Author: James A. Moore
Date: 2012-10-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: When private investigator Wade Griffin moved away from his hometown of Wellman, Georgia he didn't think he would be back. Too many memories and too many bridges burned. But when an old friend is found brutally murdered and mutilated, nothing can keep Griffin from going home. Teamed with another childhood friend, Sheriff Carl Price, Griffin begins an investigation that will lead down darker paths than he could ever have imagined. Soon Griffin and Price find that there are secrets both dark and ancient lurking in the back woods of Crawford's Hollow. As Halloween approaches, something evil is gro
Publisher: DarkFuse

Blind Shadows

James A. Moore & Charles R. Rutledge

First Digital Edition

Blind Shadows © 2012 James A. Moore & Charles R. Rutledge

Cover Art © 2012 Alex McVey

Copyediting by Robert Mingee

This edition © 2012 by Arcane Wisdom an imprint of

Bloodletting Press

Arcane Wisdom

P. O. Box 130

Welches, OR 97067
www.miskatonicbooks.com
arcanewisdom@me.com

Distributed by DarkFuse
www.darkfuse.com

Second volume in the Modern Mythos Library

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author and publisher.

For Karl Edward Wagner

Acknowledgement

Both writers wish to thank Cliff Biggers and the gang at the Doctor No’s dinner group for their comradeship and support.

A shower of brown leaves danced and skittered across Wade Griffin’s windshield as he drove along the winding two-lane road. Though it was only late afternoon, the cloud filled sky was sheet metal gray, making the dense woods on either side of the road look dark and foreboding. Good, Griffin thought. It shouldn’t be a bright afternoon. Not to see what he had come here to see.

Griffin slowed when he saw a Brennert County Sheriff’s department cruiser parked halfway across the road. Two uniformed deputies stood near the cruiser and one of them waved Griffin to a stop. Griffin rolled down his window and one of the deputies, a young kid with red hair and a bad case of acne, leaned down and looked into the window. Griffin gave the kid his name and said the sheriff was expecting him.

The young deputy pointed toward a barely noticeable break in the trees and said, “Dirt road’s right through there, sir. It’s pretty rutted but your truck looks like it’s got enough clearance. Just take it slow.”

Griffin thanked the kid and pulled slowly onto the dirt road. Shadows drew close immediately and it seemed to Griffin almost as if he were driving through a tunnel. The road was indeed scarred by deep ruts and Griffin bumped and banged his way for something like a mile before he spotted another cruiser and a white van parked near a dilapidated house trailer. He saw two crime scene techs in bright white HAZMAT suits walking slowly through the woods.

Griffin parked behind the cruiser and stepped out of the truck. The wind was cold and smelled of dead leaves and recent rain. There were other smells too. A strong ammonia smell of solvents and an acrid reek of burnt acetone. Things one would expect at a meth lab. Underlying those smells was the unmistakable odor of death.

As Griffin stood there, Sheriff Carl Price stepped into view from behind the trailer. He noticed Griffin and waved him over. Price hadn’t changed any in the year or so since Griffin had seen him. Not quite Griffin’s size, but still a large, burly man with close cropped, auburn hair and a mildly weathered complexion. He wasn’t in uniform, but instead wore a battered leather jacket over jeans and a black t-shirt.

Griffin said, “The tech boys already done with this stretch?”

“Yeah, Wade. You can walk anywhere until we go to look at the body.”

The body. There it was. In Griffin’s own years behind a badge he had seen plenty of cadavers. But it was different when it was someone you knew. Griffin looked at the trash strewn area around the trailer as he went to join Price. Empty boxes that had once held the supplies used in the manufacture of methamphetamine were scattered everywhere. Various cleaning supplies. Denatured alcohol. A lot of over the counter cold and sinus medicines. These were a few of a meth cook’s favorite things.

Price grabbed Griffin’s hand and shook it hard, as old friends do. He said, “Hated to make you come out here but I figured you’d want to be in on this.”

“You figured right. Where is he?”

“Around behind the trailer. Look, Wade, I want to warn you. I know you’ve seen bodies before but this is bad. And it’s Jerry. I just want you to be ready.”

“I appreciate it, Carl. Let’s get it over with.”

Price nodded and led the way behind the trailer. Griffin noted burn pits and spots of dead vegetation where old chemicals had been dumped. The rank, chemical smell was thicker here, as was the odor of putrefying flesh. Price pulled up short when he got to the trailer’s rear corner and moved to the side so Griffin could look.

Someone had made a makeshift St. Andrew’s cross out of pine limbs and two by fours. Jerry Wallace was bound to the frame with ropes and some sort of heavy wire. His nude body was covered with cuts and lacerations, the biggest cut being one which stretched from ear to ear under the throat. What looked like small railroad spikes had been driven through each eye and through the genitals.

The torso had the most extensive damage. It looked as if someone had taken a razor blade and cut a bunch of strange symbols or glyphs into Jerry’s chest and stomach. The weird letters, if that’s what they were, made no sense to Griffin but they had been etched in blood and pain.

“Jesus,” Griffin said.

“Yeah,” said Price. “Someone really went to work on him.”

“Tell me most of this was done after he was dead.”

“Wish I could, but the ME’s preliminary findings suggest he was still alive for most of it.”

Griffin’s stomach was roiling but he didn’t look away. He wanted to remember it, needed to. It would help him find the bastards who had done it.

Griffin said, “What was Jerry working on?”

“Just what you’d imagine. A big expose on the methamphetamine trade in rural Georgia.”

“So you do think the people who ran this lab were the ones who killed him.”

Price ran a hand through his short hair. “Yes and no. I mean we’re standing in a fucking meth lab, yeah, but the place has been deserted for weeks. And this,” He indicated Jerry’s body. “This looks more like a ritual killing.”

Griffin said, “Maybe a warning? His eyes were put out. Somebody saying he saw too much?”

“Maybe. Too early to tell. Circumstantial evidence points to a drug tie-in, but the killing itself looks almost like what you’d expect from a serial killer.”

“Yeah, there’s a definite signature here. Still, it had to be someone who knew this place was here. Who owns the land?”

“Paper mill, but they lease it out to deer hunters. This trailer belonged to some people who used to hunt out here. The point being that a lot of folks knew this trailer was here.”

Griffin didn’t move closer to the body but he knelt down. “Any ideas what these symbols are?”

“None. I had the crime scene photographer get them from every angle though. Got copies of the pics off to VICAP and anybody else who might have seem the symbols before.”

Griffin dug his cell phone out of his jacket. He pointed the phone’s camera at the glyphs. “Better look away for a second, Carl. I’m about to violate the rules of evidence.”

“Do that, then let’s let the techs take the body. I don’t want Jerry to stay out here any longer.”

“No. Me either,” Griffin said. He took shots from a couple of different angles, then put the phone away and stood.

The two men walked slowly back toward the vehicles. Griffin said, “You remember what a bulldog Jerry always was. Even in high school. Never knew when to let something go.”

“I remember,” said Price. “Never thought it would bring him to this though.”

“No, you don’t think of things like that when you’re a kid. He was going to be the world’s greatest reporter. Go to New York, maybe. Instead he ended up working on the Brennert Tribune his entire life.”

Price shrugged. “And you and me were always going to be cops. And yeah, I’m still in Brennert too. Were you still in touch with Jerry much?”

“Talked to him a couple of times a year. About like you and me. I had lunch with him about six months ago. He was getting divorced again.”

“Yeah, he was always too busy playing Ace Reporter to hold a marriage together.”

“And he fooled around,” said Griffin.

“That too.”

“Have you talked to anyone at the Tribune?”

“Only in the most basic terms. I wanted Jerry’s notes and his computer, but I don’t want details of this getting out so that the Atlanta cops come swooping in.”

“You want to catch the fuckers who did this yourself.”

“Hell yes.”

“So what now?” said Griffin.

“I plan to follow the drug angle. This doesn’t have the feel of any of the local players, but it might be someone new.”

“And if it isn’t drug related?”

Price said, “For now I’m going to go on the assumption that it is. Otherwise I’m at a dead end. How about you?”

“Me? I’m a private citizen now.”

Price snorted. “Remember, Wade, I know who and what you are. Your ID says private investigator, but mercenary or bounty hunter is closer to the mark. And you’re planning on going hunting, aren’t you?”

“I would never say anything about that in front of an officer of the law.”

“Just keep me in the loop, man,” Price said. “We need to do this together. Me and you. Just like in the old days. You learn anything, you call me.”

“That go both ways?”

“You know it does. Jerry didn’t die easy, and somebody needs to pay.”

Griffin gave a quick nod. “Somebody will.”

*      *      *

Carl Price was not having a good day. He didn’t think it was going to get any better, either. It never was when somebody murdered someone who’d been as close as a brother once upon a time. Had he stayed close with Jerry Wallace? No, not really, but they’d been tight back in the day and that counted for something.

He rubbed at his eyes and desperately wished for a very large cup of coffee. Sadly, the wish went unanswered and he’d be getting to Denise Wallace’s place before he found a convenience store. There was nothing good about telling a woman her son was dead. Not a damned thing, and not a lady as nice as Denise had always been.

His hands clenched at the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles crack and the wheel groan. “Fuck this. Sometimes I hate this job.” He meant it. He didn’t mean it. He wasn’t even sure right now. Seeing his friend splayed out and rotting had thrown him for a bigger loop than he wanted to think about.

Jerry was one of those guys you were always happy to see. Unless, of course, you were married to him. Denise first, and then he’d talk to Sarah. She had to know, too. He dreaded telling her even more than Denise. There were differences, of course. Denise was a family friend. Sarah was, well, Sarah was a whole world of different situations.

Sarah was living back out in the middle of nowhere with her family again, and she probably wouldn’t have heard a damned thing by the time he was done talking to Denise. Denise had no reason to speak to her future-ex-daughter-in-law. Sarah might actually call just to be spiteful. She was more than a little pissed at Jerry. She and her brothers were also, as a result of the bad blood, just possibly on the list of suspects.

Not likely, but he couldn’t take any chances. He had to play this one close and tight.

His cell buzzed and he answered without bothering to look at who was calling. Only a couple of people ever called him and they each had their own special ringtones. “Talk to me, Nichole.”

Nichole Ward was the dispatcher. She was also under extremely strict orders not to use the damned radio to call in anything on any ongoing serious cases. There were at least four people in the county that he knew of who thrived on listening to the department’s radio frequency so that they could keep up on the juiciest gossip. Cell phones had their purposes and one of them was thwarting Nadine Crabapple and her cronies when it came to hearing the latest news.

“Ed says he’s pretty sure it was the Blackbourne boys that were running that lab, Carl. Did you want him to stop by their place? Or do you want to handle it yourself this time?”

The Blackbournes were trouble, but they were also a known quantity. He’d gone to school with Merle Blackbourne, and while they were hardly ever going to be friends, they also had a certain wary respect for each other. He also knew that while the family might deal with meth from time to time, they were strictly small time, just small time like cockroaches. Bust one and two more came crawling out of the woodwork. Merle was in charge. If he asked the right questions in the right way, he could avoid causing too much trouble.

They were also on the way to Sarah Wallace’s place. The new place, out in the middle of nowhere.

Denise was going to have to wait.

“Shit, Nikki. That’s just…that’s a pain.”

“If you keep calling me ‘Nikki’ I’m gonna start wearing a halter top and Daisy Dukes to work.” Nichole was a lovely woman, but she also topped out the scale at just under three hundred pounds. She also really, really hated being called Nikki.

“I keep hoping.” He sighed. “I’ll take care of the Blackbournes. But you make good and damned sure that no one talks about the scene. I haven’t spoken to Denise Wallace yet, and I don’t want her getting an unpleasant surprise. You understand me?”

“Understood, Carl.”

“I tell you how much I love you lately?”

“You better watch that sort of talk. You know Johnny gets jealous.” Johnny was Nichole’s husband, and about as mellow as a man could be.

“It’ll be our secret, darlin,’ I promise.” He killed the call and took the next right, which led off to Crawford’s Hollow, or as he liked to think of it, trailer park paradise. If there was a part of his county that could officially be declared a white trash zone, it was the Hollow. The area was owned by Neal Crawford on paper, but no one who lived there cared and old Neal had no plans to do anything with the swampy mess of woods that he’d inherited from his grandfather forty years earlier.

The path leading into the Hollow was as uneven and twisted as a politician’s promises, with deeply rutted patches and areas coated in gravel to keep a car’s tires from sliding right into the ditches on either of the unpaved madness. It took Carl almost twenty minutes to reach the Blackbourne place.

Despite his nickname for the area, the Blackbournes did not live in a trailer. They lived in an old house that had been on the land for at least a hundred years and had been altered time and again by the generations that had been born in the area. It had been a simple ranch house once, but these days it was a sprawling affair with a couple of wings worth of rooms. There was no rhyme or method to the construction, which only made it fit the family it belonged to all the better.

Carl rolled to a stop at the edge of what could pass for a driveway and waited. It was best to wait for the Blackbournes to come to you, especially if you were on official county business and hadn’t brought backup.

Merle walked out to meet him four minutes later. He was hardly old enough to be in charge of an entire clan, but the Blackbournes weren’t known for living long, calm lives. Violence was a stain on them as surely as they came from Irish stock. Merle was an interesting man, far more interesting than he’d been as a kid going to the same high school forever ago. Back in the day he’d been fairly scrawny and bordered on hyperactive. These days the patriarch of the family was far stockier and moved with a slow, deliberate pace. In his youth the man had been prone to leading with his fists, and now he kept his calm a great deal better. The main thing that had not changed was the sense of cunning that you got when you looked him in his eyes. Anyone who thought that Merle Blackbourne was a backwater hick was a fool. He had never been to college and he’d barely graduated from high school, but the man was well learned.

Merle looked Carl over with a slow patience and nodded his head. “Should I be feeling honored or wary today, Sheriff?” His tone was friendly enough and his deep country accent reminded Carl that they might be from the same area but they were hardly from the same place. Carl climbed from his truck and returned the nod as a way of saying hello.

“I’m here on official business, Merle. Just a few questions to see if you or yours might have any information for me.”

Merle’s thick hands fluttered a little as if trying to decide what to do with themselves. They finally settled for resting on his hips. “Ask away. I’ll answer if I can.”

Carl looked around and took note of the others that were moving around the place. There were easily ten members of the family within range. One word from Merle and he’d be surrounded. They both knew it.

“Found an abandoned meth lab not far from mile marker 27, near the edge of the paper mill’s property.” He paused for a moment and waited for the man to nod. Merle did so with a barely perceptible movement. “I’m not much interested in the lab. It’s been closed a while. I just need to know if you and yours had anything to do with it. Off the record.”

Merle looked away from him, his faded blue eyes scanning along the wooded hillside behind Carl as he pretended to contemplate the exact location. The sky above him was a darker gray now, and the shadows were growing longer. He’d need the headlights on the way back out.

Finally Merle nodded again. “Not saying we’d ever do such a thing, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“But if I were to condone that sort of nonsense, I reckon it’s the sort of spot I’d choose. Isolated enough, with a good view of the road if you know where to park a lookout.” Merle always knew where to park a lookout. He also knew how to plant a few traps, a couple of men with rifles and a half dozen different ways to warn those men that anyone was coming too close to their labs. That was why there weren’t too many of the Blackbournes sitting in lockup.

“If that were the sort of place you’d have chosen, when might you have stopped using it?”

Merle looked back at him and those eyes of his gave away absolutely nothing. But damned if he didn’t look amused by the question. “If I had to guess, I’d say no less than four months back.” A ghost of a smile creased his lips. “Can’t be too close to the lodge up the road from there when hunting season starts, or you might get spotted. And I reckon a spot like that needs to get abandoned early on if the hunting’s gonna be any good.”

That made a bit of sense. Merle and his family did love their deer meat. “You wouldn’t know of anyone who’s been running around in that area, would you, Merle?”

“Should I, Carl?” His eyes were hardly looking amused any more. They were looking shrewd. Blackbourne might have suspected something was up, but Carl doubted he knew exactly what was going on. “I can’t well be expected to read minds, can I now?”

Movement came from behind the man, and Carl’s eyes shifted away from him to look at the motion. The woman that stepped toward them fairly glided out of the sprawling house and moved with a grace that made Merle look like an awkward lump in comparison.

She was wearing a simple white blouse and a long black skirt, and she sported a small purse. Despite the mild chill in the air the woman wore no jacket, and despite himself, Carl focused his full attention on her. Like Merle the woman had presence. Unlike the head of the Blackbourne clan, she was beautiful. Long dark hair. A body designed to catch a man’s attention. A face that made a thousand promises and eyes the same color as Merle Blackbourne’s, only on her they looked absolutely enchanting.

And there was something familiar about her, though Carl was at a loss to place where he might have seen her before.

Merle never took his eyes off of Carl as the woman moved closer and whispered something in his ear. Carl looked at her lips as they just avoided brushing the man’s skin, and held his breath, barely aware that he was doing it. How long had it been since a woman caught his attention that fully? He couldn’t have guessed but it had been a good while.

Her hand rested on Merle’s thick shoulder and Carl found himself envying the man that contact. He made himself look away, fully aware that he was close to making an ass of himself with his staring eyes.

And a moment later the woman was moving away, heading toward the side of the house where Carl knew the family parked their numerous vehicles. Damned if he didn’t catch himself staring at her as she moved away, enjoying the way her hips swayed softly with each step. He looked away again, forced himself to find Merle’s face.

Merle was looking at him with a certain amusement again. This time there was a knowing glint in those faded blue eyes.

“Siobhan just told me there was a body found up near marker 27. She said it might be that the body was found near an abandoned meth lab.”

Siobhan. The name meant nothing, but there was that feeling that it should have meant something. He resisted the urge to shake his head until the cobwebs went away. Damn, but he was distracted by her even after she’d gone and that was preposterous. He felt like a teenager just noticing girls for the first time.

“Yeah, Merle. There’s a body.”

