The Curse of Black Creek

Many deny it in foresight, just never in hindsight.

Black Creek begins with spidery tentacles that come from a single body of water. Where once Black Creek was as clear as a crystal, today it wields an angry curse on all who dare live near it.

Oddly, no one noticed the path of destruction it caused in the past, the present or the potential for danger it will cause in the future.

But, that's the way it is with humans. Always focused on their own personal desires more than on the natural order of the existence in which they live.

Millions of years ago, BC, Black Creek was part of the vast ocean that covered the third planet from the sun. As time passed and the earth cooled to a more civil environment, nature deigned to allow massive oceans to dry up. Except that it, in several well chosen spots on the globe. Land masses appeared here and there from beneath the depths of the sea.

Nearly as soon as these land masses appeared, the violence of nature's breath struck. The earth shook until the fiery belly deep within bedrock vomited its molten contents. Not even the remaining vast ocean were a match for the volcanic eruptions. Although, to be fair, nature did cohesively deal with volcanic tantrums, swallowing lava floes whole until they were willing to surrender to cold oceanic waters.

Nature had another plan. Amoeba-like creatures born of volcanic retching and tempering of icy water into warm pools swam about as each earthquake tremor spewed forth rolling tides. Soon, the sands of the earth were invaded by these creatures. Into the hot, tropical climate of the cooling earth, some evolved.

What evolved from Black Creek were creatures with an insatiable appetite for limitlessness. Black Creek, once an ebony, soupy, fertile concoction of sea water and salt, soon became overpopulated with evolutionaries who would one day dominate the earth. The right amount of sunshine, a dash of oxygen laced with methane and other gases was the perfect recipe for a new, intelligent life form.

Black Creek never forgot its lordly beginnings or its massive, life producing ability. What is, shall remain with predominance and pre-eminence. It is not for mankind to dictate to nature. Nor, force an unwanted evolution.

Over the next few thousand years, Black Creek trickled its soupy waters into pockets and bowls of land...wherever low lying land existed. It co-existed happily for another few thousand years with evolving creatures that trusted in nature as if it was all they had to grasp for existence. Prehistoric humans feared nature in a way modern mankind has forgotten. Black Creek has not.

Today, the water in Black Creek begins where the mighty, roaring Atlantic Ocean ends inland, in a dozen or more smaller creeks, ponds and one single lake---The earliest settlers on the land called it, "Ongatok." The meaning is as forgotten as the people who named it.

Ongatok was an unusually small lake not more than a quarter mile in circumference. As if by some holy treaty with nature, Ongatok rested in a heavily forested area. The forests have since grown smaller and smaller.

Black Creek, in its benevolence, continued to feed Ongatok each spring, fall and winter.

When the first natives disappeared, an onerous band of pirates operated off the Atlantic Coast. Black Creek became the sole access to the Atlantic coastal port of Warrenville.

Warrenville was a land mass of 100  ten acre farms. It was purchased by two Englishmen, James C. Warren and Thomas Pallen, in 1605. Warren and Pallen were banned from their native country for their shady business activities. Before they left Merry Old England, they took with them what remained of their small fortunes.

Warren convinced Pallen to spend their money on land in the new world. Warren was certain the new world was a whole new opportunity for "business men like us."

Never to be accused of honest dealings when it came to business, Warren convinced the tribal chief, Alequequois, to sell them a parcel of land, for which Warren and Pallen would trade two horses, four horse blankets and several pieces of jewelry...a pocket watch, fob, a cameo and a genuine pewter bracelet. All the products of Pallen's past talent as a pickpocket.

Once Warren and Pallen took possession of the land, they set out to open up shop for business. In the early 1600s, one of the biggest and most popular businesses was the sale of whiskey. Warren and Pallen coerced some of the new settlers in their town to work their farms to produce those crops that, incidentally, lent themselves to fermentation---grains, fruits and potatoes, being their most repeated suggestion.

As their luck would have it, the townspeople proved agriculture was Warrenville's most successful venture. Crops that didn't go to market were taken by wagon to the Warren's compound. These were usually the crops that were used to make Warren's "elixirs."

Warren saved the largest parcel of land for himself. Pallen held a grudge that he'd lost that piece of land to Warren in a game of poker. But, Pallen wasn't willing to lose his association with the clever Warren. Pallen knew where his bread was buttered best.

Warren was perplexed when harsh winters prevented him from getting his "crops" to market. Taking his son fishing at the nearby access stream to Black Creek, he saw that the creek access was wide enough for barges. He got an idea. He'd ship products down Black Creek on small barges that would debark at the port on the coast. It was perfect.

