 My work takes me all over, but the strangest place I've ever been is a little town called Prey, Texas. I drove past city limits just as the sun sank below the horizon, golden light pooled in the worn leather of my passenger seat, and I squinted to read a chipped welcome sign. Prey, Texas, home to 81 souls. I shook my head. Folks in these small towns were always so sanctimonious. People were souls. Everyone wished each other a blessed day, and the radio played only breathless preaching. As if on cue, the country music jangling from my car radio faded to static, then resolved into a familiar intonation that promised fire and brimstone to those who sinned against God. I turned the volume off. It took only a moment to reach what the locals would no doubt refer to as downtown, a row of perhaps five storefronts, at least one of which seemed permanently closed. I pulled to a stop in front of what looked to be a bar and climbed down from my truck. Heads turned as I walked in. A handful of people, mostly older men, glared at me from chipping tables placed randomly throughout the small room. Though I couldn't make out their expressions and the bar's dim light, I imagined that they all wore some variation of a John Wayne scowl. Indifferent, I settled into one of the empty stools at the Darkwood Bar and raised a hand. After a few moments, the bartender, an older gentleman with more hair on his weathered face than his head, ambled over and without looking me in the eye, said, What'll it be? Whiskey for me. Wordlessly, he pulled a brown bottle from behind the bar. It had a generic brand name of the sort meant to be glossed over, something like Kentucky Gym or Old Dale. The aging bartender poured a measure of this stuff into a dirty glass, then dropped it in front of me without mentioning the price. What do I owe you? I asked from beneath an arched eyebrow. Five. He responded in a reedy tone that didn't match his gruff exterior. I fished six dollars and ones from my wallet and slapped them onto the Darkwood. What's your name, pal? I asked. Joe. He responded, making a show of polishing a dirty glass with a rag over his shoulder. Well, hey there, Joe. My friends call me Bub. Bub. He repeated my name and raised his eyebrows. That short for something? Sure is, I told him. Just like Joe is short for Joseph. He didn't respond, so I continued. Joseph, do you have any sense of where a man might find a bed around these parts? I suppose you could try Miss Mary's down the road. His expression turned sour. How long are you planning to stay, Bub? Thanks for the whiskey, Joseph. I slugged what remained in the glass and stood from my stool. Several pairs of eyes followed me out the door. As I left, I heard a deep voice say, Have a blessed day, and I grinned. Miss Mary's was indeed just down the road, as the bartender had indicated. It was even marked with a sign reading Miss Mary's in a curly Q font that reminded me a bit of the live love laugh signs that hung in too many kitchens the world over. I parked in a small dirt lot and took a moment to marvel at the crumbling mansion. Then I knocked on the door. A deep woof sounded from inside, but otherwise all remained still. I waited a few moments, then knocked again. Just as I turned a walk back to my pickup, though, the door creaked open and an impossibly wrinkled head poked out. You must be Miss Mary. I smiled. I hear you're the lady to come to around these parts for a place to stay. Well then, you heard right, Bub. She grinned toothily and opened the door. I thought it rude to ask how she knew my name, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't set me on edge a bit. My worries were quickly forgotten, though, as Miss Mary ushered me inside and commenced fussing over me in the way women of her generation were taught was proper. We'll get you settled in upstairs and then whenever you're ready, you come on down for dinner. She smiled wider and her sharp blue eyes all but disappeared into the folds of her skin. The old woman showed me to my room and I settled in just as she'd asked. After a while, I came down to find her setting out plates and silverware on a massive wood table. At her insistence, I took a seat and waited for her to bring out the food. A menacing growl rumbled from under the table and I scooted back a bit in my seat to get a look. A tremendously fat Labrador stood by my feet, hackles raised, still growling. Jefferson, that's quite enough. The old woman returned with two plates, each piled high with food and shooed the corpulent beast from the room. Not even the dogs are happy to see me around. I chuckled, doing my best not to betray any nerves. Oh, don't mind these folks. She replied, placing a plate in front of me and doddering around the table to receipt. Our town has a long tradition of mistrust. Is that right? I waited for her to go on. Indeed it is, bub. I nodded and that was all the prompting she needed to launch into her tail. See, prey wasn't always prey. She began with a practiced cadence. This little town used to be called Jefferson, just like that old mutt. She gestured to the lab, who had stationed himself just outside the dining room. The story goes that when the dust bowl swept through Texas, the folks of this town prayed for deliverance, but it wasn't God who answered their prayers. Instead, the devil himself came to Jefferson and offered to make a deal. She kept the same joyful smile as she spoke, but her voice cracked a bit. Do you know what that deal was, bub? I'm sure I don't, Miss Mary. I lied. The people of Jefferson promised the devil the souls of their offspring if he would deliver the town from ruin, and the old devil agreed. He promised that the very next day the townsfolk would know prosperity like they'd never seen, but he also promised that he would be back in 81 years, one year for every soul he spared that day. And he would take the souls of anyone he found left in town. She let the final word trail off into what she no doubt imagined to be a spooky whisper. Well, that's quite a story, I laughed. Did the devil make good on his promise? Well, if the story's true, he certainly made good on the first part. She smiled and gestured vaguely to the crumbling mansion around her. On my ninth birthday, the day after folks say the old devil came to town, the people of Jefferson struck oil, and a great many of us have indeed prospered. I smiled. So, why did they change the name of the town, then? She nodded. Well, like I said, the devil made good on that first part of his deal, but ever since we've been praying he don't make good on the second part. So we name the town, pray, and that's why folks around here tend not to trust strangers. They think there's a chance that anyone who comes through town is the devil back to take his due. Well, how about that? I laughed again, and the dog whined from the hallway. Every town has its stories. Her smile faded a bit. I suppose the people around here just take ours a bit more seriously than most. She eyed her plate disapprovingly. Bub, you haven't touched your plate. I ignored the old woman and stood. From the hall I heard the dog's labored breathing as it struggled to skitter away. Miss Mary, if you don't mind my asking, how old are you? I walked over and placed my hands on her ancient, stooped shoulders. Funny, you should ask, Bub. She sighed, but you know that I'm ninety years old, don't you? It's been a long time, Mary. I answered, happy birthday. I took the old woman's soul first. She was the last person left alive. From the first time I visited, pray. The rest of the townsfolk put up a little more fight than she did. But when the sun came up, pray wasn't much more than a pile of ashes in the desert. Just another dead Texas town where the well ran dry. My work takes me all over, but the strangest place I've ever been is a little town called Pray, Texas. See, pray is the only place. They were expecting me.