“It’s nothing to do with me and mine, Sheriff.” He turned and started away, no longer bothering with formalities. Carl should have had something to say to that, some comment to make clear that the interview wasn’t done. Instead he turned his head and watched as the woman he’d spotted, Siobhan, drove past in a car that had no good reason for being down in the Hollow. A classic Jaguar with an engine that purred.

She and her car moved away and he watched them, momentarily at a loss for words and barely capable of rational thought.

What the hell was that, he wondered, angry with himself. He was investigating the murder of a friend. It was hardly the right time for girl watching.

Still, he moved to his truck and he followed the luxury car on the path that led from Blackbourne’s place, feeling a little feverish. There were things he had to get done, and people he had to speak to.

He headed for Sarah Wallace’s place, barely conscious of driving the narrow, rutted paths. Half lost in thoughts of a woman he’d seen in passing.

“What the hell was that?” This time he asked the question aloud. He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t get one.

*      *      *

Though Griffin didn’t consider himself a sentimental man, he couldn’t escape thoughts of his early years in Brennert County during the drive home to Gatesville. Griffin hadn’t attended any of his high school reunions so far and had no intention of ever attending one in the future. Now that both his parents were dead he rarely had any reason to head north to Brennert. He simply wasn’t a man who spent much time thinking about the past. And yet...

Jerry Wallace had been one of his best friends when the two of them were kids. Even though they hadn’t really kept in touch, there was still something there. Some bond that you only felt with the people with whom you had stood upon the brink of adulthood. Now Jerry was dead and there was suddenly a hole in Griffin’s existence. A quick, sharp pain in a place he thought he had forgotten.

Full dark had almost arrived by the time Griffin reached his apartment and with it came a drizzling rain. Halloween was a week away and Griffin spotted several forlorn jack-o-lanterns in various windows of his building. It seemed to Griffin that there were more families living in his complex than in previous years. Perhaps the economic downturns of the last few years had forced people to put off buying homes. Gatesville and other bedroom communities of Atlanta had seen some hard times.

Once in his apartment Griffin dropped his keys on a small table in the foyer and switched on the lights. No one there to greet him. Once Beth might have met him at the door or he might have found her in the kitchen cooking up one of her Italian extravaganzas or in the living room with the TV on but with the sound turned down because she was reading. But that was over and he wouldn’t go there. Not tonight. He had other things to think about.

Griffin went to his desk, sat down, and turned on his computer. He took out his phone and plugged a small cable from the phone to the PC tower. He could have emailed the pictures to himself, he supposed, but he would have felt odd since he was already sitting here. He transferred the pictures he’d taken of the cuts on Jerry’s torso to the computer. He was glad that he hadn’t gotten Jerry’s face in any of them. He needed to think calmly and dwelling on what had been done to Jerry wasn’t going to help him do that.

Using a freeware graphics program, Griffin carefully traced the glyphs. He put them on a separate layer so that when he was done he could drop out the background, leaving him with clean drawings of the strange symbols. When he was finished he saved the file, then printed the symbols out on several sheets of paper. Carl Price had told Griffin that he had sent copies of the photos containing the glyphs to various agencies, but Griffin had resources of his own. Besides, there was something very strange about the glyphs. They reminded Griffin of something, but he wasn’t sure what. Fortunately, he knew who to ask. Griffin bundled up his printouts in a folder, reclaimed his keys and went back out into the night.

Griffin cut across Highway 41 to the old Gatesville town square. The rain seemed to be keeping most people home and the evening traffic was light. He found a parking spot in front of the wrought iron gate that surrounded the small park at the center of the square. A monument to some Civil War hero, whose name Griffin couldn’t remember, loomed against the night sky. Griffin crossed the street to a row of small shops. Most were still open, though there were few shoppers about. One of the narrower storefronts had a single glass window on which were lettered the words Baba Yaga’s. Surrounding the words were tiny decals in the shapes of stars and moons and less recognizable symbols.

A rush of warm air and the smell of incense washed over Griffin as he stepped through the front door. Griffin had been in the store several times but the contents still drew his attention. The shelves that lined the narrow little store were filled with old books, papers, and scrolls. Griffin slipped past a small, inlaid table covered with pewter figures of wizards and witches, and almost knocked over a shelf full of crystals and glass globes. Other tables held candles, bottles, small wooden boxes, and all sorts of strange items.

The far end of the store was taken up by a counter, and behind the counter, a curtain of beads covered a doorway. That curtain parted when Griffin was halfway across the store and a young woman stepped out of the back room. She was small but well formed, with jet black hair, cut short and parted so that a wave of it fell across one eye. She wore a lavender sweater over a black t-shirt. She also wore a lot of mascara and deep red lipstick.

Griffin said, “Evening, Charon.” Griffin had always suspected the girl’s name was really Karen but that she had adopted the name of the ferryman from the Greek myths to suit her occupation, the proprietor of an occult book shop. He wasn’t sure or her age but he figured her for ten years younger than his own 35. Too young for him, but hot in a Goth next door kind of way.

“Griffin,” the young woman said and she favored him with a wide smile. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. Not since you were looking for that guy who thought he was the reincarnation of an Egyptian Priest.”

“Haven’t run across anything else that I thought might interest you in a while,” Griffin said.

“And now you have?” Her dark eyes looked bright with curiosity.

“Maybe.” He placed his folder on the counter and removed the sheets of printed symbols. “Ever seen anything like these?”

Charon’s eyes widened. “Where did you find those?”

“Do you know what they are?”

“Not exactly but there’s something familiar about them.”

“That’s what I thought too. I thought maybe I had seen them in a book or something here.”

Charon shook her head. “No, I’d recognize them if that were the case. Like I said, I feel like I’ve seen them before but I can’t recall where. Let me do some checking around. Why are you interested in them?”

“I’d rather not say. It’s part of a case I’m working on.”

“It’s not just a case,” Charon said, looking at Griffin with her head angled to one side. “There’s something personal to this.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Maybe I’m a little psychic.”

“I don’t believe in psychics.”

Charon smiled. “You don’t believe in much of anything, but here you are again, talking to the little witch girl.”

“Maybe I just think you’re hot.”

“No maybe to that, but you’re too much of a straight shooter to do anything about it.”

“Hmm, maybe you are psychic.”

“But you’re still not going to tell me what this is about.”

“Not yet, Charon. But you’re right. It is something important to me.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” she said. “But you owe me dinner.”

“Any place you like.”

“Your place?”

“Any place but there.”

“Tease. I’m going to close up so I can start digging for info. Not like I’m doing any business in this weather anyway.”

Griffin said, “No offense, but I’ve always wondered how you stay in business.”

“I tell some fortunes. Sell some charms. Ward off demons. The usual thing. It’s a living.”

“I appreciate the help, Charon. Really.”

“I know. Now get out of here and let me work. I’ll call you later.”

Griffin stepped out and Charon locked the door behind him. A silver wind chime near the door jangled in the wind. Griffin hunched his shoulders and walked back to his truck. He had taken this line of investigation as far as he could. He’d just have to wait and hope Charon found something. So the question was, what now? Carl was following the meth angle, which Griffin agreed was the most likely motive.

But what if the killing wasn’t drug related? What did that leave? It left the ritual nature of the murder. Griffin had noted the high degree of what the FBI Behavioral Sciences boys called signature. The ligatures. The spikes in the eyes. The symbols carved in Jerry’s flesh. All calling cards from the killer. One of Griffin’s professors had pointed out, way back in cop school, that signatures like that usually took time to develop, especially the more complex ones. The level of complexity was extremely high in the case of Jerry’s killer, which meant one thing. Jerry wasn’t likely to have been the first. If a similar signature had been seen and reported before then the VICAP database would turn something up. But if it hadn’t? Then the devil might well be hiding in the details.

Griffin got into the truck and started the engine. He needed to get back home to his computer. He had some research to do.

*      *      *

As a rule, empty houses are miserable places.

Carl unlocked the door, turned off his security system and stepped inside, barely taking the time to look up in the process. His hands moved to re-lock the deadbolt and the doorknob and he moved inside. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t tired and there wasn’t a damned thing he cared to do about it at the moment, aside from taking a shower.

The clothes hit the floor. The pistol went into his safe, which he closed and locked. He didn’t have any kids in the house to get to his weapons. He didn’t care. There was always the chance that someone might break in some day and he sure wasn’t going to let any intruders kill him with his own weapon.

Besides, that was his work gun. The one for defending the house was hidden but easily accessible.

There was a possibility that he was paranoid, but he didn’t think so. Work a crime scene or two, and eventually you see how easily people can die in home invasions.

“Enough of that shit.” He spoke to hear somebody talking. A second later he walked over to his iPod and tapped the appropriate spots to get music playing. Flogging Molly started a raucous song and he stepped into his bathroom and started the shower. By the time the second song was done playing he was drying off and putting on a pair of running shorts and a sweatshirt.

He let the music continue playing through the place and headed for the kitchen. Rituals were designed, he believed, to let the mind relax and see the things it had missed. His rituals included music, shower and something light to eat. He’d picked up a half bushel of Fuji apples three days earlier and deftly cut two of them into wedges as he moved toward the living room, chewing one slice of the fruit and savoring the crisp, tart taste even as the coffee machine started burbling and hissing behind him.

Everything was exactly where it should have been, which was the way he preferred it. Carl settled into his favorite chair, grabbed his latest book—anything but crime, thanks. In this case he was reading a collection of spooky stories in preparation for the Halloween festivities—and settled down to read.

And as soon as he opened the book it dawned on him that the woman, Siobhan, had absolutely no reason to know about the murder of Jerry Wallace. He kept chewing on the Fuji, which suddenly had no taste at all, and thought back to the conversation.

“Fuck me sideways.”

The book got put back down and he headed for his second bedroom, long since converted to his office. After a moment’s hesitation it was back to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. He didn’t wait for the brewer to finish, but instead slid the cup under the filter and watched it fill as he held the actual pot out of the way.

The computer went on and the passwords were entered and a few moments later, he was looking at the records for Merle Blackbourne and his family. The odds were good that if the woman was hanging around the Blackbourne place, she knew the family well. They weren’t exactly known for having friends over to watch the big game on Sunday afternoons.

The family was as bad as he remembered. Not surprising, as he’d been with the sheriff’s department since graduating college. Wade Griffin had a bad cast of wanderlust, wanted to know what was on the other side of every mountain, hill and forest between Brennert County and East Bumblefuck. That was his thing. Carl didn’t feel the same way about things. He was far more interested in what was hiding inside the human mind and the human heart. Those particular mysteries didn’t require that he drive very far. He could look just fine from his bedroom window or from the office that was his second home.

He shook the thought away. Thinking about Jerry being dead was making him feel a touch more sentimental than he liked on a good day and it had decidedly not been a good day. His fingers tapped across the keyboard and he looked at the screen, waiting as patiently as he could while the system got around to showing the full run of family members and known associates for the Blackbournes.

And got rewarded for his patience. Siobhan Elizabeth Blackbourne was a cousin to Merle. The eyes were a dead giveaway, of course, but aside from that they looked almost nothing alike. Unlike Merle, however, she actually had a home planted on a paved road. He stared at the picture of her from the DMV and shook his head. Even in a photo that he knew couldn’t have been taken on a good day—no picture ever taken by the DMV showed a person on a good day—she was damned attractive. But the photo didn’t have the same overwhelming charge as the woman did in person. Thinking back on that was enough to make him shake his head all over again.

He looked further. Siobhan Blackbourne was the same age as he was, 35, but he couldn’t remember going to school with her. Then again, it was always possible she’d gone to school elsewhere. The Blackbourne’s were a weird group and some of them actually had money. Just because she and Merle were cousins didn’t mean they’d grown up in the same house or in close contact with each other.

The next name on the list caught his eye and in an instant he understood where he knew the woman from. She had a daughter, Jolene Blackbourne.

Jolene was precisely the sort of woman whose name was trouble. Though he’d never had a reason to arrest her, or even to pull her over for speeding, he knew the younger Blackbourne well enough. She looked enough like her mother that he was surprised he hadn’t made the connection. Dark hair, a killer body and those eyes that drew a man in. Perfect skin, except for a scattering of freckles that only made a man more aware of how perfect her skin was. Normally when he saw Jolene it was because he was there to clean up another mess she wasn’t actually a part of. She wasn’t the one who broke a beer bottle in Bobby Ray Whittaker’s face—the removal of said bottle requiring 87 stitches before the bleeding stopped—and she wasn’t responsible for Gary and Brad Carlyle beating each other badly enough to need hospitalization. Jolene hadn’t been there when Jazz Hooper hung himself, either, but she’d been mentioned in the suicide note.

Carl made it a point not to look too closely at Jolene. He also made good and damned sure that he wasn’t alone with her. Not because he was afraid of her, precisely, but because she seemed to have a ridiculous ability to wreck men without even trying. He didn’t quite understand why she was always in the center of the storms that brewed around her. He also didn’t need to know what she was doing hanging with the sort of morons that would get into that kind of bloody trouble. He understood enough to know that Jolene was a dangerous girl. Technically she wasn’t old enough to go into the bars in the area. And to date he’d never actually seen Jolene in a bar, but she’d been hanging around outside a few of the local watering holes when the violence erupted.

Carl rubbed at his face and thought idly that he should probably shave sometime soon. Maybe even tomorrow, much as he disliked having to handle that particular chore. On the other hand, he was going to look into exactly why a woman named Siobhan Blackbourne was whispering about crime scenes she shouldn’t have known about and he was going to try to catch her at her home instead of at her cousin’s place. No matter how attractive she was, he was fairly sure he preferred to deal with her away from Merle and the rest of the clan.

Siobhan Blackbourne and her daughter, Jolene. Just possibly two of the most stunning women in the entire county. He was very tempted to call Nichole to be his backup, just in case he made an ass of himself. Instead he promised himself he’d shave in the morning before heading to the address he jotted down.

He left his office and headed back to the living room and his book. The visit to see the Blackbourne women would wait until morning. The county would remain safe until the daylight came back around. He had deputies to see to that.

The front door was open.

Carl took three paces and froze in his tracks as soon as he realized that the door was open. He’d locked it. He knew that as sure as he knew his name. Back to his office, he could reach the pistol if he could get there. But he had to make sure, didn’t he? That no one was in the place? That he was alone? Surely he couldn’t just turn his back without checking, could he?

Flogging Molly continued crooning on to the slightly frantic sounds of an Irish jig. He took three more steps toward the living room. Most of the rooms were fairly small. He could handle himself well enough in close quarters without a firearm. He couldn’t make himself walk away from the room without checking first. His nerves were screaming too damned loud to let him.

Nothing looked out of place, except for the lump of red clay sitting on the table next to his remote controls. No one was in the room. He looked at the clay for a moment and then moved through the rest of the house, checking each room. He took the time to get his pistol from the office and checked carefully because people could hide the damnedest places if they were serious about hiding.

Nothing. No one. Carl closed and locked his door a second time, his skin crawling just a bit. It was like a violation, really: a desecration of the sacred place that was his one sanctuary from the rest of the world. And as he moved back into the living room his hands clenched and his heart thundered. Rage tried to sneak into his soul and he forced it back. Nothing was missing. Not a solitary thing. The only changes were the now closed door and the lump of clay.

He examined the clay before he considered touching it.

The rough links of a flat gray chain peered at him, half buried in the clay and surrounded by the roots of whatever vegetation the clay had been buried under.

Someone had left him a present. He was almost certain he didn’t want to look too closely at it.

*      *      *

The small town of Carlton, Georgia had seen better days. Griffin drove slowly up Main Street, glancing at the various storefronts. Where once had stood drug stores, banks, and mom and pop stores, now were mostly antique shops and consignment stores. The same fate had befallen most of the older towns. Even the somewhat larger ones like Roswell, Marietta, and Gatesville had seen the crowds move away from downtown to shop at strip malls or Wal-Mart. While some of the towns had been successful in gentrifying the downtown area, Carlton seemed to be struggling.

Griffin spotted the Carlton Police Headquarters, a squat, red brick building, and parked in front. He stifled a yawn as he got out of his truck. He had only slept for a few hours after spending most of the night going through news reports on the Internet. He had turned up only one unsolved murder from the past six months that had possibilities. It had happened three weeks back near Carlton, which was two counties over from Brennert. It hadn’t been the news article itself that had caught his attention at the Carlton paper’s website, but rather a few comments that had been posted by readers, one asking about reports of mutilations to the unidentified corpse. No one had responded to that particular comment and the thread had been locked.

Griffin walked up the three marble steps that led to the front doors. A cold front had blown away the clouds and rain during the night and the morning had arrived clear and cool. The early autumn sun threw harsh shadows all about. Fall had always been Griffin’s favorite time of year, though it made him restless. Something about the sharpness of the air and the particular quality of the light.

Griffin stepped through the double doors and found himself in a small lobby. The walls were a utilitarian green and the floor tiles were white and green like the ones Griffin remembered in barbershops when he was a kid. The rear wall held a small window and a heavy metal door. A slender woman in a uniform that needed pressing sat behind the window reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. She put the paper down when she saw Griffin and asked if she could help him.

“I’m here to see Chief Crowe,” Griffin said. “I called earlier. The name is Griffin.”

“Hang on a sec,” the woman said. Then she disappeared into whatever lay behind the window. A few moments later the metal door opened and a heavy set man with a crew cut and a dark five o’clock shadow stepped out. He looked to Griffin like one of those guys who would always have such a shadow, no matter how many times a day he shaved.

The man regarded Griffin with eyes that said he’d seen everything at least twice and hadn’t been much impressed with any of it. He said, “I’m Chief Crowe. Like I told you on the phone, I don’t know what I can do for you. We’ve never identified the dead man and we haven’t learned anything new.”

Griffin said. “I thought I’d come out and talk to you anyway, Chief. Get you to walk me through what you do know.”

Crowe rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “I don’t know that that’s a good idea. This is an open case, Mr. Griffin and you don’t have any official standing.”

Griffin smiled. “I’m working with the Brennert County Sheriff’s department on what might be a related killing. You can call and talk to Sheriff Carl Price if you need a reference.”

Crowe thought about that for a moment. He gave a small shrug and said, “Come on back. We can talk in my office.”

Griffin followed Crowe down a short hallway and into an office that obviously hadn’t been redecorated since the seventies. The walls were cheap wood panel and the desk that took up most of the room was steel. Two mismatched file cabinets leaned against the wall behind the desk. Crowe went around the desk and sat. He nodded to a chair in front of the desk.

Griffin sat down. Crowe looked at him without speaking. Griffin looked back. After several minutes of this Griffin said, “I’m picking up on a certain reluctance on your part to discuss this, Chief.”

“You got that right. How about you tell me more about the killing you think may be related.”

“A body was found in a remote part of Brennert,” Griffin said. “There were considerable mutilations. I understand your John Doe might have been cut up as well.”

Crowe grunted. “You’ve been reading the Internet. Some idiot at the coroner’s office shooting his mouth off. Wish I knew who. Thing is, we’re not sure exactly what was done to the body.”

“How do you mean? I assume there was an autopsy.”

“Yeah, for what it was worth. Here’s the deal, Griffin. A few weeks back I get a call out to the Patrick farm. It’s an old place. Been abandoned for years. Seems somebody has set the barn on fire. Big blaze. The fire department eventually gets the fire put out but the barn is mostly gone. Couple of my guys go in to the rubble to look for signs of arson and they find a body.”

Griffin said, “I’m guessing the fire had made identification impossible.”

“Yeah, the John Doe was pretty much a crispy critter. The ME did what he could, but he didn’t have much to work with. He found what might have been some recent cuts on what flesh wasn’t charred off, but that was about it and that was by no means a certainty.”

“There wasn’t anything else unusual?”

Crowe’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

“The victim in my case had been bound in an unusual way prior to being killed. Thought maybe your John Doe might have shown ligature marks.”

“Mine wasn’t trussed up,” Crowe said.

Griffin said, “Oh well. It was worth a shot.”

“Mine had been nailed to a wall.”

Griffin felt his hear rate pick up. “Nailed?”

“Yeah. With some sort of weird little spikes. We could tell that from what was left of the barn.”

“Did he have spikes through his eyes?”

“Now how the fuck did you know that?”

“Like I said, related.”

“Jesus. You think we’ve got some sort of serial killer loose around here?”

“I don’t know what we’ve got, but now we both have a hell of a lot more than what we had. Can I get copies of your reports? I can get Sheriff Price to send you what he has for comparison.”

“Yeah we can trade info, but I’d rather you boys take the point on this. Brennert County has a lot more resources than my little Podunk department.”

“I’ll let the sheriff know,” Griffin said. He dug into a pocket and pulled out one of the prints of the glyphs and put it on the desk. “One more thing. Did you see anything like this anywhere around the crime scene?”

Crowe studied the symbols for a moment. “No. What are they?”

“I don’t know yet. There may have been some of them carved into the body of your victim.”

“Shit, Griffin. What are we dealing with here?”

“Something outside or your philosophy, Horatio.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. You said you still haven’t identified the body, so I take it no locals have gone missing lately?”

“None that have been reported. Why?”

“Just a thought I’d had. Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Can I get those reports?”

“I’ll have Elaine make you some copies.”

“You can email them to me if it would be easier.”

Crowe’s smile was wry. “You see a computer in here, sport?”

“Ah,” said Griffin.

“Like I said, you boys got the resources. But keep me informed. If some sick son of a bitch is killing folks near my town I want to know about it.”

“I’ll do that, Chief.” The two men shook hands and Griffin returned to the lobby. While the slender woman from the window was making copies, Griffin stared out the front windows at the cold, bright, morning. His little chat with Chief Crowe had paid off in more ways than one. He knew that there was at least one more murder by Jerry’s killer, and it didn’t seem to be drug related. At least for the moment.

Then there was the fact that no one seemed to be missing from Carlton. It was a small town so it was likely that if someone had disappeared, someone would know. That made it likely that the man killed in the barn wasn’t local. A transient maybe? Someone who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time? The point was, if there was one ritual murder that someone had tried to cover up and failed, how many more were there where the killer had been successful at covering his tracks?

It was time to talk to Carl. Like Crowe had said, he had the resources. Griffin reached for his cell phone but then stopped. There was one other thing he wanted to check before he gave his friend a call.

*      *      *

“Oh, I’m sure you’re very sorry, Mrs. Potterfield.” Carl nodded amiably as he finished writing the ticket and handed it to the peroxide blonde in her little BWM convertible. “And while I’d like to let you off with a warning, I do not, as a policy, let people off easy when they try to run me off the road.”

She put on her best pout, which was a very impressive one, and sighed deeply. “It was an accident, officer.”

“Sheriff.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not an officer, I’m the sheriff.” He shrugged. “I know I’m not actually driving a squad car that says it but that’s what I am and that’s what the badge on my jacket means.” He’d put the badge in place right after the woman had spent two miles of winding two lane ‘road trying to speed him up by just missing ramming into the rear bumper of his truck. She’d likely have actually rammed the truck if she thought it would speed him up and not destroy the perfect paint job on her brand new toy. “The date for your court appearance is on the back.”

“I live in Florida.” That whine and pout combination again. Probably it made her husband crazy with desire. It was the only reason he could imagine for anyone staying with the thing looking at him past her $400.00 designer sunglasses. It just made Carl want to write her another ticket.

“I know. I checked on your license and confirmed with the DMV.” He kept his cheerful voice in place, because he knew it was confusing the woman severely. He rather enjoyed confusing her. It was like playing chess with a feeble-minded three-year-old. Not at all a nice thing to do, but somehow satisfactory in a depressing way. “I also know that you’ve had no less than a dozen other warnings for reckless driving. So this time, I’m gonna have to give you a real ticket and you’ll either have to pay the fine or come to court.” Likely she’d fight it, or her husband or his lawyer would fight it. Any way it broke down, he got to inconvenience her and maybe teach her a lesson at the same time. Probably not, but he could hope.

“Isn’t there anything I can do to change your mind?” her voice was kept soft and low and the full pouty lips pouted even more. That was the impressive thing, really, that those lips were natural and not the byproduct of too damned much collagen.

Just to brighten her day he leered. “Naw. Might have worked something out, but you’re married, darlin’.” He stood back up and tipped his Stetson in her direction. Then headed back to his truck while she slowly, carefully pulled back onto the road, following the speed limit until she was sure she could make a clean getaway.

Carl sighed, called in to Nichole and told her to let everyone know a speed demon was headed for town in a souped up red Beamer. It was open season for tickets, apparently. Then the Stetson went into the back seat of the truck. Mostly he only put it on for show when someone looked like they really, really wanted to meet a genuine, backwoods, redneck sheriff. He was going to have to work on his extra thick southern drawl though. He didn’t want to disappoint the tourists.

Two miles down the road he pulled off and grabbed a bag of boiled peanuts from Elmer Buck, a man whose age could have been sixty or ninety-five. Either way, he had four teeth, weighed too much, sweated constantly and was a delight to chat with.

Pleasantries handled for the morning, he drove the rest of the way into town and down Scufflegrit Road—a name he still found amusing after spending his entire life in the area—heading to the seventh house, an older affair, with a wraparound porch, that had been taken care of properly over the years.

By the time he reached the front door, the man he was looking for was already waiting at the threshold, a puzzled smile on his weathered face. He wasn’t actually puzzled about anything. Carl had called him earlier. He just always had that look on his face when he was smiling.

Doctor Andrew Hunter stepped out of the way and silently invited Carl into his house. Carl nodded an equally silent greeting and stepped into the place. It smelled of old books, dust and floor polish. He couldn’t resist sucking in a deep breath of the scents.

“How you been, Carl?” The old man patted his shoulder affectionately and moved past him, leading the way toward the den that he’d converted into an office a long time back.

“I’m good, Andy. Been staying busy. How about yourself?”

Andy waved a hand to dismiss any questions about himself. “I’m old. After you reach that stage anything else is just a side effect. But I do have work to do, so why don’t you show me what you’ve got?” The old man was retired. Back in his day he’d been a professor of archaeology. These days he restored books for fun and profit. He’d moved away to Atlanta when he was working and now that he was retired he’d come back to the old home grounds to, in his words, “fade into obscurity.” Carl doubted that would ever happen.

Carl nodded his head and fished the Zip-lock baggie from his coat pocket. Inside was the jewelry he’d eventually cleaned of clay deposits and old roots. The chain was rough, made of hand-forged links. Attached to the links were a dozen small decorations, some of them simplistic in their design and some very complicated. He had no idea what sort of metal it was, and no clue about the trinkets, so he called on his father’s poker buddy to shed a little light on the subject.

Andy took the bag without preamble and carefully slipped the chain out. He fumbled with one hand around his desk until he found a set of lenses that had obviously been designed for working with jewelry and studying fine details.

“What are we looking at, Andy?”

The man skewered him with a stare. When he spoke the temperature in the room dropped by easily ten degrees. “Currently I’m looking at an impatient man who can’t give me five minutes to study what he brought for me to examine.”

“Damn. I bet your college kids wet themselves when you were in a mood.”

“As a matter of fact they did.” He looked at the necklace, pursing his lips and making little noises.

“I’m gonna go outside and make a phone call, if that’s all right with you.”

“I’d prefer it. You hover too damned much.”

“Well, it’s interesting, isn’t it?” He’d told the older man how the necklace came into his possession and already been chastised for having the audacity to wash it off. Apparently that was a sin just as surely as tap dancing on a crime scene was a sin.

“If I didn’t think it was interesting, I’d have sent you on your way by now.” The old man shot him another withering look. Oh yes, no doubt the student body had feared him mightily.

Carl stepped outside and looked around as the sun rose higher in the sky. Off to the left the road was obscured by a thin wall of fog that clung determinedly to the side of the hill the pavement bisected. Below that the ground dropped off into a gulch and above it the wall of earth was held in place by a thick caul of kudzu that covered the remains of trees, shrubs and the Lord knew what else, leaving behind vaguely humanoid shapes that almost seemed to move if you took your eyes off them. The change of season had leeched the dark green color from the vines and left them a blend of gray and leprous yellow. That didn’t make them any more comforting to Carl.

“Right. Phone call.”

He looked up the number on his cell and called it. “Hello?” A pleasantly feminine voice answered on the second ring. The voice carried a pleasant southern drawl as opposed to the sharp twang he was expecting. He knew that the Blackbournes had deep roots in the area, but it was easy to forget that some of the clan actually had money, even after watching Siobhan drive off in a Jaguar the day before.

“Hello, is this Siobhan Blackbourne?”

“It is. To whom am I speaking?”

He licked his lips, remembering the exceptional beauty he’d seen the day before and once again feeling like a teenaged boy. Asinine. He wasn’t about to stutter into the phone. Not the remotest chance that he’d allow that to happen.

Fate saved him in a roundabout way. The blow to the back of his head knocked him halfway to unconscious and saved him from answering properly.

Sometimes training makes all the difference. Carl staggered forward and rather than tensing up, twisted his body, avoiding a hard landing on his head and face when he smashed into the ground. He looked around quickly and scurried to his feet just as fast as he could. He could fight an opponent when he was down on the ground, but he preferred to be standing up.

And when he saw the man that had hit him he thought there was a real chance that his still being on his feet wouldn’t make a difference. Carl was not a small man. He stood just at six feet in height, had done his time on the football team both in high school and when he went to the University of Georgia, and he had made sure to keep himself in good shape if only to avoid being a cliché instead of a sheriff.

The man standing in front of him dwarfed him. He stood a solid ten inches taller than Carl, and his legs looked more like tree trunks than appendages. He was also dressed in the sort of clothes that made it clear he was from down in the Hollow. “You give it back, mister!” The man’s thick lips split into a snarl as he spoke, and his hands clenched into fists that looked about big enough to swallow watermelons whole. Not those little seedless things, either, but the real ones.

“You need to back the hell down, right now!” He bellowed loud and proud and it had the desired effect. The man looming over him hesitated, surprised that anyone would be aggressive in his presence. “Get the hell against the wall!”

“Give it back!” The man roared and lumbered forward, his heavy tread making the porch boards creak with every stride. He was huge. He was also not a fighter. In his defense, he probably didn’t need to be at his size. Carl didn’t carry a riot stick, a billy club or anything along those lines. He had his feet and his pistol. He preferred not to employ the pistol. Instead he moved in closer and used his knee against the side of the man’s leg, knocking him off stride. It looked good on paper. Even as he was staggering to the side, the man’s hand slapped across Carl’s chest and threw him backward.

Carl kept his feet. Big Boy hit the porch amid a dozen creaks, groans and a few sounds of wood splintering. Andy was going to be sorely pissed off. The thought came to Carl’s mind and he shook it away. He could deal with the man after he dealt with the shaved bear that wanted to tear him in half. Rather than climb up from his knees, Big ‘Un grabbed a rocking chair and hurled it at Carl’s head. “Give it back!” His pale blue eyes glittered in the sunlight, his uneven complexion grew red and mottled as he screamed his demands again, and Carl blocked the chair with his left arm, hissing at the bruising impact that ran from forearm to shoulder.

“Mister, I’m about done being nice with you!”

“Give it back!” He popped back up to his full height and this time he grabbed at the table next to where the rocker had been. The table was substantially heavier—not that Big Boy noticed, thanks—and Carl didn’t like the odds of his arm staying unbroken if he got nailed again.

The man was big, and he was maybe not going to win any debate contests with his limited vocabulary, but he figured out that the pistol aimed at his face was a better weapon than the table he had hoisted above his head.

“You drop that right now and you stand still or I will blow your damned head off!” Big Boy dropped the table, which promptly exploded under its own weight. The top rolled in three separate directions. Oh yes, Andy would be pissed.

Carl made the call to Nichole and kept his weapon trained on the ogre who continued to glower at him with a serious case of the I-hate-yous. By the time Stuart and Ben showed up with the wagon and a few extra restraints, Andy had come outside to let Carl know he thought he might have some answers. Amazingly, the man had not heard the sound of a water buffalo stampeding across his porch or destroying his furniture.

Sure enough, he was pissed off about the damages.

*      *      *

Griffin parked his truck at a long abandoned gas station about half a mile from the entrance to the dirt road that led to the trailer. Now that he had a little more to work with he wanted a look at the area around the crime scene and he had decided to approach it from the rear through the woods. There was a good chance that the killer or killers might have done the same thing.

Griffin locked the truck and walked around behind the gas station. He climbed over a small, broken fence and began making his way in the direction of the trailer. The woods were the standard for Northern Georgia, a mix of old oaks and new pines. A heavy carpet of dead leaves and pine straw covered the ground. There wasn’t much traffic on the two-lane road and the woods were quiet. Living in the shadow of Atlanta, as he had for many years, Griffin had forgotten how quiet the country could be.

As he walked he spotted the detritus typical of areas where people hunted. Beer bottles. Vienna sausage cans. Rifle cartridges. Occasionally he found the remains of an old campfire. Seeing these things reminded Griffin of deer hunting trips with his father and uncles. He had never been much for hunting, but he had always enjoyed camping and sleeping under the stars. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been camping.

After walking for some time, Griffin finally saw the rear of the old trailer in the distance. He didn’t plan on getting too close. Carl doubtlessly still had someone stationed there. He just wanted a look at possible approaches to the site. Though he knew that the crime scene techs would have given the place a thorough going over, he also knew that people missed things. Plus, if there was one thing Griffin had learned in his years as an investigator, both public and private, it was to always check things out for himself.

Griffin began a slow circuit, moving back and forth in an ever-widening arc from the rear of the trailer and studying the ground as he went. The recent wind and rain had probably covered up the signs of any recent passage though the woods, but it didn’t hurt to look. He was out of sight of the trailer when he spotted the spike.

Griffin crouched and looked at the object without touching it. He had little doubt that it was the same sort of spike that had been driven through Jerry Wallace’s eyes. It had probably been hidden by leaves when the techs had searched the area, and the previous night’s winds had uncovered it. What to do? He could wrap the spike in something and take it to Carl, but if he moved it there might be some evidence issues later if and when Jerry’s murderer was brought to court. No, best to give Carl a call, tell him where he was, and have one of the deputies watching the trailer walk out to him.

Griffin was about to do just that when a voice behind him said, “Best move away from there, Ace.”

Griffin rose from his crouch and turned slowly. Two men stood about six feet away. They weren’t quite a big as Griffin but they were big enough and they were armed, one with a wooden Billy club and the other with a machete. They wore dirty flannels shirts and dirtier jeans. Griffin cursed himself for an idiot. Not only had he been so fixated on his search that he hadn’t heard the two men approach, but he had left his .357 back in the truck.

Griffin said, “No problem, guys. Didn’t mean to trespass. I’ll just walk back the way I came.”

Billy club grinned a gap-toothed grin. “Don’t figure you’ll be doing much walking when we’re done.”

“Not much of anything else, neither,” Machete said. “You picked the wrong place for a stroll.”

Griffin said, “Look. Whatever you’ve got going back here, I haven’t seen it. Let’s all just go our own ways.”

Billy club shook his head and took a step closer to Griffin. “Now what fun would that be?” He lunged forward without warning, drawing the club back. Griffin sprang in before the club could descend, blocking the attack, and then snapped his elbow upward into the man’s jaw. Billy club stumbled backwards, spitting blood and teeth. Hitting someone with your elbow is a lot like hitting them with a brick.

Machete came next, cursing as he directed a hard slash at Griffin’s neck. Griffin slipped to the outside of the swing, slapping the arm and blade aside just like his sensei had taught him. He grabbed the man’s wrist, jerked the arm out straight, then levered his own forearm up under Machete’s elbow. Griffin was rewarded with an audible pop as the elbow was dislocated. Machete vomited and went to the ground screaming. Griffin spun toward Billy club but he was still out of the fight, kneeling in the leaves and clutching his jaw. From the way his face was contorted, the jaw was probably broken.

A chunk of bark exploded from a tree near Griffin and he heard the report of a gunshot. Griffin went low and moved behind a thick tree, scanning the surrounding woods as he went. About sixty feet away a figure was crouched in a shooters stance with his or her gun trained in Griffin’s direction. Time to get out of Dodge.

The shooter was between Griffin and the way back to his truck, so choice two was the trailer where hopefully some of Carl’s men were stationed. Griffin took off from behind the tree, weaving as he ran. He heard two more shots but nothing came near him. I am never going anywhere without a gun again, Griffin told himself.

He ran over the slight rise that hid the trailer and then down the gentle slope. As he got close to the building a voice yelled, “Freeze! Sheriff’s department.”

Griffin stopped where he was as two Brennert deputies came toward him with guns drawn. Griffin said, “The gunshots you heard were being fired at me. The guy who did it is over the rise there.”

“Down on the ground,” one of the deputies said. “Arms out to your side.”

Griffin didn’t argue. He had been where these men were. Shots had been fired and they didn’t know what was going on. Griffin dropped to the ground and spread-eagled himself on the dead leaves. He said, “Hurry and cuff me before the shooter gets away. There are two other men with him.”

One of the deputies said, “Weren’t you here yesterday with the sheriff?”

“Yeah, I’m a private detective. My ID is in my pocket. Now seriously, there are three men out there who just tried to kill me. At least one of them has a gun.”

“Go check it out, Randall. Holler if you need back-up. You can get up, sir.”

Griffin got to his feet. “Thanks.”

“Now what’s going on?”

“I’m consulting on the Wallace murder. I was checking approaches to this trailer when two guys waylaid me. I dealt with them but then a third showed up and started shooting.”

The deputy raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean when you say you dealt with them?”

“I didn’t kill them. Dislocated one man’s arm. Think I broke the other one’s jaw.”

“Um, okay. You a friend of Sheriff Price’s?”

“I am. Why don’t you give him a call. I was going to call him once I’d had a look around anyway.”

The deputy called Randall came walking back. He said, “Whoever they were, they booked. I found some fresh blood and two teeth. Oh and a machete. What the hell happened?”

“Mr. Griffin here says he incapacitated two of the perpetrators.”

“Did both of them have machetes?” said Randall.

“One had a nightstick,” Griffin said.

“Jesus,” said Randall.

The other deputy said “You some sort of Special Forces guy or something?”

Griffin said. “Why don’t you call Sheriff Price?” He wanted to tell Carl about the other murder and about the spike in the woods. Odds were the spike wasn’t there now. Which meant what? That the three men were covering their tracks? Or those of someone else? Or maybe they were the meth dealers and simply didn’t want anyone poking around in the woods. Maybe Carl had come across something that would fill in some of the gaps.

*      *      *

Carl looked at Big Boy in his cell and shook his head. Damned if the man didn’t look even bigger when he was behind bars. He was sitting down on the metal cot and panting heavily, and though it was a big enough cell, the man just seemed like he was locked in a parrot cage instead of a cage made for men. The good news was the man hadn’t put up any kind of fight. The bad news was he also didn’t carry any kind of ID on his person. If he’d driven to Andy Hunter’s place then he’d done it in an invisible car. So that was a wash, too.

The fingerprints were processing. In a perfect world they’d be ready soon. In reality, the connection to the Integrated Automatic Fingerprint Identification System, AFIS, was only as good as the Internet connection and the damned system had been slow ever since one of the boys had started surfing the porn sites. If he ever figured out who it was, there was going to be hell to pay. He had it narrowed down to either Buckman or Holiday. Soon enough he would have his culprit. Also, there were over 60,000,000 sets of fingerprints to sort through and even the best systems take time.

And then there was the fact that Big Boy didn’t exactly look like the sort who’d ever been booked in his county before. He’d have remembered a boy that size.

Of course he could make a few educated guesses. The clothes from the Hollow, the face from a few unpleasant movies about inbred cannibals, and the eyes that were the exact same color as Merle Blackbourne’s.

The thing was, he’d yet to meet anyone in the Blackbourne clan that qualified as a giant and he thought he’d met all of them at least in passing over the years.

When in doubt, he could always ask.

“What’s your name, Big ‘Un?”

“Fuck you is my name! Give it back!”

“You know, I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.” There were two lockup cells in the station, open areas with simple cots and metal commodes. They were for the occasional drunk and people who hadn’t been processed yet. He had Big Boy in the first of them. The other was currently unoccupied. Further back there were also six additional cells, but those were reserved for people with names, who had been processed and would be staying at least a couple of days. He stepped closer to the cell, but not close enough that the gargantuan in the twenty by twenty room could reach him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not really your name. I also might be able to help you with whatever I’m supposed to give back to you if I knew what the hell you were talking about.”

Big Boy’s brow was drawn down over his wide nose as he listened. Damned if it didn’t look like he was having trouble keeping up with the conversation. “What?”

“Let’s try this again. What am I supposed to give back?”

“The thing you stole!”

Carl rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “What’s your real name? You tell me that and I’ll see about giving it back.”

Big Boy looked at him long and hard, taking deep breaths as he contemplated the words. Every time he inhaled the shirt across his chest strained to compensate for his chest span. Carl frowned at that, because had he been asked, he’d have said the clothes were old, dirty and patched, but actually seemed to fit. Not any more.

“My name is Frank Blackbourne.” He spoke sullenly, his light blue eyes staring murderously at a spot behind Carl.

Carl nodded and smiled. “Frank, what do you think I stole from you?”

“Not from me.” Frank stood up. The ceilings in the cells were eight feet high. Carl knew that for a fact. The man didn’t quite scrape the ceiling, but he had to stoop to stand comfortably. “Not from me. You stole it from my Meemaw’s grave.”

Meemaw. It took him a second to remember the word he hadn’t heard since elementary school. It was another variation of grandmother. “Frank, I never even went near your grandmother’s grave.”

“You lie!” The man did not talk, he roared, the sound loud enough to vibrate in Carl’s chest. Despite himself, he backed away a step. He wasn’t scared so much as startled, but he’d have been lying if he said he wasn’t happy for the bars between them.

“Hey! I’m not lying to you, boy! Don’t you dare start calling me a liar in my own office, you hear me?” Carl made sure he yelled right back and Frank blinked uncertainly. He was not used to being yelled at, apparently. That was okay, neither was Carl. He stared long and hard at Frank and finally the much bigger man nodded his head sullenly and sat back down. “Now all you told me so far is I stole something, but you haven’t told me what you think I stole. How can I tell you where it is if I don’t know what it is? Tell me what you think I stole, Frank.”

“It kept her safe! It’s supposed to keep her safe.” Frank’s voice was low and thick and he looked for just a moment like he wouldn’t have minded breaking into tears and crying. The longer he dealt with the man, the more Carl was convinced that Frank wasn’t all there. Low level mental impairment, possibly, or just a very poor education. It was hard to say.

Frank aimed one last angry glare at Carl and then settled down and stared at the floor again. He had nothing more to say after that. But as Carl started to leave the area the man looked his way once more and a tiny smile ran across his face and a knowing glint burned in his eyes. It was only for a moment, but Carl knew that expression clearly enough. It was the same look that Merle Blackbourne got on his face when he thought he had the upper hand.

Carl shook that notion away. There wasn’t a cunning bone in the big boy’s body.

He headed back for his personal office within the complex and stopped when Nichole waved him over. “Wade Griffin just got into a little scuffle with Ben Randall and Stuart Carter. Ben wants to talk to you.”

He sighed and took the receiver from her. “Ben? You got into a fight with Wade Griffin?”

“What?” He could see the kid’s red hair and freckled face in his mind’s eye. He tended to look like a startled rabbit whenever you asked him any question at all. Lord, but some day he wanted to play poker with the kid. “Aw, no, Carl. We just ran across him when somebody was shooting at him, and now he said I should call you to see if it’s okay to let him go.”

“Put Wade on the phone, Ben. Will you do that for me?” The pressure in his skull was trying to come back with a vengeance. Ben was much smarter than Big Boy, but sometimes he liked to hide that fact.

He listened to Wade’s side of the story and shook his head. When he was done talking to the investigator, he called for Ben again and gave his instructions. “I want CSI back up there and looking for that spike. You let Wade show you where it’s supposed to be. I’ll be on my way up there in a couple of minutes. Bag the damned teeth, bag whatever blood you can get, and hold everything for Jason and the rest of the CSI guys. Keep a look out for any possible shooters, obviously. And give me back to Wade, will ya?”

“So the guys were telling me you had a little bit of a fight yourself.” Wade’s voice as no nonsense as ever, but there was a thin layer of good humor over everything else.

“Apparently the Son of Kong lives in the area and he thinks I stole something of his.”

“We need to talk, I think. Maybe compare notes?”

“Yeah. I’m with you. I’ll be heading over there in a few minutes. Show the boys where you saw that spike, okay? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Could happen.”

“Yeah, I’m not waiting on it either.” He killed the call and then reached for his cell phone. He still had to get Siobhan Blackbourne on the line. She still had to answer a few questions about how she knew about Jerry Wallace’s murder. He wanted that taken care of.

His stomach growled and he remembered he hadn’t bothered to eat anything yet. It was almost noon and breakfast would have to wait a while. There was too much to do.

Nichole looked at him with a small moue of disapproval.

“What?” He couldn’t help feeling guilty whenever she started that crap. Like he didn’t already have a mother.

“You need to eat something.”

“I ate.”

“Liar. Your stomach’s making rude noises.”

“I’ll eat on the way.”

“Still a liar.”

“I’ll make Wade pay. It’s the least he can do for me keeping him out of jail.”

“Okay. Now I believe you.” She smiled brightly and waved her fingers in dismissal.

“You do know I’m the boss, right?”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Carl. You just go ahead and believe that if you need to.”

“You were a lot easier to get along with when you were still a smoker and not so damned self-righteous.”

“Don’t make me poison your coffee, Sheriff.”

He headed for the door. She was in a mood and he wasn’t going to win this one. He knew it deep in his soul.

The next time he saw Nichole everything was different in his world and he was identifying her body.

*      *      *

Griffin said, “What the hell have we walked into?”

“Got me,” Carl said. “But it seems to get weirder every time I turn around.”

The two men sat across from one another in a booth in a Waffle House on Highway 19. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the slightly dented blinds, throwing bands of deep shadow along the tables and making patterns on the floor. Griffin and Carl had spent the last hour comparing notes on their separate lines of investigation. The only things both inquiries seemed to share were more questions than answers and a definite bent toward the weird.

Griffin gestured to their waitress for more coffee, then said, “I think what amazes me the most is that you just let this Siobhan woman walk away after she mentioned the body. That doesn’t sound at all like you.”

Carl shook his head. “Don’t I know it. It was like I took one look at her and my brains just fell out. I didn’t even think about it until later.”

“Women can do that.”

“They can, but this wasn’t just lust or whatever, Wade. I mean, I know what’s that’s like. It was almost like she’d hypnotized me with her very presence.”

“And you still haven’t talked to her?”

“Not really. Frank Blackbourne kind of messed up my last attempt. But I will.”

“That’s another thing. I don’t remember a Blackbourne named Frank.”

“Neither did I, but if you saw him you’d recognize the Blackbourne look. Speaking of which, how about the guys that attacked you? Any of them look at all familiar? Could have been some more of the Blackbourne clan keeping an eye of things. Merle practically admitted his crew had been behind the meth lab.”

Griffin said, “Things happened too fast. I’d recognize either of the two who I fought now, but I didn’t get a good look at the shooter.”

“Hell, Wade,” Carl said with a grin. “Anybody would recognize those two boys now. One with his teeth knocked out and the other with his arm a couple of inches too long. You never did do things half way.”

“Someone comes at me with a weapon, all I want to do is get things over with as quickly as possible.”

“No argument there. So anyway, after all this gum flapping, what have we got?”

Griffin said. “Not much. Now that we know that Jerry’s murder was part of a series, it throws some doubt on the drug connection. But then every way we look we see Blackbournes, which puts us right back at the meth lab.”

Carl said, “I suppose one of the Blackbourne’s could have a hobby.”

“He could. Thing is, if we do have a serial killer working and we know that he or she tried to hide at least one of the murders, then there may be some other killings we’re unaware of. I told you how no one knew the identity of the victim in Carlton.”

“Yeah, I’m going to have some of my guys take a closer look at some missing person’s cases from the last year. Could be that some of those folks didn’t go missing by choice.”

Griffin’s cell buzzed and he checked the screen. Charon. He said, “I’d better take this.” Then into the phone, “Hey kiddo.”

“Don’t call me kiddo. You’re not that much older than me.”

“So you keep telling me. Okay, Charon, tell me you’re calling because you’ve deciphered those glyphs.”

“No, but I did notice something about them that could be a start toward learning what they are.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”

“Too complicated to explain on the phone. It would be better if you could see what I’m talking about.”

Griffin glanced at his watch. “I can probably be at the square in about an hour. How’s that?”

“That works. I’ll have the stuff together when you get here.”

“Okay. Thanks for staying on this, Charon.”

“Sure thing. See you in a bit.”

Griffin rang off. “Maybe something on the glyphs, Carl.”

“Better than the feds are doing then. Who you got looking into them.”

“A witch.”

“Like pointy hat and nose with wart witch?”

“More like hot twenty-five year old witch.”

“I like her already. She know her stuff?”

Griffin said, “She does. Charon has helped me with a couple of other cases that veered over into the Twilight Zone.” He slid out of the booth. “I’d better get going. I’ll call you if I learn anything of use.”

“Do that. Oh and Wade, watch yourself. I’d have bet money no one could have gotten past the locks on my doors. I’m a cop. I bought the kind it would take an expert to pick. If whoever it was who broke in knows where to find me, they may be watching you too, especially after today.”

“You have a point. I’ll go to yellow alert. I’m already impressed enough to go heeled until further notice.”

“Yeah, I noticed the cannon under your jacket. Later, man.”

Griffin dropped a twenty on the table and gave Carl a half salute as he went out.

*      *      *

Griffin parked in front of Baba Yaga’s and stood for a moment, giving the Gatesville square a slow look around. All the stores were decorated for Halloween. Well, all except Baba Yaga’s. Every day was Halloween for Charon. Griffin couldn’t remember exactly who Baba Yaga was. An old hag from some Russian fairy tales he thought. A witch or wise woman who lived in a hut that walked on chicken legs.

He found the shop locked but a couple of taps on the glass brought Charon to the door. She let him in and them relocked the door. Griffin said. “Did you close early especially for me?”

“Nah, I’m just lazy. Come on in the back.”

“Ah, the fabled back room. I feel honored.”

“You should. I don’t let too many people back there. That’s where all the real stuff is.”

Charon led the way and Griffin tried not to notice the twitch of her slender hips under her snug black jeans. She was also wearing a low cut black top and Griffin got the distinct impression she had freshened her makeup before he arrived. If she was trying to wear down his resistance she was doing a damn fine job of it.

Griffin followed Charon around the counter and through the beaded curtains. The back room was only a little smaller than the front. It was packed with boxes and containers and there were shelves and shelves of books. A modern style desk sat in one corner. It was piled high with more books and stacks of papers. Griffin noted printouts of all kinds of symbols, hieroglyphs, and letters. Charon had indeed been hard at work. A big computer tower of a type Griffin had never seen sat beside the desk. It was black and there appeared to be the head of an Area 51 type alien embossed on the chassis.

“What kind of PC is that?” Griffin asked.

“Top of the line gaming computer for my on-line games. It serves as a work computer as well.”

“I didn’t know you were a gamer.”

“There’s quite a bit you don’t know about me. Have a seat.” Charon slid in to the desk chair and pointed to a straight backed wooden chair next to her. Griffin sat. “I started with comparisons of various alphabets, current and ancient.”

As Griffin watched, Charon brought up images on the screen. Her slim fingers flew across the keyboard. Griffin recognized Egyptian hieroglyphs, a couple of Hebrew characters, and what he thought were symbols from the Greek alphabet. The rest of the images were meaningless to him.

“How about Klingon?” Griffin said.

“I not only tried Klingon but Tengwar and Sindarin from the Lord of the Rings. Plus ancient Phoenician, Sumerian, Proto-Sinaitic, and a bunch of other stuff you never heard of. None of it matched. But then I finally realized why the language looked familiar. In some way it looks like Arabic, though trust me, it isn’t Arabic.”

“You’re right,” Griffin said. “That’s what it reminded me of as well. I just couldn’t place it. So if it isn’t any of those things, what is it?”

“No idea. But, and this is a big but, the resemblance to Arabic made me fairly sure of two things. The first is that we are definitely looking at a real alphabet. The repetitions of certain characters makes me think there are a couple of sentences in what you gave me.”

“And the second thing?”

“I’m pretty sure the letters, like Arabic, are part of an abjad system.”

“You lost me.”

“An abjad is a system where the letters stand for consonants only and the reader supplies the vowels. It was fairly common in ancient languages.”

“Where did you learn all this stuff?”

“I have a lot of time to read because certain stupid men aren’t asking me out.”

Griffin ignored that. He said, “But you’ve still no idea what it says?”

Charon pushed a stray lock of her dark hair away from her face. Griffin was aware of her shoulder touching his. She really was a lovely girl. But young, he reminded himself, and that hadn’t turned out well the last time.

“If you want for sure, no. I have a vague notion of part of it.”

“I’ll take speculation at this point.”

“Okay but don’t quote me or base anything important on this. Most of these symbols appear to be phonemes. In other words, they stand for speech sounds. But I think a couple of them are logograms, meaning they represent a single word.” She picked up one of the printouts and pointed to a pair of characters. “I think this means blind or unseeing.”

Griffin’s reaction must have shown because Charon put her hand on his arm and said, “What is it? What’s wrong, Griffin? Can you still not tell me what this is about?”

Griffin said, “It’s some bad stuff, Charon. I don’t want you involved any more than you already are.”

“Maybe I could help more if you’d just tell me what’s going on. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

Griffin let out a long breath. “There’s been a murder. An old friend of mine. It hasn’t hit the news yet, but it will.”

“Oh Griffin. I’m so sorry.”

“It gets worse. Those symbols were found sliced into his body.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes, and here’s why your speculation about the symbols struck home. My friend’s eyes had been put out.”

“Blind or unseeing,” Charon whispered.

“Exactly,” said Griffin.

*      *      *

Sometimes it was just better to knock on a door. So that was what Carl did. He pulled up to the front of the Blackbourne residence—the one that was outside of redneck paradise—and he knocked.

Instead of Siobhan Blackbourne, he got her daughter, Jolene. Also known to him and the rest of the force as Trouble—yes, with a capital T.

Jolene Blackbourne was a natural beauty. Creamy pale skin, a light scattering of freckles where the sun spent too much time touching her skin, the same light blue eyes that marked most of the clan, a cute little nose, full lips and a body that looked like it belonged in a gentleman’s magazine, only if he had to guess there wouldn’t be any need of an airbrush to remove the imperfections. As the girl was easily fifteen years younger than him, he pushed that thought out of his mind, though it took a bit of effort. She was wearing an Allman Brothers’ t-shirt that was two sizes too small and a pair of sweats that looked like they belonged to the same person. That didn’t help his resolve, but he was in business mode and intended to stay that way.

Jolene looked rather surprised to see him. In her defense, they’d never really had an occasion to meet socially. “Howdy, Jolene. I was calling to see if your mother might be around.”

The furtive look left her eyes. “Oh. No, I think she had some business in town.” She pouted very fetchingly while she considered the possibilities of where her mother might have gone. Carl reminded himself that most of the men who paid attention to that pout wound up in bar brawls, in a jail cell overnight, or occasionally in a hospital. Maybe it was her, maybe it wasn’t, but the men who courted the younger Blackbourne tended to get themselves in deep trouble.

“Well, maybe you can answer a question for me.”

She looked directly at him and smiled. He smiled back as politely as he could.

“What kind of question, Sheriff Carl?”

Sheriff Carl. Most of the kids who called him that had been introduced to him that way when he did his safety discussions at the local schools. It was a nice reminder of exactly how young she was.

“You know if you have any relatives named Frank? I have a fella in my lock up who says his name is Frank Blackbourne, and I don’t know if I’ve ever met him before. Big boy, I mean really, really big.” He demonstrated with his hand over his head. She frowned.

“Momma had a cousin named Frank, I think. He was Merle’s big brother. He was a big guy, I think.” She smiled brightly. “Come inside for minute!” Before he could respond she’d bolted back into the interior of the house. He had a brief moment of doubt—small towns have wagging tongues and he could just imagine what someone like Nadine Crabapple hearing about him sliding into a house with a little number like Jolene would start saying.

Screw it. He was there to handle business. He started ducking the gossip hounds he might as well turn in his walking papers. Still, the last few days had gone badly enough that he rested his hand on the butt of his service piece before he entered the house.

The inside was nice. Not extravagant, but nice. The furniture was relatively new, the hardwood floors were cleaned and well-waxed. Jolene flounced over to a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks and knick-knacks. She bent over and hunted on one of the lower shelves until she pulled out a photo album that looked older than she was.

Then the girl walked back toward him, flipping pages and frowning in concentration. He looked down at the pages, which were upside down as he faced her, and saw that the pictures were all older, black and white mostly.

Finally she smiled and pointed to a picture. To make sure he saw it properly she turned her back to him and practically nestled herself against his front side. He took a half step back to adjust. She pushed against him a second time and he let her, otherwise she was going to chase him clean out of the house. With a firm reminder to himself that he was damn near old enough to be her daddy, he looked at the picture she proffered.

There were several members of the Blackbournes in the picture. He recognized Merle immediately. The man was older and heavier these days, but in the picture the family patriarch was still the weird kid Carl went to school with, thinner, with longish hair and a perpetual scowl on his face. Next to him stood a girl who looked enough like Jolene to be her twin. He didn’t have to work at it to figure out that was her mother at a younger age. And behind the both of them, looming over them, was the man sitting in his jail cell right now.

He didn’t look to have changed at all. The same hair, the same face, with the same thick lips and mottled skin. Her finger tapped his face. “That’s Cousin Frank. I never met him though.”

“Did he move away?” he had a powerful suspicion if the man had moved it was to a federal penitentiary. Maybe it was unkind, but not many of the Blackbournes ever seemed to move for any other reason.

Jolene shook her head, which managed to make her entire body shake in very interesting ways. Carl stepped back again, and damned if she didn’t immediately nestle herself against him a second time. He could have called her on it, but she’d have probably gotten less communicative. Also, he didn’t feel like letting her know she was flustering him, not even a little.

“Nope. Cousin Frank died before I was born.” Jolene looked up at him, her eyes completely serious. Not even a hint of her usual mischief was there to let him know she was deliberately being troublesome. “I think he got himself hit by a car. I heard he was a bit slow.”

A high, fine note rang in Carl’s ears. It would have been a sweet sound, but he was too busy trying to absorb the fact that a dead man was sitting in his cell. A dead man he’d been talking with.

There had to be a mistake, of course. He’d get to the bottom of it. Jolene was having a laugh at his expense, Halloween was right around the corner and the kid was having a laugh. That was all it was.

He just had to convince himself, because there was definitely something off about Frank.

Jolene turned to face him and let the picture album fall from her hand as if it mattered not in the least. Her fingers ran across his chest and she looked up at him, her body pressed far too close to his for comfort.

That was the exact moment her mother chose to walk through the door.

“Jolene, what have I told you about accosting gentleman callers?” Carl looked toward the woman, and watched the subtle smile that played across her perfect lips. The warning bells that told him Jolene was trouble should have been screaming their alarms at him, bellowing out that the woman he was looking at was danger, pure and simple, but they refused to go off.

Jolene’s hand slapped at his chest just hard enough to sting and she stepped away, looking at her mother with a bright smile. “Oh please! You know I’d never date a policeman.” The girl moved away from him, heading toward the back of the house without so much as bothering to look back in his direction.

Siobhan Blackbourne smiled in his direction. It was a questioning smile that said she wanted to know exactly what he was doing in her house, but it also had an edge that wondered if she should be worried about her daughter. Carl caught himself blushing and looked away from the woman.

“You’re Siobhan Blackbourne?”

“I was the last time I checked, and that was just this morning.” She moved into the room with that same nearly liquid grace and slipped the overcoat from her shoulders, sliding it onto the coat rack near the front door. “And unless I’m wrong in my guesses, you’re Sheriff Price.” Her tone made clear that she knew she wasn’t wrong.

“I actually came by to see you.” The words sounded awkward coming from his mouth. His tongue felt thick and awkward and his pulse was racing a bit. Damned if it didn’t feel like he was back in the freshman grade and getting ready to ask Tammie Woods to the spring fling.

“Well, here I am. What can I do for you Sheriff?” She moved past him, her eyes barely taking him in. He, in turn, drank in every detail he could. She was once again dressed in a simple long skirt and blouse. Somehow she made the casual outfit look elegant. Jolene was a lovely girl. Siobhan was a stunning woman. Up close the differences between them were monumental, though he had trouble believing the woman in front of him was old enough to have had a child, let along a child grown to adulthood.

He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and the sharp pain helped him focus. Maybe it was a perfume or pheromones or something else, but whatever the hell the woman was doing to him went beyond simple attraction.

“Ms. Blackbourne, I saw you the other day at your cousin’s house. You spoke to him as you were getting ready to leave.”

“I have been known to speak to my cousin, yes.” She had that amused expression still, and he hated her a little for it. Most people never looked past the badge. It was a shield in more ways than one. She seemed utterly unimpressed by the badge, what it stood for, or the man wearing it.

“My point being, he said you told him about a murder on the road.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Can you tell me how you heard about that murder?”

She shrugged her shoulders, her eyes locked with his. “Earle Harper up on the ridge mentioned the police activity. His boy, Will, was one of the men who found the body.” She looked down for a brief moment and then back at him, her eyes suddenly sorrowful and empathetic. “I understand from Merle that you knew the man who was murdered. I’m sorry for your loss. Merle said you were quite close.”

That should have made sense. It would have made sense, but he knew for a fact that the men who’d found the bodies hadn’t called anyone but the 911 dispatch office. It wasn’t hard to look at cell phone activity and he’d had that checked already. He did that anytime someone called in a crime, especially if that someone might or might not have reason for being at the scene. Technically he needed a warrant. Technically the man who could look up that information for him wasn’t a poker buddy. You work as sheriff you learn a few tricks to expedite matters. If the information ever needed to be documented, he’d go through the effort of getting a warrant and doing it the right way. Until then it was strictly under the radar. This time he might need a warrant.

“Thank you for that.” He nodded his head and kept his face as impassive as he could manage. “Do you have a cousin named Frank?”

Her eyes stayed on his. He resisted the very strong urge to shuffle from one foot to the other. Though she wasn’t quite close enough to touch him, he could damn near feel the heat radiating from her. “I did. He died a long while back now. Must be twenty years or more.”

“Do you know of anyone who might want to lie to me and tell me they were Frank Blackbourne?”

She smiled again and let out a throaty chuckle. “Sheriff, I think you’ve met a good number of my cousins. I imagine you have your opinions about how they make their livings. What makes you think there’s a one of them you haven’t met that wouldn’t gladly lie about his name to you?”

“This particular gentleman looks a lot like your actual cousin Frank. Do you know of any members of the family who are as large as he was?”

“There’s more than one member of the family who said Frank got all the size and Merle got all the brains. Perhaps you should ask Merle. He’s a lot closer to most of the family than I am.”

“Jolene pointed out Frank in the album.”

“As I said, you should ask Merle.” She looked down at the album on the ground and knelt to pick it up. A moment later she was placing it back on the shelf where it belonged. Unlike her daughter, she took care of the matter with grace and with a proper sense of decorum.

After that she turned back to face him again. “Was there anything else I could do for you, sheriff?”

He could think of far too many things.

He shook his head.

“No, that’s about it for now.” He moved for the door, making himself break the eye contact. Stupid. The effect she was having on him was asinine. Her daughter, who nearly exuded sex appeal in a primal way, had made him fidget a bit when she was trying hard. This woman remained indifferent and left him nearly stuttering his answers to her. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“I’m always glad to accommodate, sheriff.” He left before he could make a worse fool of himself.

He walked to his car as slowly as he could, making himself take his time. For some reason he felt a passionate need to run from the area. And though he did not look back, he could almost feel the eyes on him through the walls of the house he’d just left behind. He wondered if it was Siobhan or Jolene doing the staring. Much as he hated it, he had his preference as to who it might be.

*      *      *

Charon locked the door after Griffin stepped out of the store. She watched him walk through the twilight to his truck. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, with ice blue eyes and...and she had to stop thinking like that or she was going to need a cold shower. She couldn’t explain why she was so taken with the man. There was just something about him. She hoped it wasn’t just the bad boy thing so many women fell for. Griffin was dangerous. Not in the strutting, glowering way of some macho boneheads she knew. Charon knew enough about Griffin’s work to know that he truly was a scary man. But he was also funny and kind and here she was going all gooey like a schoolgirl.

Not that her infatuation was getting her anywhere. She had worn this damn shirt with her boobs practically hanging out and her tightest black jeans. Didn’t seem to have fazed him. Then again she was pretty sure she had caught him checking her out. Hope springs eternal and all that. If Griffin would just get over his age difference hang-up, Charon had a feeling the two of them could be good together.

She stepped into the back room again and prepared for a fresh assault on the glyphs. Before taking her chair again she lit a couple of candles. She didn’t need the light but she liked it. It was nice and witchy. Charon chuckled to herself. How many times had the kids back in school made fun of her during her Goth phase? Wouldn’t they be surprised to see her now, having made a success of her business? And it really was surprisingly successful. Like she had told Griffin, people came to her for all kinds of advice, charms, and knowledge. Plus she had transformed her love of books into an ability to track down and acquire rare volumes. She was becoming well known for her knowledge, and for her skill in tracing rare occult texts and that had proved quite lucrative.

Charon picked up one of the printouts and stared at the glyphs again. The knowledge that they had been carved into a dead man’s torso seem to give them new weight and meaning. If only she could do more with the letters. She had quite a good working knowledge of ancient languages, gleaned through her studies of old grimoires, but she wasn’t a linguist. Might be time to call in a few favors from some of her Internet buddies. She would have to be careful who she showed the glyphs to though. Perhaps she could separate the letters from the pictographs, so that no one would see the entire thing. Then again that might make it harder for anyone to actually help her.

One of the candles guttered suddenly and Charon felt a draft on the back of her neck. What the hell? The storefront didn’t have any windows that could be opened. Where the hell could a draft be coming from? Charon got up from the desk and turned toward the connecting door. The beaded curtain was moving just a bit, as if someone had been holding it slightly open but had just released it. Gooseflesh crawled on Charon’s arms and the nape of her neck.

She walked slowly to the curtains and looked into the front room. No one was there. But the front door was open. She had locked it. She knew she had locked it and she had thrown the deadbolt. There was no way the door could be open and yet it was. Charon moved around the counter, her gaze searching the dark corners of the room. The store was too narrow to offer many hiding spaces. In fact the only place anyone could stand where she couldn’t see him or her from her present position was behind a tall bookcase that acted as a divider for the center of the store. Heart pounding, Charon stepped toward the front door. She wanted to move to where she could see behind the shelf and also to where she could run out the front door if she saw anyone. She made a final quick step around the shelf.

No one there. Charon let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. A slight breeze came through the door and some stray leaves fluttered across the hardwood floor with a dry rattle. Charon looked down and her heart rate, which had just begun to settle, went back into overdrive. Dark had fallen but in the dim light from the street lamps she could see that there were symbols painted on the floor. They were the same symbols as the ones on Griffin’s printouts and in the same pattern.

Charon hurried over to the front door and relocked it. Then she turned on the lights. The symbols had been painted in some dark viscous fluid. Oh no, Charon thought. Oh god, no. She crouched to get a better look at the glyphs. Unless she was mistaken, the symbols on the floor of her shop had been painted with blood.

*      *      *

“Can’t see where the locks have been tampered with,” Griffin said. “You’re sure you locked them?”

Charon said, “I’m OCD about doors, Griffin. It was locked and dead bolted.”

Griffin rose from his examination of the door. He had been about halfway home when Charon’s frantic phone call had come. He didn’t blame the girl for being freaked out. He couldn’t be sure that the substance the glyphs were painted in was blood but it certainly looked like it. Which left Griffin with a bit of a quandary. Should he call the Gatesville cops? Doing so would blow Carl’s investigation open and ultimately what good could the Gatesville PD do? They could take samples of the substance and get them analyzed, but Carl could get that done as well.

Griffin said, “Here’s what I think we should do. We’ll pretend you went home before this was done. I’ll give my buddy, Sheriff Carl Price a call and he can get one of his people up here early tomorrow, before opening time. After they’re done you can call the local cops and tell them you discovered this when you opened up.”

“If that’s what you think is best,” Charon said. “I’m a little out of my depth here.”

“Aren’t we all? Thing is, Carl had a break-in like this at his home. Whoever it was came right in as if his locked doors weren’t even there, and Carl has some serious locks.”

Charon said, “And you think whoever killed your friend is behind both break-ins?”

“It’s possible.”

“And now he knows where to find me. Jesus, Griffin.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. It never occurred to me I could be putting you in any sort of danger.”

“I’m not blaming you. I’m just scared, okay?”

Griffin nodded. “You’d be crazy if you weren’t. In any case, I think it would be better if you stayed at my place tonight.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“You can take my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Not exactly the arrangement I was hoping for, but it’s a start. Let me grab a few things and we’ll get out of here.”

Griffin looked at the symbols on the floor again. How long would it have taken someone to paint them there? He had barely been gone from the store fifteen minutes before Charon had called. So someone had picked a good lock, somehow circumvented a deadbolt, and then carefully painted arcane symbols in what looked like blood in an amazingly short time. And through it all, Charon had heard nothing? As he had said to Carl earlier in the day, what the hell had they walked into?

*      *      *

Andy Hunter stared at the replacement table as if it might, possibly, be a snake. Then he turned his eyes to Carl and gave a sharp nod. “It’ll do.” He knew that was as close as he was going to get to full approval.

“I really am sorry, Andy.” The man made him feel like he was ten. What the hell was it with people making him feel like he was a kid or an adolescent lately? Okay, the reaction he had to Siobhan Blackbourne was much different. But still, the same basic notion.

“I don’t suppose it’s completely your fault. You find an old piece of metal in the ground and bring it to me and ask me to figure out what it means and in the process you manage to piss of a grizzly bear. These things happen all the time, right?”

“Look, he threw the table. I just found a replacement. It’s even the same company that made the original.”

“It lacks the proper sentimental value.” Andy was just messing with him now and he knew it.

“I don’t need to know about you having sex with any of your students on that table, Andy.”

“I never had sex with any of my students. They’re far too young for my tastes.” The old man moved into his house and waved for Carl to follow. Rather than risk another glare, the sheriff obeyed.

“So what did you find out?”

“I found out you’re as impatient as your daddy. That’s why he always sucked at poker.” The man moved into the kitchen and poured them both a cup of coffee from a pot so fresh it was still steaming. When they’d both fixed the cups to their tastes, he settled down at the table and held up the linked chain that Carl had brought for him to look over.

“This makes about as much sense as a square tire. So if you’re looking for some kind of cosmic revelation, you’re wasting your time.”

“I’m just trying to figure out why someone put that in my house, Andy.” He looked at the man and took a sip of coffee. “I mean, they broke into the house to put that on my table. They didn’t take anything; they didn’t stay around. So I figure it’s got to mean something.”

“It’s mostly a charm bracelet. But you have to remember that charm bracelets have meaning, too. They hold charms. In this case the little tokens on here are charms for fertility and luck, mostly. But there’s a few of them that I can’t identify and it isn’t for lack of trying.” His thick index finger pointed to a small lump that could have been a snake eating itself or could have been a stylized seashell. It was hard to say with any certainty because the piece was old and not well kept. According to Frank Blackbourne, it had been buried for a few decades. That wasn’t the sort of thing that was good for preserving metal.

“You know anyone who might be able to help with that?”

“You think I’d have called you back if I hadn’t already checked?” Again with the laser eyes. “Similar symbols to this have been found over the years. No one knows for sure what they mean. There’s a possibility it’s a symbol for a fertility god or goddess. There’s also a chance that it’s just been beat to hell from being in the ground and then washed off by somebody who didn’t know how to clear away all the debris without damaging the metal.”

“So mostly it’s luck and baby making with a side of who the heck knows?”

“That about sums it up. It’s the who the heck knows you should be worried about.”

“Why’s that?”

“Most of this is just local hokum. A few of the symbols, the ones I can’t figure out, have a long association with sorcery and human sacrifice.”

Carl carefully plucked the chain from the older man’s hand. “Well, I thank you for the help, Andy. And now I’m gonna get this off your hands, because if I had one person looking for it, I might have others and you don’t need any more tables trashed on my account.”

Andy stood up and nodded his head. “Might not be a bad notion at that.” The old man took one last sip of his coffee. “I’m still waiting to hear back from a couple of people, but that’s about the best I can do for you. Whatever you’re dealing with, you take care. A lot of people think all that nonsense about old cults still hanging around is a joke, but the one thing history tells us again and again is that a man and his religion aren’t always easy to separate. Anyone playing around with that sort of thing is likely to risk getting burned.”

“Well, I appreciate it, Andy.” He tucked the charms into the inside pocket of his jacket and made sure to seal the zipper on the pocket as an added precaution. “You have anyone else come creeping around here, you call me and I’ll get right on over.”

“No thank you. I have a perfectly fine 12 gauge in the closet, and I can destroy my own furniture without any help from you.” He patted Carl on the shoulder and led him toward the door. Just like that he’d been dismissed.

“You’re not ever gonna let that go, are you?”

“We’ll see.”

“Thanks again, Andy. I owe you one.”

“Owe me a new porch is what you owe me. Did you see the scratch you boys put in my wood finish?”

Carl beat a hasty retreat before the man could talk him into replacing the whole damned wraparound. He didn’t mention to Andy that there had been a ritual sacrifice made recently. Much as he admired the man, he didn’t necessarily trust that the retired professor was the sort to keep that sort of thing close to his chest.

He was going to have to call Wade again. There were stranger and stranger things going on here. He knew Wade Griffin well enough not only to trust him, but to trust in his ability not to spread information where it wasn’t needed.

The cell phone beeped and he answered it. “What’s new and happening, Nichole?”

“Got a missing boy not far from where you are, Carl. Billy McRae fell into a hole in the ground and his friends called to report it.”

Billy McRae was supposed to be in school. He knew the McRae family well enough to know that much. Billy was all of twelve. Then again he’d played hooky a few times when he was that age, too.

“Where are the little darlings?”

“Mile marker 26. Not far from where you have a couple of deputies posted. Want me to have them take care of it?”

“Nope. Been too much activity over there. I’ll handle the kids, but call Kyle Turner over at the fire station and ask him to get an engine up there will you?”

“Okay then. You still bringing lunch over here? It’s your turn.”

“It’s on the agenda, Nichole. Barbeque pork sandwiches and fries.”

“And why don’t you bring some animal tranquilizers back with you? That big guy you hauled in yesterday is getting all kinds of fussy.”

“You just sing him a few lullabies and I’ll see what I can do.”

“You don’t pay me enough to sing. Carl.”

“Nichole, you know I love you, but I’ve heard you sing. Sounded like two turkeys in a death-match. No one needs to hear that again.”

“That’s just cold.”

“Honey, you shouldn’t sing and I shouldn’t dance.” He chuckled. “Some truths are just plain painful.”

“Just get your butt in gear, mister.”

“Yes, boss.”

He turned on the flashers. No reason to keep the kids waiting too long, and he didn’t like the idea of any of the kids falling into one of the old mining pits. Back in the day there’d been a minor gold rush in the area, mostly as a result of Dahlonega getting swarmed with people seeking fortune. Someone had started rumors about the same sort of gold strike in Brennert County. There hadn’t been much to it, of course, but that never stopped the frenzies. There were claims filed, and holes dug and in several cases mineshafts bored into the sides of hills, all to no real avail. The end result was a honeycomb of shafts and holes that were mostly long since forgotten and in many cases had filled in over the course of time. But every couple of years the locals managed to find another hole to fall into and he got the dubious pleasure of finding them and pulling them out.

*      *      *

Nichole hung up the phone and looked around the sheriff’s office. It was wonderfully quiet, except for the guy in the back. He was screaming up a storm again and she was about done putting up with him. She wasn’t paid enough to put up with that sort of nonsense.

None of the deputies were around except for Fred Angler and he was probably outside and grabbing another smoke. Carl had strict rules about no smoking in the building but he didn’t much care if they snuck around to the back now and then to grab a nicotine fix.

With that in mind, Nichole climbed from her chair, sighed mightily and headed back to see if she could convince the screaming mountain to calm down.

She’d only seen Frank Blackbourne in passing and that was enough to make her talk to Johnny about it and she almost never brought work home with her. But Blackbourne was a beast, pure and simple. Six feet, nine inches tall, and close to four hundred pounds of flesh. She’d been the one to write all the facts down in his file. He was a very big boy.

She unlocked the security doors and locked them again behind her, and then moved down the hallway to the holding cells, careful to follow protocol. It was always best to follow the rules around Carl. He could be a stickler. Not that she blamed him, of course.

Frank Blackbourne stopped yelling the second she entered the holding area. He was sitting down, his arms resting on his knees, and his head lowered, almost to the point where he was looking down at the ground.

“Mister Blackbourne? Is there a reason for all the noise you’re making?” She tried to keep her tone strict, but when she looked at him, really looked at him, she felt her heart rate increase. Damn, but he was big.

The man’s head raised slightly, until she could see the light reflected off his eyes as he stared back at her, his face mostly lost in shadows and the light above him making his hair look almost silvery.

“I don’t want to be here no more.”

“Well now, you should have thought about that before you started trying to beat on the county sheriff.”

“He took from me and mine. I can’t abide that.”

“He did no such thing. You never even said what he stole.”

“He stole from my Meemaw!”

“Son, you need to calm yourself down.” She spoke with authority. She might not feel very adventurous, but she was a trained deputy and knew the best way to keep control of a situation was to act like you were in control of a situation. Well, that and to remember how to shoot if you had to. She doubted it would come to that.

“You need to get it back to me before I go find it!” The man’s voice sounded strained, and he stood up. And when he did, she saw that she was completely wrong. There was no way the man in that cell was only six feet nine inches tall. His skin was looking worse than when he came in, with dark patches of splotchy skin and spots where he was flaking worse than a man with chronic psoriasis. Something was wrong with him, something serious.

“You need a doctor?” She took a step closer, frowning.

“I want it back!” His voice. Something was decidedly wrong. His voice didn’t sound at all right and it didn’t seem to be coming from his mouth.

Nichole shook her head. There was something wrong with him. Something that didn’t make any sense at all and she didn’t think it was just his size.

“You hearing me, Missy? You hearing me talking to you?” Blackbourne stepped closer to the cell wall, his massive body shifting as he slammed his hand into the bars. The wall shook.

Nichole unholstered her weapon. “You better calm down! Right damn now!”

The man’s face was half hidden in shadows, but she could still see his teeth bared as he smiled. “Can’t hurt me with that any more. Can’t just hurt me. I have protection now.”

She frowned. What the hell was he talking about?

“Frank Blackbourne, you step away from the bars or I’ll have to get mean with you.”

Blackbourne’s arm whipped back and then rammed into the bars hard enough to shake the entire wall again. Before she could do more than flinch he did it again and this time the bars bent. Not a lot, but more than they should have. Nothing short of being rammed by a car should have hurt that metal.

Blackbourne’s hands gripped the bars and he leered at her, his eyes blazing, his face red with effort. Blackbourne grunted and pulled and the bars bent some more.

“Screw this.” Nichole pulled the service pistol and aimed for the nasty grin on his face. “Back down right now!”

“Gonna blister your ass, little missy! Gonna whoop your fanny from here to Mississippi, unless you get me what’s miiine!” His voice was distorting further and booming, and worse still, his mouth never stopped leering at her. The voice was coming from elsewhere, she had no doubt about it any longer. The voice was wrong, the words were wrong. He no longer sounded like Frank Blackbourne, not in his voice and not in the words he used.

He strained harder and the metal bars bent with a scream of pain.

And Nichole fired. She pulled the trigger three times, and three bullets slammed into Frank Blackbourne’s head and face. His head snapped back once, twice and then a third time, and he fell back, letting go of the bars.

Jesus, she’d just killed a man. Just that fast it hit her. She’d ended a life. She’d never wanted that, never meant for it to happen but he was scaring the hell out of her.

Her hand trembled and she looked at his body and took a step toward the bars.

And Frank sat up, his face bleeding from a hole in his forehead, where his left eye had been and from a third hole that ripped his mouth into a new shape and revealed the teeth the bullet had shattered as it ran its course.

From somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach the voice called out clearly, “Well naowww, I guess you needs ta be put back in yuur plaaace, misssssy!”

His hands looked wrong. Too big, warped. His arms were so thick, so heavy with muscle, with impossible muscle and veins and, oh, Lord, he was standing back up, bleeding from his face, his head and getting back up.

Nichole stepped back, shaking her head. Not possible. Dead people didn’t stand back up. Dead people didn’t talk from their belly buttons.

“You shut up! You sit right back down on your cot and you shut your mouth!” She was screaming and her voice was shrill and she realized, irrationally, that Carl was right. She really did have a crappy singing voice.

Nichole took aim and fired again, again, again until the there were no bullets left.

Frank didn’t even bother with falling back. Chunks of him blew out and away from his body, but he didn’t seem to care. He grabbed the bars again and ripped back with both of his arms and the metal obligingly tore into rough metal shreds.

Nichole backed up, eyes wide, and fumbled for the spare clip on her belt.

Frank charged toward her, his body still changing.

His face was still bleeding, the leer made worse by the bloody flap of flesh and the broken teeth that grinned at her.

His hands were even bigger when they grabbed at her body.

It’s safe to assume that hands which could tear thick metal bars could have torn Nichole’s body apart with ease. Frank took his time.

And Nichole got to see where that voice was coming from before she died screaming.

*      *      *

“Something’s wrong,” Griffin said.

Charon said, “What do you mean? I don’t see anything.”

They were seated in Griffin’s truck in front of his apartment building. Griffin pointed toward a dark opening. “That’s the breezeway that leads to my apartment. There are three overhead lights along that breezeway. All three bulbs didn’t go out at once.”

“Meaning someone knocked them out.”

“That would be my guess, yeah.”

“We should just go, Griffin,” Charon said. “Just pull out and we’ll call some of your cop buddies.”

Griffin smiled. “Then we wouldn’t know what’s going on. Here’s what I need you to do. When I get out, slide over into the driver’s seat and lock the doors. Here’s my cell. Anything happens to me, just hit the number marked Carl. If things get really bad, drive away. Fast.” Griffin could see Charon’s eyes in the light from the phone screen. She looked terrified.

“Don’t, Griffin. Don’t go out there.”

Griffin said. “You sound like the schoolmarm in High Noon. This is the sort of thing I do for a living. I’m not expecting it to go bad. I just want you to have a plan. Now lock the door behind me.”

Griffin pushed the dome light override on the console so the interior light wouldn’t come on when he got out of the truck. His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he didn’t want to spoil his night vision or give anyone an easy target. Before he got out of the truck he pulled the Smith & Wesson .357 out of his shoulder holster.

“See, I’m not exactly unprepared.”

“I still think we should go,” said Charon.

“And you’re probably right. Back soon.”

“You’d better be.”

Griffin stepped out of the truck and closed the door. When he heard the locks click he started walking toward the breezeway. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them and drew slow breaths in through his nose and breathed out through his mouth. Classic calming exercise. Unfortunately it also allowed him to pick up the smell. Some overpoweringly rancid odor was wafting out of the breezeway. It was like sewage, old garbage and rotting meat. No, it was worse.

Griffin slowed as he reached the three stairs that led up to the breezeway. There was someone standing in the shadows. Actually several someones and he wasn’t sure standing was the right word. The indistinct figures seemed to be slightly hunched over and he couldn’t be sure how many of them there were. The smell was getting worse the closer he got to them.

Oh well, no point in being subtle. Griffin said, “Something I can do for you fellows?”

The voice that answered sounded as if it were coming from a distance and as if the speaker might be drowning in some thick substance. “Take the warning.”

“What warning would that be?”

“You saw it. The girl saw it.”

“The writing on the floor? Neat trick. How did you manage it? I’m fascinated by this sort of thing.”

“Take the warning,” the man gurgled.

“Or what?”

“We kill you.”

“Why don’t you come into what light there is so I can see you?”

“You don’t want to see us.”

“Try me.”

The closest figure moved forward in a sort of shuffle. Much of him was still in shadow but Griffin could see that his skin was pale white, what Griffin’s father would have called snake-belly white, and he seemed to have some sort of skin disease. His flesh was covered with boils and leaking sores. The man smiled, revealing oddly sharp teeth. “Still want to see the rest of us? I’m the prettiest.”

“Not really, but let me tell you something. I don’t deal well with threats. In case you didn’t notice, I’m carrying a damn big gun, so saying you’re going to kill me if I don’t heed your warning doesn’t carry a lot of weight. And truthfully, fish breath, I don’t even know what your warning means.”

“Means you go through the gate. Open the path.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Take the warning. Leave things alone.”

Griffin said, “Probably not.”

Griffin wouldn’t have thought such a misshapen creature could have moved so quickly, but the man lurched out of the breezeway with amazing speed and locked his fingers around Griffin’s throat. Griffin brought the pistol up and drove the butt of the heavy weapon down on the bridge of fish breath’s nose, making a wet, crunching noise. Fish breath staggered backwards, but the other figures seemed to flow like a wave from the stairs, washing over Griffin and bearing him to the ground.

Griffin didn’t hesitate. He pushed the barrel of the gun into the closest attacker and pulled the trigger. One of the men went spinning away. Griffin managed to get to one knee and slam the .357 into the side of another opponent’s head. This one didn’t fall but kept clawing at Griffin. There seemed to be something wrong with the man’s head, as if his skull were too large and not the proper shape, but it was hard to tell in the semi darkness. Griffin hit him again and this time he crumpled to the ground.

There were still too many of them. Their weight alone was sapping Griffin’s strength and one of them had managed to latch onto his right arm so that Griffin couldn’t bring the gun into play. He fired off a round anyway, hoping to startle the man into letting go, but the grip didn’t loosen.

Then light exploded in front of Griffin and he heard an engine roar. He saw his truck bearing down on the group. That startled them. Griffin jerked his arm free and shot the nearest attacker. The next second another went flying as the truck struck him. Then the group was lurching and shuffling away. Griffin could hear sirens in the distance. He hurried around to the passenger side of the truck and climbed in.

“Get us out of here,” he said. He looked at Charon. She was staring straight ahead and clutching the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles were white. “We need to go. The cops will be here soon and I don’t want to try and explain this.”

Charon nodded and turned the truck around. Griffin said, “Just drive slowly, like nothing has happened.”

When they were back on the road Charon said, “Those men were going to kill you.”

“Sure looked that way. Thanks for charging in there.”

“I didn’t think. I just realized they meant to murder you and I couldn’t think of anything to do but drive the truck into them.”

“You did great, Charon.” Two blue and white Gatesville PD cars shot past them going in the opposite direction. Griffin said, “Pull over at that gas station and then I’ll take the wheel.”

“I can drive us,” Charon said.

Until the shock hits you, Griffin thought. He said, “I know, but it’s probably better if I take over.”

Charon pulled into the parking lot and Griffin got out of the truck. A few seconds passed, then Charon stepped out. When both of them were in front of the car Charon threw her arms around Griffin’s waist and buried her head against his chest. Griffin put his arms around her and rested one hand on the back of her head.

They stood that way for a few moments, then Charon leaned back and looked up at Griffin. She said, “When I turned on the headlights, I could see those...men clearly. Did you see them?”

Griffin had seen. Fish breath had been right about being the prettiest. He wasn’t sure what he had seen in the momentary glare of the headlights. There had been at least a half dozen of the attackers. Some had looked like circus freaks. He had seen a hand with only two, long, deformed fingers. One of the things hadn’t had a face, just a livid pink mass of scar tissue. And the others. The others didn’t even seem to be complete human bodies. Not the right number or correct arrangements of limbs. Snake-belly white flesh gone mad.

“I saw them,” Griffin said.

“What were they?”

“I don’t know, Charon. Right now we need to find a hotel and try to get our bearings.”

“We could go to my place.”

“They knew where to find me. They probably know where to find you. They said the warning was for both of us.”

“What warning? The writing on the floor? But we can’t even read the god damn thing.”

“I don’t think they care.”

“This is crazy.”

“It is, so let’s just find somewhere safe where we can rest and think this through. Somehow this all goes back to Jerry Wallace’s death.”

“That was your friend?”

“Yeah. All of this started when his body was found and when I brought you the symbols.”

Charon said, “The man you were talking to before they all attacked you. What did he say?”

“Just that we should take the warning. He said something about a path. I’ve no idea what he meant.”

Charon said. “Me either, but I’m going to add that to what I already know about the symbols. Try and recall exactly what he said.”

Having something to concentrate on seemed to be helping Charon deal with what had just happened. Or ignore it. Griffin said, “Yes ma’am.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound like I was giving you orders.”

“Hey. Anyone who drives a truck into a bunch of madmen to save my ass can say anything she wants.”

What had the man said, exactly? Something about going through a gate and taking a path. Well whatever path it was, Griffin had an idea he wouldn’t like the place where it led.

*      *      *

Carl couldn’t get back to the office fast enough. The Brennert County Sheriff’s Department stood by itself, but it was part of a complex of buildings that were attached to the town square in Wellman. The town wasn’t all that large, but it was big enough and central to the rest of the county. Wellman, Georgia had been his home for the majority of his life and he liked it just fine most days.

Today he hated everything about the damned place.

He’d been heading for home when the radio blared out that there’d been an incident at the jail adjacent to his office and that officers were down. He didn’t speak on the radio himself except to call for all available personnel to head for the offices and to demand radio silence. He was damned if he’d have anyone squawking out details for the gossipers.

And he was also terrified. He felt a sick ice field spreading in his stomach, because the voice hadn’t belonged to one of his deputies. It had belonged to Laura Hedges, who was hired on as a nutritionist and dietician for the jail. That was fancy speak for she brought in the food for whoever was stuck in lockup.

There was only supposed to be one person in lockup. Her exact words on the radio kept ringing in his ears. “Carl? Anyone? You need to come fast. There’s so much blood!” She’d sounded sick, not like she was feeling grief, but like she’d been ill already, like she’d been vomiting.

He didn’t want to know what the hell she’d seen. He needed to know, yes, but he dreaded the knowledge.

All he could think about was Jerry and the way he’d looked. There was no reason, of course. No correlation, except that Frank Blackbourne was in a cell and, oh, yeah, according to his own family, he was dead and buried for a while now. Not the sort of thought that offered him comfort as he tore down the road with sirens and lights to warn everyone to get the hell out of his way.

He barely took the time to park as he moved for the building. There was a crowd gathering outside but Dave Osborn and Sandy Chambers were already there and keeping everyone outside. They were looking green around the gills.

Sandy shook her head when she saw him. “Carl, it’s bad.” Her voice sounded wrong, her eyes looked wrong and she was shaky at best. That ice in his stomach kept getting colder.

“Paramedics?”

“No need.”

“Nichole?”

Sandy nodded. “And Fred. Fred too.” Her voice broke and she stopped herself from breaking down with effort.

“Blackbourne? He still in there?”

“No. No, he’s gone.”

Fuck.

“Keep everyone out except CSI. When are they supposed to be here?”

“On their way. They were going over the wreck on Euclid.” He clamped his teeth down to avoid screaming. Small counties had resources, but sometimes they were thin. CSI was looking over accidents because he had half his deputies staying around other crime scenes that were still under investigation.

He put his hand on the butt of his pistol, not because he needed it, but because he wanted something familiar and something solid he could grip. Then he entered the offices and headed back for lockup.

Nichole should have been at her damned desk. She should have been in reception and dispatch and she should have been making a smartass comment and he should have been making one back by now. Instead he walked through reception and past the doors that were supposed to be locked. They weren’t locked currently because something had forced them open. Solid metal doors, some of them had been bent, some of them had simply been forced.

Oh yes, the ice was spreading. His stomach was lost in blizzard and he moved forward with slow, careful steps. Metal doors weren’t supposed to get knocked around. Sliding metal doors weren’t supposed to be bent out of shape. Oh, and Nichole was not supposed to leave her desk. She wasn’t supposed to go cruising into the lockup area and talk to dead men and she wasn’t supposed to leave the reception area untended. He’d have to have a little chat with her about that.

No. No more time for games. No more make believe.

He stepped into the lockup and looked around his personal hell for a few minutes. He didn’t walk far. He didn’t have to.

And there was no denying that this was directly related to Jerry’s death. Someone was trying to do something. He didn’t know if it was supposed to be a ritual or a warning or what, but they were trying to get their message through and he was going to make sure he listened.

Nichole was very dead. No denying that. She’d been done in the same way as Jerry Wallace. Only there were differences, out of necessity. Whoever had gone to town on her remains had been limited in what they had to work with. Instead of crucifying her, they’d used the torn metal from the bars of the cell—torn, he could see the stress marks where the metal had been bent out of shape by whatever had broken Blackbourne out of his cell—and they’d impaled her limbs on the bars. They’d also done in her eyes the same way, only because there were no nails, they’d used the same bars again. He could look at the stretched and malformed metal that had taken the place of her eyes and—could still see the institutional green shade the bars had been painted, and wasn’t that a sight because her eyes had always been the same shade of brown, not at all like the green and gray that had replaced them and of course she wore make up, she didn’t normally have bloody tears running down her round cheeks and in all of the time he’d known Nichole she’d never once had her mouth stretched open quite that wide before and of course she’d never have considered being naked in front of him. That was just ridiculous. She was a married woman and they were friends. She’d never even once mentioned a tattoo but there it was, a little four-leaf clover on her left breast, just below where someone had carved a marking into her. Who’d have thought it?

He looked away from Nichole and saw that Fred was on the bent metal bars, too. He just hadn’t been so completely, well, splayed open. Whoever had done the deed had pretty much gutted poor Nichole like they were dressing a deer during hunting season and wasn’t that a peculiar thing to think, what with hunting season still a couple of weeks away.

“Oh, fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck….” Carl made it from the room and reached the bathroom before he started dry heaving. He was absently glad that he hadn’t decided to eat his barbeque sandwich before he got the call. That thought send another wrenching spasm through his stomach.

A couple of minutes later he’d mostly gotten himself under control again and he splashed cold water on his face before he stepped back into the offices.

And from that moment on, he waited for the crime scene techs. He wouldn’t be staying around. They had to take care of the scene and he had to take care of other things.

He had to tell John that his wife, Nichole, was dead.

He had to tell Brenda Jean that Fred was dead, and there were the kids to consider. Fred Junior, and little Carrie. Oh, shit, no seven-year-old girl should lose her daddy that way.

And he’d be talking to the GBI and the FBI and making sure that they left his case alone. Oh, there might be a few arguments, but he’d make it happen. The relationships he’d garnered over the years were good ones and they’d let him have this one. They might not like it, but he’d make it work.

And then he had to find a grave, didn’t he? He had to make sure that Frank Blackbourne was as dead and buried as he was supposed to be, because if he wasn’t, that meant that Carl was dealing with some seriously fucked up shit. How fucked up? Easy. He had a fine eye for details. He saw all sorts of things before his stomach betrayed him. He saw, for instance, the way the metal bars had been bent. Oh, he could maybe try to convince himself that someone had somehow managed to get a truck into his office and wrap chains around those bars and pull until those bars had bent. He could just possibly pretend that a blowtorch had been employed. Or he could accept the evidence before his eyes and acknowledge that the damage had been done by something in the shape of hands. Really, really big hands. And he could also accept that he’d seen fingerprints in the paint that had stretched and warped along with the metal bars that had been twisted and torn before they were pushed through Nichole and Fred’s eyes.

And if he could accept all of that, then really, it wasn’t so hard to think that someone had maybe dug Frank out of his grave, now was it?

Or maybe something worse had happened.

Maybe Frank had dug himself out of his grave when his precious Meemaw’s damned necklace got stolen. Wasn’t that a comforting thought? Didn’t that just sit so very well?

Carl forced himself to take deep breaths. He made his hands unclench. He opened his jaw and slowly worked it, listening to the pop and crackle of muscles that wanted to lock.

There was so much to do, and so little time.

And somehow he needed to get everything done as quickly as he could, because now there were more murders to get to solving, before anyone else he cared for wound up dead and decorating a cell wall or a being turned into a scarecrow.

And of course he had to find dead Frank and give him a reason to return to the grave.

So much to do.

It was enough to make a man want to scream and scream and scream.

*      *      *

Griffin stood in the hotel shower for a long time, letting the hot water roll over him. The stench from his attackers had lingered, but it seemed to be gone now. Having nothing else to wear he had sent his clothes down to be laundered. Fortunately it was a nice enough hotel to offer that service and to supply big terrycloth robes. Gatesville had added a big convention center outside downtown and several first rate hotels had sprung up close by. Griffin stepped out of the shower and slipped into his robe. A little snug through the shoulders, but otherwise fine.

Charon was sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop propped on her knees when Griffin came out of the bathroom. She looked up at him and smiled. “Be still my heart.”

“Did they say how long my clothes would be?” Griffin said.

“Couple of hours.”

“How are you doing?”

“Better than I was. Still a little freaked out by what we saw. Any new thoughts on that?”

Griffin shook his head. “The only thing that I can think of is some sort of mutants, but that’s pretty thin.”

“My thought too. I’ve been doing some research on the net, but I haven’t found reports of any mutations that come close to those things we saw. I’ve also done a bit of fiddling with the glyphs using the stuff the one guy said to you.”

“And.”

“Zilch. We may have to go to a higher authority.”

“Is there one?”

“I know a guy. Well, know is maybe too strong a word. I’ve never met him, though he is local. We exchange emails and chat online a lot. He’s one of my main sources for occult books and information. I haven’t approached him so far because you said you were trying to keep a low profile on this investigation.”

“Yeah, I think the time for that has passed. Get in touch with him and see if he can help us.”

“Give me a couple of minutes to put some stuff in an email. I’ll make some pdf copies of the glyphs.”

Charon turned her attention back to her laptop, typing away at a furious rate. Griffin, a two-fingered typist on his best day, was amazed at how anyone could type so quickly, especially with the laptop rocking back and forth on her legs. Griffin sat down on the other side of the bed and made a quick check of the weapons he’d left on the night table. He had reloaded the .357 and he had two speed loaders for it. He had also taken his Beretta 9mm from its hiding place in the truck. It had a full magazine of sixteen rounds and he had two extra clips. Beretta didn’t sell the 16 round magazines anymore but Griffin knew where to get new ones in the aftermarket.

Satisfied with the available firepower, Griffin picked up the remote and bumped the TV on. He channel surfed until he found the local news. Nothing about shots fired at a Gatesville apartment complex yet. That was odd, especially since there were probably at least two dead men and those weren’t exactly average citizens.

“Done,” Charon said. “He may be asleep by now, but hopefully he’ll get back to me tomorrow.”

“Hopefully,” said Griffin. “And speaking of sleep we should probably try and get some. Do you want me to sleep on the floor since there’s just the one bed?”

“Don’t be stupid, Griffin,” Charon said. “I think we’ve established you can be trusted not to ravage me despite my best efforts to be seductive.” She leaned back on the bed and struck a pin-up pose with one hand behind her head.

Griffin suddenly wished he were wearing something under his robe. He cleared his throat and said, “You can get under the covers and I’ll sleep on top of the spread.”

Charon chuckled. “You are too straight for words. I don’t want to sleep in my clothes so I’ll grab the other robe.” She got up and went into the bathroom. She came back a few minutes later, wrapped in her robe and climbed into bed with exaggerated primness. She had scrubbed off her make-up and as a result looked even younger, making Griffin feel guilty about the thoughts he’d had earlier. He turned off the lights and lay back, very aware of the beautiful young woman stretched out right beside him. It took Griffin quite some time to go to sleep.

*      *      *

The sun wasn’t up yet, but Carl still was. He hadn’t slept and doubted that he would. He hadn’t felt this way since, well, not in a long while at any rate. Best not to think about her. It would distract from what had to be done.

Instead he’d gone through his rather substantial collection of weapons and found the ones he thought would do him the best. He’d also “borrowed” a few from the weapons lockup at the jail. It was amazing the shit people left in their houses and how much even a small office like his had managed to confiscate over the years.

The preliminary reports were in, of course. There was no doubt as to the cause of death for his two deputies. And there were fingerprints, of course, but none that were usable. They were all distorted, bloated and warped out of shape by either extreme pressure or something worse.

Frank Blackbourne. He’d grown bigger somehow.

Carl knew it in his heart. He’d thought that man seemed larger when he’d last seen him, and he’d pushed the thought aside, because people don’t just grow bigger. They might have growth spurts in high school and they might come back from a long vacation a few inches taller while in the throes of puberty, but as a rule, no, people didn’t grow bigger.

Or come back from the grave.

It hadn’t been hard to find the location of Frank’s gravesite. The county records weren’t all perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d found the right cemetery and the right plot with relative ease. He just looked for the headstone with the gaping hole in front of it and he was halfway there. Damnedest thing: the ground had not been dug up. It looked more like it had erupted, complete with large chunks of soil that were locked into place by the root system that had grown over the grave in the twenty odd years since Frank had passed.

Two decades, long enough for a body to decompose, maybe just to a skeleton, maybe all the way back down to organic mush. Frank had either come back from that, or he’d never really been properly decomposing. Either way, he wasn’t exactly normal.

Normal had gone straight out the window and much as he didn’t like to think about it, Carl was going to have to accept it.

And he was also going to have to warn Wade. His friend was a hardass, he was maybe even into the sort of work that Carl refused to think too much about, and had probably done a few things he shouldn’t have over the years, but despite the fact that he could handle his own, there were limits. Frank Blackbourne had apparently ripped through steel bars with his bare hands. He’d also done unimaginable things to two human bodies with the same hands.

And while there were differences between what had happened to Jerry and his deputies-best not to think of them as Nichole and Fred right now, because that would start him wanting to go a little crazy again, there were enough similarities that Carl had little doubt that the killings were somehow connected.

He dialed without letting himself think. The phone rang twice and while it rang Carl looked out the window and saw only the darkness of the pre-dawn morning.

“Hullo.” The voice was sleep slurred.

“Shit. Wade? It’s Carl. I wasn’t. I didn’t think about the time.”

“What’s wrong?” Wade woke up fast. That was hardly a surprise.

“You know the fella I had in my lockup? The big boy named Frank Blackbourne. He got out and he took a couple of my deputies out in the process.”

“He killed them?”

“Yeah, and they didn’t die easy. But here’s the thing about Frank. Wade, he’s been dead for a little over twenty years. His grave was opened. I mean it. Either someone’s taking a lot of effort to make it look like Frank came back from the dead, or he actually came out of his grave. Either way, he’s dangerous and he’s connected to Jerry’s murder. There are some differences, but he used the same sort of methods to kill Nichole and Fred.

“I’m sorry about your deputies.” Carl made a noise to acknowledge the condolences. “You have an address for this guy?”

“Yeah. The Hollow. Or maybe his grave, but I kind of doubt that. Wade, he’s officially listed as dead. You won’t have trouble spotting him if you see him. I mean it. He’s almost seven feet tall and built like a tank.”

“Did you say almost seven feet tall?”

“Yes. I stared him in his ribs. He’s a very big man.”

“We need to talk, Carl. I had a run in with a few guys who looked like they were supposed to be miscarriages and didn’t figure it out.”

“In person. You at home?”

“No. I’ll meet you. Where?” There was someone else with Wade. He heard a female voice. He couldn’t make out the words but she sounded sleepy and maybe worried. It was irrelevant. It didn’t matter at all. Still, it was information and Carl stored it away automatically. He was in cop mode and wouldn’t be coming out of it for a while. Every detail, every piece of information had potential as an important fact. He couldn’t afford to ignore anything.

“Wade, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but we need to figure this out.”

“I know, Carl.” The man sighed. “I know. We’ll get this taken care of.”

Carl nodded his head. Damn right. One way or another, he intended to take care of Frank and anyone else he found associated with the case.

“Same place for the meet. Same as last time. I need some coffee.” He didn’t even want to say the Waffle House on the phone. He was starting to get paranoid.

Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing when people came back from the dead.

Paranoia kept people alive.

He looked at the weapons spread across his bed. Sometimes guns kept people alive too. Well, and other weapons.

*      *      *

“So this is where you grew up?” Charon said, indicating the countryside beyond the truck window. The first tinge of rose was just showing on the horizon as they rode into Brennert County.

Griffin pointed east. “Technically over there is where I grew up. The town of Wellman is beyond those trees.”

“It’s hard to imagine you as a kid.”

“It is for me too these days.” Griffin pulled into the parking lot of the Waffle House and killed the engine. Through the big glass window, he could see Carl in his usual booth near the back. Griffin and Charon got out of the truck and crossed the parking lot. The wind was up and there was the smell of coming rain.

Once inside they went quickly to the back booth. The restaurant had only one other patron and he was seated as far from Carl as possible. Seeing Carl’s face, Griffin didn’t blame the guy. He let Charon slide into the booth opposite Carl, then sat beside her.

“Charon, this is Sheriff Carl Price. Carl, Charon is the friend I told you about who was working on the symbols.”

“Sheriff,” Charon said.

“Call me Carl,” Carl said. “This thing has turned way personal and I’m not feeling much like a sheriff this morning.” He looked at Griffin. “How much does Charon know?”

“Most of it. She was with me when the freak brigade attacked.”

“Tell me a bit more about that,” said Carl.

A waitress came by just then and Griffin and Charon ordered coffee. Then Griffin gave Carl a concise but detailed account of the events of the previous evening. Carl sat quietly for the most part, nodding occasionally.

When Griffin finished, Carl said, “You know where we are now, don’t you?”

“Not precisely,” said Griffin.

“You know the part in the horror movies where the dumb ass heroes have seen evidence that something supernatural has happened, but they keep going on about how it’s not possible until a couple more cast members get eaten? That’s us. We’re staring at something we don’t understand and we don’t need to waste any time being incredulous.”

“Incredulous is a pretty big word for a small town Sheriff.”

“Ain’t it though? Thing is, Wade, Frank Blackbourne did some things that just aren’t possible. And it sounds like those boys you ran into weren’t too far from that.”

Griffin said, “As malformed as some of them were, I can’t even see how they were alive, let alone up and moving around.”

Carl said, “So there we are. Now are we going to sit around denying the obvious or are we going to find out what’s behind this?”

“I vote for option two,” said Griffin. “We can worry about whether all this can be explained or not later. I’m willing to put my reasonable mind on the shelf until the lowlifes who killed Jerry are screaming in their own special spot in hell.”

Carl said, “I like the way you think. But we have to be even more careful now. Those ugly sons of bitches were sent to give you a warning. You didn’t take it, so that means next time they’ll deliver a stronger message. It also means we need to start thinking about who sent them and why. What are we supposed to be warned off?”

Griffin heard a buzzing noise and Charon dug a cell phone out of her purse. “Text,” she said. She looked at the screen for a moment, then said. “Shit, Griffin! It’s my friend the book collector. Says he’s been emailing me all night and I need to call him as soon as I get this. I’ll take it outside.”

Charon jumped up from the table and hurried to the door. When she was gone Carl said, “What is she talking about?”

“She knows a guy who she thought might be able to give us more information about those symbols. She sent him some copies last night.”

“Was that a good idea?”

“We’re at a dead end. Figured it was time to try something else.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You were right about Charon being hot too.”

“And twenty-five.”

“Hell, Griffin, ten years isn’t that big a gap.”

“It was with Beth.”

“This one isn’t Beth.”

“Let’s just table any talk of my love life and get back to business, Carl.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I’m sure as hell not the guy to be giving advice on that subject. So any idea where to go from here?”

“Didn’t you say you confiscated Jerry’s notebooks and his work computer? Might be something there.”

“With all that’s been going on, I haven’t had a chance to check that stuff. How about you handle that end? I’ve got some leads of my own I want to follow.”

“Glad to, but should you be releasing that stuff to a civilian? Rules of evidence and all that.”

“You really see this ever going to court, Wade?”

“Not really, no. Where is the stuff?”

“Evidence locker at headquarters. I’ll have one of the men get it together for you.”

Charon came hurrying back to the table. She said, “Griffin, my friend thinks he has some idea what the glyphs mean but he didn’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

“Sounds a little paranoid,” Griffin said.

“Mr. Pot, meet Mr. Kettle,” said Charon.

“Good point. When can he meet us?”

“Now. He said to come to his house right now. He gave me his real name and his address. He lives on Church Street in Marietta.”

Griffin looked at his watch. Not even seven yet. The guy was an early riser. He said, “You want to go along, Carl?”

Carl shook his head. “Like I said, I have my own leads to run down.”

“All right,” Griffin said. “I’ll let you know what I find out when I come to get Jerry’s notes.”

“And I’ll call if I learn anything on this end.”

*      *      *

Forty-five minutes later, Griffin and Charon were rolling along Church Street, approaching downtown Marietta. Church Street was the quintessential tree-lined avenue and Griffin had read somewhere that some of the homes that stood on either side of the street dated back to the Civil War. Sherman hadn’t gotten them all, apparently.

“He said it was a Victorian style house,” Charon said. “I always wondered who lived in some of these big houses.”

“People with a lot more money than me,” said Griffin. “Isn’t that the street number he gave you?”

“Yes, that’s it. Jeez, Griffin. That’s not a Victorian style house. It’s a Victorian era house.”

Griffin scanned the house as he pulled into the driveway. It had two floors, a wrap around porch, and lots of gables, turrets, and dormer windows, giving it the gingerbread house look that the Victorians were so fond of. The house had been painted a pale gray, with darker gray trim which blended in with the heavy oaks in the yard, especially now that autumn had stripped the giant trees of most of their leaves. Despite its age and grandeur this wasn’t the home of someone trying to be noticed.

“Your internet buddy is rich apparently. What was his name again?”

“Carter Decamp.”

For a moment, Griffin thought he recognized the name but the memory flitted away when he tried to grasp it. He and Charon got out of the truck and wandered up the leaf-strewn walkway to the front porch. The front door swung open and a tall, slender man stepped out. He looked to be in his early to mid fifties. He had thick, graying hair and a closely trimmed beard.

“Good morning,” the man said. “I’m Carter Decamp. Nice to finally meet you, Charon.”

“You too,” Charon said. “Though I wish we were here just to see your home. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. You must be Mr. Griffin.” He extended his hand.

Griffin took the proffered hand and shook. Decamp had a good grip. Griffin said, “Just call me Griffin. Most everyone does.”

“Your pal the Sheriff doesn’t,” Charon said.

“He knew me back when.”

“Well come in,” Decamp said. “We’ve much to talk about and none of it will be pleasant, I’m afraid.”

They followed Decamp into a wide entrance hall and then through a large parlor full of heavy wooden furniture. Charon said, “Oh my God. Is all of this furniture authentic?”

Decamp paused and looked around. “Ah, yes it is. This house has been in my family for generations and some of the rooms have the furniture that belonged to my grandparents a few times removed. My study is a bit more modern, however. This way, folks.”

Decamp led them into a long, spacious room. The middle of the room was dominated by a huge desk fitted out with several computers and monitors. An old, leather book with iron clasps and a padlocked hasp sat on one side of the desk. Three of the room’s walls were covered by bookshelves, packed tight with books, but the fourth wall, the one behind the desk, was decorated with one of the more astonishing collections of weapons that Griffin had ever seen. Everything from a Gurkha Knife to a Scottish Dirk and from a flintlock pistol to a pair of Uzis.

Following Griffin’s gaze, Decamp said, “One of my other hobbies, Griffin.”

“I’m impressed. That looks like a real Damascus steel salawar.”

“It’s quite authentic,” Decamp said. He took a seat behind the desk and nodded toward two chairs in front of him.

Griffin and Charon sat down. Decamp turned one of the flat screen monitors so that they could see it. He tapped a few keys and a set of the familiar symbols appeared. Griffin immediately noted that these weren’t copies made from his tracings. These seemed to have been made with something like a calligraphy brush, but there was no mistaking the form or arrangement of the glyphs.

“Where did you find that?” Griffin said.

“This is a copy from a very old book. Not one of these,” he added, waving toward the shelves which surrounded them. “No I’m glad to say that I don’t own that particular tome. However I knew someone who could provide me with this copy.”

“Do you have any idea what it says?” Charon said.

“Given the vagaries of translations and time, I know exactly what it says. That’s why it was so imperative that I talk to the two of you. No one on this continent should have any idea how to write these words. The language is almost unimaginably ancient and the words refer to something I hoped I’d never hear of again.”

“No offense, Decamp, but what the hell do the glyphs say? People have been murdered in connection with them.”

“More people than you imagine,” Decamp said.

Charon said, “But what do they say?”

Decamp took a breath, then said, “Accept this unseeing one and open thy gate that we may bestride thy path.”

Charon looked at Griffin. “That creepy man said something about gates and paths.”

“What man?” Decamp said.

“I was attacked last night by a group of men. They were horribly deformed, but at least one of them could talk and he said that if Charon and I didn’t take his warning we would go through the gate and open the path. What path is he talking about? Is this some sort of satanic thing? Are they trying to open a doorway to hell or something?”

Decamp said, “Hell? Hell is for the dead, Griffin. No, the place they’re trying to find is for we, the living, and if they succeed, it will make Hell look like a summer vacation spot.”

*      *      *

Another day in paradise. Though it took a few bribes, a few threats and the promise to actively hunt down and kill the loved ones of anyone who broke silence, Carl managed the nearly impossible and kept the connection between the murders quiet. So far no one had been foolish enough to leak any photos or to speak as an anonymous source. He didn’t know that it would last, but the reprieve would help for as long as it survived.

And once again, radio silence was the rule of thumb regarding all violent crimes. Fred’s voice sounded like an echo in the back of his head, a snarky comment about the cell phones that was both amusing and bittersweet. Carl closed his eyes for a second and saw Nichole’s face, eyes half-closed, mouth open in a laughing smile. Instead of letting the memories crush him, he threw them into the slow burning pit of rage that he was cultivating.

He wanted that rage right now. He was going into the Hollow again, and he was going looking for Frank. He’d find him too, or he’d find a few others to discuss matters with.

It didn’t take all that long to reach Chez Blackbourne. By the time he’d pulled his truck to a complete stop, Merle was outside and staring at him with a carefully neutral expression. That was good. The wrong look of smug would have probably resulted in Merle getting a large portion of his ass kicked.

Carl stepped from the truck and rested his hand on the holster of his Glock. He made sure that Merle saw the motion, and he looked around the surroundings. Sure enough, there were several members of the clan around him, most of them making sure they gave him a very wide berth. That was, again, for the best.

“Heard about your people, Carl. You have my condolences.”

“Damndest thing, Merle. The man I had incarcerated said his name was Frank Blackbourne.” He paused to show the appropriate height. “Stood about yay tall, weighed in at a little less than my truck.”

“Had a brother named Frank, but he died a long time back.”

Carl nodded. “Saw a picture of you and him from back when you were in high school.” Merle didn’t quite jump out of his skin, but his face got a bit twitchy. “I also took the liberty of visiting his gravesite.” He looked Merle hard in the face. “Know any reason that anyone would want to dig up your brother’s grave or impersonate him?”

That did it. Merle lost his poker face completely for all of half a second. He looked worried. Very worried.

“Can’t say as I know of anyone who’d do either of those things, Sheriff.”

Carl nodded his head and then looked hard at the skinny bastard who was trying to sneak in closer to him. “You need to not be coming any closer to me or my truck right now, Lucas. You’ll find I’m a touch jumpy just at this moment. Be a damned shame if I was to mistake you for somebody being hostile and maybe put a dozen or so holes in you. Don’t you think?”

Lucas backed away, nodding his head. The boy wasn’t very bright, but he was smart enough to take the warning. The look Merle shot at the man said it wasn’t an idea he was much condoning right then.

Carl looked back at the patriarch of the clan. “I’m not saying you’ve seen your dead brother or anyone else who might be impersonating him. Last thing I’d want to do is accuse you of anything improperly, Merle.” Merle nodded his head. “But if you were to see someone who looked suspiciously like your older brother, you might want to let him know that I found the hole in the ground where his Meemaw is buried. Found that trinket he was looking for, too.”

“Trinket?” Oh, that perked up Merle’s ears.

“Longish chain, got a few charms on it. Some of them are for luck. Some of them are for who knows what. Seemed to be the only thing Frank could talk about.” There it was, the look. He didn’t know exactly what the look meant in this case, but Carl saw it. Merle knew of the charm bracelet or necklace or whatever the hell it was. “You let Frank know I know where to find it. He turns himself in, I might be willing to hand it to him.” He looked hard at Merle. “Of course, I could probably also be persuaded to hand it over to anyone who caught and turned in the murdering fuck that killed two of my people. Whoever it is that looks like your dead brother.”

Merle stared at him for a long second with an expression that clearly stated he was fairly sure Carl had grown an extra nose or two. Considering the stories he was hearing about what Wade had been up to, there was a real chance that the pot was calling the kettle black. There could only be so many groups of inbred assholes who were running around with mutated kinfolk and overgrown zombies in the bloodline. At this point Carl was perfectly willing to look toward Merle as the source for a lot of his grief.

Merle didn’t respond verbally. Instead he simply nodded his head.

The man knew things. Carl was sure of it. This was not, however, the right time for giving him shit about that fact. He’d made his point, so he climbed back into his truck and slid the shotgun back over to the passenger’s seat. There were enough members of the family around that he didn’t much feel like playing without a few extras.

He left the clan residence behind and started up the long, winding path back to the real world, the sane world. Somewhere out there something calling itself Frank was looking for something he had. He really, really hoped the bastard came knocking soon.

The call came in while he was still driving. Another bar fight. Another bar. He wasn’t much of a drinker, and if anyone had asked him why, he’d have pointed to the number of bar fights he had to break up in an average week. Bar fights didn’t even begin to qualify as violent crimes in his estimation, the call came in over the radio. He radioed back that he’d handle the matter.

The bar was only a legitimate business in the vaguest sense, and it was run by one of the Blackbournes. That was reason enough for Carl.

By the time he arrived the fight had moved outside. They almost always did when it came to The Pit. The Pit was a barbeque place that boasted it had the best ribs in the county. It was just at the edge of Crawford’s Hollow and most of the people who ate there were the sort who had given the idea of graduating high school consideration and then decided against it.

Two men were on the ground and doing their best to beat each other to death which, fortunately, wasn’t very good. They might have started off with a serious need to do bodily harm, but they’d been reduced to holding each other in a clench and panting as they tried to outlast each other. One of them was in a suit. The other looked like he probably lived in Crawford’s Hollow. And standing a few feet away from them was Jolene Blackbourne. There was as fairly sizable crowd, especially for a weekday, but she stood out.

Rather than get himself into a situation with the two men, or even try to arrest them—currently the local lock up was in desperate need of repairs and was still considered an active crime scene—Carl cranked up the lights and sirens as he parked. The crowd started dispersing instantly and after a few seconds the two morons who were in the middle of a long, drawn out fight caught on to the fact that there could be trouble.

Neither of them were local. Frankly, they were more paperwork than he felt like putting up with. He looked at the one with the business suit—it had probably been a suit once, now it was more like a very expensive dust rag coat and matching slacks and pointed. “Get the hell out of here before I decide to book your stupid ass.” The man was looking a little stressed and about ready to puke from physical exhaustion. Just the same he nodded his head and staggered toward a car that he’d likely be paying off for the rest of his life. Stupid men made stupid choices. The stranger was a perfect example.

The other man stood still and panted for a moment, then stumbled to the side of the building and lost his lunch.

Carl looked away and saw Jolene staring at him. She had one eye squinted half shut against the early afternoon glare, and she was nibbling at her lower lip as she contemplated him. Insane that a girl that age could exude so much raw sex appeal. On the other hand, her mother still made him light headed. Maybe it was pheromones. He didn’t know and at the present time he didn’t much care.

“Heard about your people, Sheriff Carl. I’m real sorry.”

“You want to show me how sorry you are? Stay away from bars until you’re of age, okay?”

She opened her eyes extra wide and put on her best innocent pout. He could see where that sort of look had caused a few fights from time to time. “I’m just here for the food, Sheriff. Honest. I’m supposed to pick up an order for my momma.”

Siobhan. With everything that was going on, she should have been the last thing on his mind.Instead the mention of her was enough to distract.

“So. Pick up your food and get home.” He looked at her for a long moment. “And if you see that cousin of yours, or anyone who looks like him give me a call, will you?”

She smiled. “You gonna give me your phone number, Sheriff?” Oh yes, he could understand the cause of many fights.

“I’m in the book.” He kept his voice calm and his face expressionless. “I’m gonna give you the same message. You see the big boy, you tell him I have his little charm bracelet. I don’t hear from him soon, I’m going to melt it down.”

Her smile grew bigger and she took in a deep breath. And in that moment he understood that she was another one. She knew more than she was saying. He couldn’t push it right now. He couldn’t press her, because there were too many witnesses. The crowd had broken apart, but the people were still there. “I’ll tell him. If I see him.”

Carl nodded his head again.

The Blackbournes were all over this, and it was starting to annoy the hell out of him. Merle, Siobhan, Jolene, and Frank Blackbourne. Each and every one of them was a part of this entire thing. He just didn’t know how they were involved yet.

But he had a few ideas on how to find out.

All he had to do was avoid getting himself killed until he could implement them.

“I mean it, Jolene. You see him, you tell him.” He paused for a moment and then looked hard into her eyes. “You know what else you can tell him? Tell him if I need to, I’ll have his Meemaw dug up so I can see what else was buried with her.”

She practically danced where she was standing. The notion of passing on that sort of news excited the girl. She was flawed. The whole fucking clan was flawed.

“I can’t keep momma waiting, Sheriff Carl.” She chewed her lower lip again. “But you know, there’s more than enough if you wanted to join us. For lunch. Or whatever.”

He shook his head. “Got things to do, but thanks anyway.”

Jolene looked at him and grinned. “You’re blushing.”

He didn’t answer that. Instead he climbed back in the truck and headed for the office and told himself that he had work to do and that he wasn’t running from a very awkward situation.

Craziness. The whole lot of them were mental cases.

He just hoped it wasn’t spreading.

*      *      *

“Okay,” said Griffin, “I’ll bite. What or where does the gate the symbols mention lead to?”

Decamp said, “I’m not trying to be deliberately cryptic. The answer to your question is rather hard to explain and I doubt you’ll believe me in any case.”

“Maybe a week ago I wouldn’t have, but I’ve had something of a world view shift in the last couple of days.”

Decamp nodded. “All right. I know that Charon is familiar with the theory of alternate dimensions, and I assume you’ve heard of the concept, Griffin.”

“Yeah, I read a lot for a thug.”

“Touché. Well, you can think of the place the symbols speak of as another dimension in time and space. It has been called many things over time, from chaos to the outer dark, but it’s probably easier to think of it as the other side. That’s what some of the people who have studied it over the years have termed it.”

“The other side of what?”

“Of everything we are. The other side is inimical to life as we understand it.” He paused for a moment. “Perhaps I was wrong earlier. In some ways, perhaps it is hell.”

“Then why would anyone want to open a path to that place?” said Charon.

“No one sane would,” said Decamp. “Sane or human.”

Griffin said, “But those things that attacked me weren’t human. At least not entirely.”

“Ah, now you touch upon an important point, my friend. Your attackers weren’t human but they seemed at least partly human, yes?”

“Yes, most had some humanoid characteristics. Some were closer than others.”

“And that brings us back to the symbols. I have to ask you, where did you find them? I’ve a good idea, but I need to know.”

Griffin had already decided to trust this man. He seemed to carry an aura of calm, though Griffin sensed there was something else behind the dignified exterior. A reserve of strength or determination, perhaps. Griffin said, “The symbols were carved into the torso of a friend of mine who was further mutilated, then killed.”

Decamp ran a hand across his bearded jaw. “I’m sorry about your friend, Griffin. Tell me, did he have spikes driven through his eyes?”

Griffin felt his jaw muscles tighten. “Yes, but how did you know that?”

“It’s part of the ceremony. The way to open the path to the other side. It’s an ancient ritual. No one knows how ancient. Perhaps older than humanity.”

“Older than humanity? How can that be? I mean who would be having ceremonies on earth if there weren’t any people?”

Decamp said, “There are those who believe that human beings weren’t the first inhabitants of this world. But we’ll come back to that. What matters now is the ceremony. The sacrifice is bound, on an altar, if possible, though sometimes not, then the spikes are driven through the eyes and sometimes the genitals. Then the words of power are carved into the flesh.”

Griffin tried not to think about those things being done to Jerry. This wasn’t a theory for him. An old friend had died in darkness and agony, alone and afraid. “And what does this do?”

“What the words say. It opens the gate, though usually only a little. Enough to allow some power to seep through from the other side to this world.”

Charon said, “What can the power be used for? I mean, why do they want it?”

Decamp shrugged. “There we move into the realm of conjecture, as Sherlock Holmes would say. From historical accounts of these rituals the power could be used to summon demons, or rather inhabitants of the other side. Or it could be channeled by beings in our world and used to create malignant things. I believe that the creatures who attacked you were such things, either created or warped by the power from the other side.”

“Could it bring the dead back to life?” Griffin said, suddenly thinking of Frank Blackbourne.

“It might reanimate a body I think, but it would be horribly changed, filled with the power of the other side. Not a true resurrection. