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The Devil of Baton Rouge

by Benjamin Styles
8/07/2008 / Short Stories

[The following article was found among a pile of letters kept by a Mrs. Dorothy Bly, a local woman living in a southern church community whence she left for heaven on July 9th, 1984. Her son, Samuel Bly, a professed Baptist and volunteer leader at a local food pantry for the poor, kept those writings he found to be interesting or of import.]

My name is Frederick Douglass, a man of surplus age, educated in mind, and strong in body and most certainly in spirit. I have been redeemed through the fire of Christ's love and through the workings of the Holy Spirit within me. My father was Lewis Douglass, a compassionate and spiritual man, a preacher of the true religion of God and Christ, and a genuinely good soul. I served under him for many years in our small, meager congregation of only 150 souls set apart from the world, deep in the rural land of southern Georgia. I stand today to represent both myself and my God before all those who might read this testimony or hear about it through word of mouth which most assuredly should be taken into account in concerning such matters.

After my father passed away and joined our Lord in the year 1878, I took up much of his burden concerning our congregation and the welfare of those therein. During one of my travels abroad, for I very much enjoy traveling, I happened to be passing through Baton Rouge. I remember the stars and the wisps of mist that attended a particular soothing late evening while I sat watching the sun set, a cool shaker of lemonade by my side.

I was staying as a guest and recipient of the charity of a good and close friend of mine who lived in these parts, and was about to retire to my quarters there, when from a local bushel of trees and swampy vegetation should appear suddenly a man of brown skin and fantastic shape. I did not know who this man was, nor what he was, but that he wore red suit pants-as red as the spiral of a candy cane-and that he was tall and long of limb and thin, of a most irregular build. His forehead bore two significant prominences which I soon noticed as he saliently approached me. I was full of fear but held fast to my spot, unfortunately this was done more out of true freight rather then any sense of bravery or courage born either by physical hardiness or sheer faith. I was terribly upset both in mind and body and I am sure that, had I seen myself as that brown devil did, the devil with the red pants, I am most sure I would have seen myself shaking something violent.

Now he approached me, still keeping far enough away that I felt comfortable, and I should note here that he kept that distance at least during the entire time of our discourse, and having come thus close spoke to me in a most assuredly human fashion; "what say you, that you should ride along these ancient hills and pray huddled together under your church steeples."

"Whose concern is it of yours," I ask him, feeling for the cross I kept pinned around my neck, held fast by a thread of my best leather, "where do you range from that I should answer you?"

"Answer me thus, what say you that you should ride along these ancient hills and pray huddled together under your church steeples? Answer me thus and I shall return the favor!"

"I ride along these hills because they are the Creator's hills, fashioned by His' very hands and left not to rot and spoil but support us and give us home and shelter and resources of many fashion to use for our own ends. As for the churches and their steeples, has not man a right to create places, special places to his heart for conversing with the Almighty?"

The strange person licked his chops like a wolf baiting a lonely sheep, then remarked that my eyes bore no spirit of bravery. I thanked him in kind for his remark by stating that his appearances would make a festival party into a pig's ear.

He then proceeded to look at me for some time, and I him, neither saying words nor passing cuff remarks. Instead we each stood our ground and I waited his reply, while he for his part would sooner stare off into the horizon then say anything to me. Finally, after overcoming my shock and disbelief, I retreated to my old inquiries.

"Where do you range from, and from what manner of imperative do you take liberty to stand me here like this?"

"What say you, answer me three questions and indeed I will answer thee?"

"Must you infuriate me with your prattle!? Fine, I'll answer three of yours, then it be you who answer."

The brown man licked his chops again and took on a stance of intense agitation. His eyes flared so suddenly that I thought for sure they had been glowing for but an instance. Through this menagerie of physical transformation he asked me, "Why does the Throne of Heaven allow the suffering of so many, when but with a single stroke the evil doers would becometh like the dust along the road?"

"Fiend, you challenge the Holy One Himself, the answer is simple; God allows men to follow the ways of their heart. If a man chooses to be petulant, he will reap the consequences in due time. No one is left unaccounted for, all come to their just cause dependant upon their decisions in life. "

The brown man stepped back almost theatrically, placing one foot well behind him with a magnificent stride of his leg. He asked again, "Why would the all-mighty, all knowing, all mercifull one burn those He dislikes in hell?

"Your thinking's as skewered as the sight of you; God does not burn but gives them what they gave in life. Men refuse God's charity, and spend eternity in darkness for it. There they are left to themselves, as they wanted to be so in life."

Again, that strident pose as the brown man stepped back.

"My final question," he belched back at me, "why would God not show Himself to thee, and release thee from your doubt. Can not the infinite God show Himself outright, and cease these games and tricks He calls religion?"

"Enough!" I rebuked him, "God chooses to test us in this life, and to show Himself so plainly would eliminate all His previous exerts. There is no faith where there is plain seeing, and there is no love where the choice to reject is not possible. Now answer me this-from where do you range?"

The brown man did not step back again but merely stood there watching me. As the dying sunset cast a blazing glow on his forehead he finally spoke these last words before he vanished fantastically from my sight, "seek ye the trail down by the woods, and you will know where I come from."

I was quite stunned at his sudden disappearance, but soon overcame it. To my great surprise I looked about where he last stood and, lo, found a neat little garden path leading down through the heavy grass to a large knoll of trees. Hastening myself with the suns burning course behind me I left at a gallop down the knobby hill and soon found myself standing but outside the trees.

"Where will that fool have come from, that fiend," I murmered. No sooner had I spoken these words when I felt myself being drawn down. I had been walking the length of the trail and, having seen what appeared to be the end of this concourse for me, I had hastily approached. To my surprise and horror it was not a beginning but an end-for the bottom of the trail was thick mud, and I having not paid any attention to the lack of light soon found myself pulling and dragging my body out of the dark mire.

Here I am, today, writing this account I offer it as an example, and a warning to be heeded; never speak with a brown man. Never trust his words. Take to heart his challenges and know the answers, but do not converse with him. For the Devil of Baton Rouge is still awakin', and I fear for the safety of those poor souls who speak to him as I did. For they may not have any answers to give

Benjamin Styles is a writer, artist, and cartoonist who has been putting his skills to Christ's work since he was fifteen. He currently lives in central Pennsylvania.

Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com-CHRISTIAN WRITERS

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