not a single person would dare say his name or suggest that he had returned in some unspeakable form to reclaim the church out of which he’d been cast. None of the townspeople wanted to place themselves in jeopardy, to fall victim to the curse. Not a single person would speak up expect for Samuel Haney.
There had been talk, disturbing talk about rebuilding the Old North Church, and how doing so would surely dispel any curse still looming over Sutter Creek. The town stewards, made up of a body of seventeen citizens one from each ward, met to discuss the matter at hand—the construction of a new church where organized prayer service would begin again. It was a risky proposition posing such an idea, even bordering on blasphemy according to the old laws, Potter Klein’s laws, but the stewards felt that blind fear had been tolerated long enough. The past was the past and it was time to move on.
Not everyone agreed that rebuilding was the proper solution. During the ratification meeting, Samuel Haney announced he had a plan, a rare feat of participation from the man who’s father was driven out of Sutter Creek by Potter Klein for hanging a crucifix on his front door since according to his interpretation of scripture totems were a sign of spiritual weakness. But times had changed since then, and becoming involved was obviously Samuel Haney’s way of restoring balance to his life.
Samuel Haney volunteered to locate the Reverend Potter Klein, though doing so meant leaving Sutter Creek. This notion that brought several audible gasps from the overcrowded meeting house. Everyone present, young and old, was well aware that leaving Sutter Creek meant there was no returning, no possible way back. Regardless, the motion was quickly accepted and drew a unanimous vote from the stewards. While questions about the sanity of such a venture preceded the show of hands, the stewards were aware of its necessity. The town could not, would not, survive much longer so long as the Reverend Potter Klein walked the earth.
Two days later, with a tattered map and Klein’s partially burned and smoke stained journal buried in a canvas pack, Samuel Haney departed on foot, across the makeshift rope bridge spanning the Shawnee River heading in the direction of the salt flats and the arid plains beyond. Against all hopes, not a soul came to see him off.
posted by Tim Kenyon at
10:34 PM
0 Comments