On one of his "business" trips to Boston, he met with a feisty businessman named "Clem O'Conlin." O'Conlin was known far and wide on the East Coast of New England for his "success in business." Warren was determined to strike a deal.

O'Conlin owned several pubs throughout New England. He was sure to need what Warren had to offer.

It was at this point Black Creek began to retch forth its ferocious anger. With what little land remaining in his possession, Pallen instinctively knew what Warren planned.

Pallen began to hire farm workers to work his land. Soon, it became the most envied vineyard on the East Coast. He had a talent, alright and not just for poker. Thomas Pallen waited anxiously for that moment of supreme joy when his old partner, Warren would come calling and "make a deal" to buy Pallen Premium Wines.

Unaware Thomas Pallen already met with Clem O'Conlin before Warren's meeting, Pallen offered to supply O'Conlin with several Pallen vintages.

True to his nature, James Warren arrived in the finest coach in all of Warrenville at the Pallen estate. He was warmly greeted by a dutiful, uniformed butler and guided to the Pallen library.

Thomas Pallen had engaged in yet another flight of fancy: buying up first edition literary classics from the English libraries. Warren had to admit he was impressed with the oak paneled library with its walls lined with books.

"Why James! How nice of you to visit. Would you like a brandy?" Pallen asked.

"I'm here on business. I never mix business with pleasure, as you know," Warren replied.

"Well then, let us conduct our business in my office. It's just down the hall," Pallen said.

He led Warren down the hall, passing several large rooms replete with fine Oriental rugs and several enviable paintings. Pallen's "office" was none the less opulent. Its wall were covered in tromp l'oil and finished in gilt crown molding. The ceiling was a copy of the type of bronze ceilings seen in French estates of the rich.

Pallen bid Warren sit upon a Louis XIV chair.

"Now, old friend, what can I do for you?" Pallen asked.

"Actually, I'm here to tell you what I can do for you," Warren said.

"I see. And what would that be?" Pallen asked.

"I plan to make use of Black Creek. It's wide enough for passage of barges. I plan to ship Warrenville crops down Black Creek out to the nearest ports. I believe this could be a very lucrative financial enterprise," Warren said.

"I have no doubt, it will be. But...uh...how does that involve me?" Pallen said.

"I see that your vineyards have become quite recognized in New England of late."

Pallen knew Warren was dancing around the real reason for his visit.

"I won't sell the vineyards if that's what you're after," Pallen said.

"No. No. I was not going to make that kind of offer. Especially, not since your vineyards and your products are so aligned to your name. That would defeat the purpose," Warren said.

"The purpose?"

"I want to ship some of your wines out on Black Creek...to...ah...several customers who have very special tastes in wine...if you know what I mean," Warren said.

"You already know that isn't legal in this state. My biggest customer picks up his supply himself...to avoid any problems with state laws," Pallen said.

"The state allows the sale of liquor. It just doesn't allow exportation out of the state. Who's to know if we ship your wines under the cover of other labels?" Warren said.

"Would you take full responsibility should the state find us out?" Pallen asked.

"Of course."

"Good, I've already taken the time to draw up a contract," Pallen said.

"But, how did you know I'd make this kind of request?" Warren asked.

"I have my "associates"...as you have yours," Pallen said.

He handed Warren the written contract taking full responsibility for any legal issues that might arise.

It wasn't a legal issue that would arise. It was Black Creek.

For nearly half a decade, Warren deliberately mislabeled wines and liqueurs from Pallen's business. None were the wiser and all went as planned.

The autumn of 1610, storms blew up and down the entire coastline, threatening sailors and ships alike. Along Carraton Bay, the sea levels rose higher and higher. The settlers living closest to the Atlantic lived in dread of damage to their dwellings and businesses.

Thanks to Warren's idea, Black Creek became a nightmare of barges shipping out farm goods and Pallen's black market wines.

One October afternoon, the sky grew so dark. It almost looked as if the shank of an autumn afternoon had become night. The clouds overhead were heavy with rain. By 3:30 P.M., the rain came down in thick sheets filling up every repository it could find. Few enjoyed a peaceful dinner that night. Winds from offshore came in wild as banshees uprooting trees and tossing anything not tied down around in vicious swirling gusts.

Without stopping, people awakened to the sound of wind and rain beating against windows like an unwanted stranger bearing bad news. Men struggled to keep the water from overrunning their properties. They fill burlap bags with sand and placed them at strategic points they hoped would protect their homes and farms.

Water, fallen leaves and branches rushed into Black Creek overflowing the banks for more than a mile. Warrenville had never experienced such a rush of water or flooding before. The rushing water was so loud that men couldn't hear each other speak. Worse, was the violent force of the water. It was as if Black Creek was an angry mouth chortling, angry and wicked.

On the night of October 21, 1610, the barge, Skeddofre, attempted passage out to the bay. Due to an unusually quick rise in temperature, fog was as thick as wool on a sheep's back that night. Still, Warren insisted the barge had to make it to the port on time.

Captain Jonathan Landford tried desperately to maneuver the barge down Black Creek. He could barely see for the thick fog. Then, with ten men aboard, the Skeddofre crashed hard into something ahead in the creek...downed trees from the nearby woods piled up in the creek creating a disaster.

The captain felt the shudder on the front apron of the barge and heard the sound of his crew's screams as the boat upended on the logs and reeled sideways with the captain and crew struggling to stay afloat in the raging torrent of Black Creek water. Within minutes, all eleven men were drowned and the odor of liquor floated through the air amid a mosaic of broken bottles and corks.

That was the first time Warrenville townspeople began to whisper about "the curse of Black Creek." It was also the end of James C. Warren's shipping black market liquor there.

But, a man with evil in his soul isn't one to let the drowning of eleven men stop his quest for wealth and power.

Weeks after the Skeddofre disaster, Warren surveyed the damage along Black Creek. Storms eroded several banks making them dangerous and opening up the potential for more erosion.

Warren stood silently surveying the scene. He stepped forward and saw what would become his next business venture: clay mining.

Black Creek was loaded with shafts of rich, thick clay. Thinking fast, Warren saw the potential for brick and mason works that didn't require shipping via barges.

Within three months, the Warren Brickworks was in operation, producing bricks and masonry pieces from Black Creek clay. Clay mining went on long after Warren's death in 1645. His sons, James Jr., Robert and their sons, James III and William, continued to mine Black Creek.

Black Creek endured the mining without retribution until the early 1800s. When the clay began to dwindle, Black Creek water turned green and thick inexplicably.

Then, the droughts of the 1800s decreased water levels to a few inches from Black Creek's bottom. Now, the creek was no longer useful for the occasional fisherman or canoeist to navigate.

Fish began dying in Black Creek when the green water barely moved at its southernmost end. Black Creek deposited water in several local Warrenville ponds and small pocket lakes, as townspeople called them. Warrenville people were happy that these ponds and lakes collected excess creek water after storms, preventing massive flooding.

But, Black Creek hid a dangerous secret. Far below the topsoil lay tiny water "veins" unseen to the naked eye, making most of Warrenville in possession of a hazardously high water table.

By the late 1800s, Warrenville prospered with more than 250 local farms that produced quantities of tomatoes, peppers, beans, squash and potatoes. With the sandy soil so moist, potatoes grew plentifully on Warrenville farmland. In addition, some farms produced fruits like apples, peaches, pears and the famed Pallen grapes from which wines were produced.

One farmer, Grant Diesson, grew twenty-five types of flowers on his land. It was the only farm in Warrenville that didn't produce vegetables or fruits. It was located within two miles of Black Creek.

In spring, townspeople oohed and aahed over the profusion of colorful tulips, jonquils and narcissus and in summer the enormous rose gardens were lush with the precious scent and color of a dozen varieties of roses. Diesson planned to show his roses in the annual county fair. He crossed-bred two roses to create a third rose genus he called, "Reine de la Raine," bowing to his mother's native French descent.

Grant Diesson, with shovel in hand, planned to transplant a row of tulips. The minute the shovel struck the soil, water gushed out of the ground like a spring.

Must be a natural spring underground, he thought.

He stepped five feet from the site of the first spring. He struck the shovel into the soil there. Again, water gushed. Now, there were two water gushers within a few feet of each other. Grant Diesson scratched his head. He'd never seen such a thing.

He was quite correct. What he could never have seen was the underground water vein fed by Black Creek.

Diesson was afraid for his gardens. What if there was more water beneath his land?

He scratched his head again and ran his hand across his forehead.

It don't make much sense these springs. My roses would be the first to warn of too much water. Their leaves would be yellowing by now, he thought.

It was an unusually warm June in 1850. Diesson was glad.

Warm sunshine made beautiful rose blooms.

Then, it happened. The rains came. And came. And came. Six days of endless rain. Black Creek drank in every drop like a thirsty desert. By day four, the rains were torrential. It came down in straight, silvery sheets. Black Creek drank its fill and spit forth that which it could no longer ingest. Black Creek water ran wild into every tiny tributary, pond and basin.

Grant Diesson awoke to an unfamiliar sound: a roar of water gushing across his land. It was unstoppable.

"My roses! My prize roses!" he bellowed, when he saw the flood water drowned nearly six inches of his gardens.

As the top layers of soil washed away, gushers of water sprouted from beneath the earth. He'd never seen such a sight in his entire life.

"How can this be?" he asked, from his front porch.

"Mr. Diesson, we'd best get the horses and wagon and get ourselves going," Mrs. Diesson said.

"No such thing. No! No such a thing! This is our land. Here we are and here we stay," he demanded.

"But, we could drown. The water is high. If Black Creek is overflowing, the rivers are rising. We could lose our home!" Mrs. Diesson said.

Grant Diesson was not to be moved. By evening, the front porch was nearly under water. The farmer waded in hip high water to get to his horse. The frightened animal cowered in a back section of the barn with its front legs propped atop several bales of hay. Still, Diesson was resolute and refused to leave his farm. With a slap on the horse's rump, he left the horse to find its own way in the flood.

The Diessons moved to the second floor of their farm home that night. By dawn, the entire second floor was engulfed. Grant Diesson hurried down the stairs to survey the damages. Realizing his efforts would fail, he tried to go back to the second story bedroom. As he reached mid-stairs, it gave way with the weight of the flood of water pressing against it. He screamed for help while his wife looked on in horror.

"Mr. Diesson, Mr. Diesson!" she screamed from the top of the stairs.

Grant Diesson struggled to keep his airway from the deepening water, his arms flailing helplessly as water swirled around. As his body began to go under, the last thing he saw was the entire second floor landing where his wife was standing helplessly, crash through to the first floor.

When Black Creek gave up its rage, it had taken twelve lives and injured twelve more seriously. No one in Warrenville had seen anything like this sudden, unexpected flood. Of the 250 farms in the town, only ten were saved from total devastation. News of the flooding was talked about up and down the East Coast for a decade after.

Some liked to say it was a "freak thing."

Black Creek was sated for the time being, at least. The flood of 1850 began to fade in the minds of the newest residents of Warrenville. Ten farms were all that remained of that terrible day.

At first, older residents just gave up and move away. But, those stalwart town officials had yet to learn their lesson. As soon as money hungry land developers saw all of those old Victorian homes cropping up with "For Sale" signs, they began to scoop them up, often battling for supremacy over the land on which these homes stood.

They came to Warrenville, talked a sweet line to the town council and before you knew it, they owned prime land upon which they'd rebuild their life dreams: housing developments. By this time, men returning from the Great War wanted to own their own homes and property, small two-bedroom homes where they could raise a family. Like rows of corn, these homes grew into epic proportions until Warrenville was no longer a farming country region. With the need for supplies, businesses also grew in number.

Warrenville was now officially a "suburban town." The patina of its past was completely gone. Worse, the history of Warrenville was ignored, if not nearly erased by time.

Life in Warrenville slogged along, first as a blue collar town when men rose at dawn and were at their jobs in nearby towns by 7AM every day. Saturdays in Warrenville were busy for small businesses like the three banks, two pharmacies, one florist and auto repair shop. By the mid 1900s, Warrenville's two major roadways were finally completed from the former two-lane dirt roads they'd once been. Access was everything.

Black Creek and its power to destroy was totally forgotten. Warrenville residents felt safe and sound as if they were swaddled in delicate cotton batting. Until 1954. That was the beginning of another path to Black Creek's revenge and massive destruction.

The developer, Clyde Housemann, hated that the town wouldn't allow building on a vast piece of land off a major town roadway. The reason was clear. Black Creek rested, for the moment peacefully, at the northeastern end of this site. For nearly a century, it dutifully respected its obligation to feed local ponds, bogs and the natural aquifer in Warrenville that lay just beneath the soil. Sated by the storm of 1850, the power of Black Creek was completely ignored. It would yet take revenge. There were many years ahead in which the curse of Black Creek would remind humans of its presence, forcibly, if necessary.

Housemann convinced the town council he could drain the ponds on that piece of land. He dubbed it "Northland," owing to its northern location in the town. The glorious menu he served to the council was replete with the promise not only to drain the ponds, but also to build nearly 1800 one-family homes, a neighborhood school for the homeowners children and to provide the town with a "tax ratable" that would reduce the burden of taxes on older residents in town. The Council members were ecstatic with joy and "Northland" became a reality within a matter of two years.

Housemann was not one to dally over details of housing designs, pond drainage or environmental impact on surrounding homes and businesses. He wasn't the man to worry about these "minor" details and he was completely oblivious to a major enemy: Black Creek.

Ponds were drained, trees bulldozed and animals living in that heavily forested area were scattered to find new habitats. The first one hundred homes were sold nearly as quickly as they were built.

Then, in 1956, a torrential spring rain that lasted for four days filled the front and back yards of Northland homes with water that once filled in ponds Housemann drained. The new homeowners complained incessantly. The town council members were mystified as to how such a thing could happen.

Housemann was already long gone, Northland homes development had been completed by 1955. He'd already begun an even bigger 10,000-home project in the neighboring town of Masonville, draining ponds, lakes and streams and making the same glorious tax ratable proposition he had in Warrenville.

Man's insatiable appetite for wealth and Housemann's natural instinct for marketing land and developing it as if it was prime rib, didn't stop him from eyeing a strip of land that banded the last row of homes he'd built in Northland. It meant draining a large creek. To be exact, Black Creek.

"That creek isn't necessary. It's stands in the way of completing Northland as it should have been," he told Council members.

"I can drain it and we can finalize that last strip of land to make Northland in Warrenville the largest development in the town," he said.

"How will you accomplish such an engineering feat without causing flooding?" John Dockery, Council President asked.

"Well, we will move the boundaries of the creek that stands in our way," Housemann said.

"And you can insure the residents of Warrenville their homes won't be under water with the next major storm?" Dockery asked.

"Absolutely. You've got nothing to worry about. I'll make sure our engineers leave enough of that creek to absorb any runoff of water," Housemann said.

Unfortunately, the state didn't agree with Housemann's conclusions or his insistence he could build on soft, sandy soil that lay beneath Black Creek.

The issue dangled in the state government until Housemann's patience was thoroughly exhausted. He paid a hefty price to get the town to approve building that last row of twelve homes. The town council hoped the state would not penalize Warrenville for this approval without state sanction.

Now, what remained of Black Creek was not much larger than a 100 foot circumference of water. The main stream that filled it refused to be sealed.

Housemann's engineers knew they were defeated by the world's most powerful natural element: water. They decided to leave the stream intact, rather than try to stem its flow and cause other areas of Warrenville to flood out, should a major storm occur.

When Housemann's civil engineers went out to measure the exact acreage for the final Northland houses, one of them got too close to that stream. He fell in, not realizing its depths were deceiving. He was in up to his waist!

"Help me!" he called to his fellow engineers.

The other three engineers on the team struggled to free him. The more he wiggled and moved, the deeper the soft sand in the stream sucked him under.

"Go get a rope from the truck Hurry, we can't hold on much longer. This stream is deeper than we imagined and the banks we're standing on are going to give way any second" one engineer yelled.

One of them threw out the rope, while the other two held on to the man in the stream for dear life.

"Quick. Tie the rope around you. We'll pull you out."

It took three of the men to pull the man from the stream.

"Good Lord! I've never seen anything like this," one engineer said.

"You may be sure I haven't either," another said.

"We should report this to Housemann," the man who fell into the stream said.

"We can't do that. He'd go berserk if we told him the land here is too soft to build. Damn it! This stream is part of a natural aquifer," another said.

The incident was never reported. This was Black Creek's first warning. There would be others to come.

The last strip of homes built endured never ending problems with flooded basements, sewer drains backing up constantly and roads under water each time a rain event took place. Once again, Housemann was long gone. This time to Canada where he was building massive housing developments in three provinces: Ontario, British Columbia and Alberta.

Warrenville would experience with a single stroke of the Black Creek curse what they should never have tried to bury in town history.

Black Creek intended to punish, and punish severely the abuse it suffered. But, the sly, wily body of water waited patiently for the perfect opportunity.

It came in 1973 when wild spring winds and rains drenched Warrenville for nearly four days. With no where for the rising tides of the Atlantic to go, it gushed with massive force inland, taking with it homes along the beaches and nearest rivers and lakes.

It was an event that shook Warrenville residents to their marrows. An entire row of homes on a high bluff overlooking the Atlantic Bay bobbed in bay waters. Further inland, homes were underwater up to their front steps. Fear overtook the Warrenville town council as flood waters gained entry inland faster and faster. Roads were under water and sirens blasted warnings for townspeople to evacuate.

Five of the last strip of Northland homes built were savaged first. Residents of these homes grew accustomed to bailing water out of basements and constant problems with drenched soil with every rain event. The more they complained, the more the Warrenville Town Council ignored their pleas for remediation.

"Did you hear that?" Pete Wilson asked.

"Yes. Pete, what on earth was that?" his wife, Doris asked.

Their ranch style house shook for a moment and then stopped.

Pete opened the back door to their home and nearly fell twenty five feet into the huge cavernous hole his entire backyard had become.

"Oh my God! Doris, hurry. Call the police or someone, anyone. Our backyard is gone and our home is sinking," he yelled.

One by one, neighbors in this row of homes massed in the waterlogged streets. All five of the homes nearest Black Creek lost entire backyards. Foundations were visible down to their bases and the sandy soil that once covered them was swirled into huge dunes abutting Black Creek.

It looked almost like a barrier Black Creek needed to protect itself from moronic humans who never learn the single fact of life: Water is the earth's strongest, most destructive element.

Calls to the police department led to calls by the town council members for help from the state. Warrenville was never equipped to handle such a disaster. Involving the state set off alarm bells throughout the rest of the state. Never again, would any builder, land developer or housing developer be allowed to build so near to aquifers.

The news of what Housemann had down went viral. For months after the storm, the papers and TV stations were full of the legal proceedings, investigations and battles with insurers over property loss claims.

Warrenville was now famous for allowing the approval of irresponsible land development. Like clucking chickens and roosters, politicians from nearly every coastal state jumped on board to pass legislation to deny land development on wetlands. This became the "Wetlands Act" of 1974. But, strict legislation would not satisfy Black Creek.

Black Creek continued to punish Northland homeowners year after year. No amount of added drainage ever stopped the flow of water into basements in these homes. Strangely enough, no one, not the homeowners, not the Warrenville Town Council, nor the state ever for one second considered that they were totally and wholly powerless to stop the curse of Black Creek.

Not one single homeowner ever figured out why no matter how much money they spent on master plumbers to stop basements from those never ending leaks in outflow pipes to the street, the unusually high water pressure that gushed out of faucets like Niagara Falls, or the seepage of moisture and constant battles to prevent mold and mildew in basements was really the revenge of Black Creek.

Perhaps, Warrenville residents needed another reminder. This, they would get forty years after the Northland Disaster of 1973.

Black Creek is patient, just vehemently intolerant of disrespect.

The coastline of Warrenville is jagged. But, the mighty Atlantic cut a deep gash into the direct center. By all appearances, that gash appears like a cinched waistline. With much of the beach homes receded further inland, living within the sound of crashing waves was no longer a lifestyle dream.

If residents of Warrenville didn't take heed with the destruction of the storm of 1973, an eminent storm like no other would force their hand.

As a result of Housemann's engineering feats, over time, Black Creek emptied into a dull, swampy green body of water, teeming with mosquitoes, frogs and other creatures. The stream that fed into Black Creek became a trickle as the Warrenville landscape became glutted with construction.

The rationale was always "people need homes." So, homes and businesses were built and built and built, until not a square inch of Warrenville soil was left unturned. All that remained of open land was the tiny forested area where Black Creek was located.

Warrenville was no longer a town nor even a suburb. It was a city. The only thing missing were tall skyscrapers.

Secretly, Warrenville politicians patted each on the back for their accomplishments of turning a once fertile farm region into the immensely overpopulated urban mecca it had become. "Pride goeth before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction," so the Biblical citation tells us.

Pride and destruction meant nothing to Black Creek. The greatest fury of its curse was yet to come.

"The sky is so grey. Isn't it?" Alyssa Harrod said.

"The weather bureau is predicting a hell cat storm this weekend," Maddie Jenkins said.

"Well of course, a rainy, wet, autumn Warrenville weekend where everyone is holed up indoors. Just what we all want after working all week," Alyssa said.

"We could go hang out at the mall," Maddie said.

"Best wait and see what the weather will be like. I think I'd rather not be pounded by another of these Warrenville rain storms. This city is like the rain forest or one of those countries that have monsoons," Alyssa put in.

The rains began at noon on Friday that weekend. Deceivingly light and gentle. A slight fog emerged that magically disappeared by three that day. Then, as workers headed for home and traffic congestion built on the Warrenville highways, rain came down in torrents. The sound of it on windshields made it appear to be near hail force.

Roads flooded fast. Cars, up to their windows in water, were already abandoned on major highways

Alyssa and Maddie spoke briefly for the last time on their cell phones. Then, the pounding rain and wild winds downed trees along roads, highways, streets and backyards. Never had there been such a wind.

Black Creek has its allies, wind and hail, to emphasize the power of its curse when needed.

Alyssa tried to phone her friend. The cell towers were out. By the time, she reached her front door, the wind nearly blew her off the front step. She glanced briefly over her shoulder and saw huge oak trees bending in the wind.

"Oh my Lord! This can't be good. That tree is located at the curb. If it comes down, all of the cars on the street will be demolished," she muttered to herself.

She hurried indoors and turned on the lights.

The electricity must be out, she thought.

She realized the power lines at the nearby substation were probably down. She scavenged the closet for extra candles and placed them in candle holders and lit them. The interior of the house was getting cold. With the electricity out, there would be no heat either.

She gathered some kindling wood and lit a fire in the fireplace. Taking note of the lack of wood, she went to the back door to bring in as much wood as she thought she might need. The back storm door nearly blew off the hinges. She retreated for a few moments, hoping the wind would die down. It did. But, for barely more than five minutes.

She scooped up an armload of firewood and opened the back wooden door carefully. Once inside, she placed a dry log on the fire.

She needed a hot, cup of tea. She made her way to the darkened kitchen with one of the candles. She filled the tea kettle and placed it on the gas stove. She tried the phone again. Still nothing. The tea kettle whistled and she poured herself a cup of tea.

At least, I won't be hungry. The gas stove is still working. Oh well, the storm can't last more than a few hours, she thought.

She couldn't have been more wrong. As the fourth day passed, sirens blew evacuation whistles. She scrambled to find the old transistor radio and a few batteries to power it. She turned on the radio and tuned in to the local station.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Black Creek has flooded over its banks. Evacuation teams will be helping residents to safety. Prepare a tote with a dry set of clothes, your valuables and prescription medications. We will alert residents of the streets that are in the process of evacuation.

"Oh my, this is  bad!" Alyssa said.

She'd lived in her parent's home for nearly a decade after they passed on and she inherited it. She glanced around her. Which of the things in the home were her valuables? She wondered.

She grabbed a small suitcase and began packing it with her clothing. As she glanced out of the second floor window of her bedroom, she saw that the back yard was nearly entirely under water. She ran to the basement door. Through the closed door, she heard the lapping of the water.

She was frightened. The electricity was out. But, what about the furnace? The laundry room washer and dryer? She heard the gurgling of the sump pump. Of what use what a sump pump when the water was rising faster and faster?

Alyssa always lived in terror of drowning. She avoided deep water, bridges with water beneath and the deep end of swimming pools since she was very young. Now, it appeared her worst nightmare was already just below her in the basement.

She wondered how her friend Maddie was doing. She returned to the radio upstairs. Maddie Jenkins lived on the opposite side of town, nearest the border of Black Creek.

"We have news of a special report," the radio announcer said.

"The town of Warrenville is being evacuated due to dangerous flooding. Murray Street homes are totally under water and two residents are dead," he continued.

"Oh God! Murray Street! Maddie lives on Crucible Street," Alyssa said.

She listened for the next listing of streets to be evacuated. Before the announcer mentioned Conklin Street, Alyssa's address, she heard a pounding on her front door.

She ran to open it.

"M'am you need to come with us," the rescue worker said.

The front steps were under water and the man was standing knee deep in it. Two other men were in a small row boat. He guided her into the small craft. They glided along past downed trees bobbing up and down in the flood waters.

"This is really bad," she said.

"We've never seen anything like this before," one of the men rowing aid.

"Are all of my neighbors evacuated already?" she asked.

"Yes. Your home is the last on the high end of the street. We hoped your evacuation would be easier since the flood waters were lower there."

Alyssa was stunned and terrified. What if her home couldn't be saved? Where would she go?

"Sir? Can you tell me if you rescued someone named Maddie Jenkins over on Crucible Street?" she asked.

"The homes on that street have taken water nearly up to their roof tops. They are the ones closest to Black Creek," he said.

"Yes, but has my friend Maddie been rescued?" she asked again.

"I can't really say m'am. I'm sure you'll catch up with her at the rescue center," he added.

"Where is the rescue center?" Alyssa asked.

"It's on high ground north of here. I can assure you. Warrenville just isn't safe to try to create an evacuation center," the man said.

The evacuees were being taken to a rescue center in Grover’s Mills. It was on higher ground about ten miles from Warrenville. Buses were loaded with residents while the torrents of rain continued and they sloshed in knee deep water. 

Alyssa was relieved once the buses began to move out of the town's limits. 

When she arrived at the rescue center, there were already nearly fifty men, women and children inside. The number scared Alyssa.

The storm continued to rage with each blast of treacherous winds and the screaming, howling sound with every gust. People in the shelter spent the first day trying to overcome their fears by being friendly. Alyssa thought this odd since most people in town knew each other in passing.

There must be some comfort in forging new friendships during a storm this fearful, she thought.

By the third day, children began to grow restless. The only contact with the outside world was battery operated radios. Rows and rows of cots began to look shabby and papers cups and plates were everywhere. Several of the women and older children tried in vain to reduce them in number. But, even the plastic garbage bags began to take up space and emit a pungent odor.

"What are we going to do?" an elderly woman asked Alyssa.

"I'm not sure what the plan is. Most of the homes in Warrenville are uninhabitable now that they are under water. It would be too dangerous to let anyone return to their homes, even if the storm subsides soon," Alyssa said.

"Oh dear. Oh dear. I hope they find my dog," the woman said.

"Your dog?" Alyssa asked.

"Yes. He ran away the day before the storm. I hope someone found him."

"I'm sure if they did, he is safe and sound," Alyssa said, trying to be reassuring.

"There isn't much to do here. I've read just about all the books I have. I was a librarian here in Warrenville,

you know?"

"No. I didn't know that," Alyssa said.

"Oh, I'm retired over fifteen years. You know something? There isn't a single history book on the town of Warrenville in the entire library," the woman said.

"Really? I wonder why that is?"

"I suspect it has to do with the old folks over at the old museum. You see, some of them had relatives living here since the early settlers," the woman said.

"I see," Alyssa said, tentatively.

"Well, my great grandfather was one of the businessmen who owned the first supply store here. Sold mostly his crops and the like," the woman said.

Alyssa was impressed; but, she was also subconsciously preoccupied by concerns for her friend Maddie.

"What street in town do you live on?" Alyssa asked.

"Over on Crucible Street. We were the first to be evacuated. I was so scared. When the water came up to the attic, I was sure I'd be drowned. The water rushed so fast from Black Creek we didn't have time to get out. You won't believe this. By the time the water settled back down to the first floor, I thought my time had come. You know what I mean?"

"You live on Crucible Street? Do you know the Jenkins family there?" Alyssa asked.

"Oh yes. Their house abuts the creek at the low end of the road," the woman said.

"Did the rescue team get to them?" Alyssa asked.

"I'm afraid not. When the water first gushed out of that creek, it was like a wall nearly ten feet high. No one ever thought there was that much water in it. But, I guess the other streams filled up north and east of the creek. I have to tell you...It was almost like some evil force the way it came so fast," the woman said.

She noticed the expression on Alyssa's face.

"Did you know the Jenkins family?"

"Yes. Their daughter, Maddie, was my best friend. Is it possible they got out somehow?" Alyssa asked.

"My dear, it would be a mercy if they did. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize she was your friend. Such a nice young girl too," the woman said.

Alyssa excused herself and went to her cot. She hid her tears from the rest of the evacuees. 

From news reports the evacuees saw on TV, Warrenville was completely destroyed. Alyssa was devastated. It took nearly a week before the rains stopped and the creek waters began to recede. But, the damage was massive. Alyssa and the other evacuees were advised that they wouldn't be allowed back in their homes since most of the foundations were unsafe. 

For all intents and purposes, Warrenville would become a ghost town. Little by little, homes were bulldozed one after another until the landscape looked more like a war zone. There were huge clumps of soil buildup along what once were street curbs. The municipal buildings suffered the worst of the damage because they were built on cement slabs and were only one or two stories. All of the records were lost. 

When Black Creek was through with its vengeance, it had taken eleven lives, including Maddie Jenkins. Some of the bodies were found as far from Warrenville as the beaches near the Atlantic Bay. The sight of six beach homes floating in the bay for nearly a year was viewed only by the sea gulls overhead. 

Eventually, Black Creek had its way with Warrenville. It would never recover from the destruction and people were too scared to go anywhere near the cursed town. Engineers spent two years trying to remedy the dangers of the creek to no avail.

"Let's face it. Black Creek can't be reengineered. No matter how we try, the dangers of it filling from the Atlantic will always remain with each storm that comes along," Chief Engineer Howard Amesley said.

Perhaps, Black Creek had sated its revenge. Warrenville became a massive, open park cautiously monitored by federal authorities who knew at any moment, the curse of Black Creek could return.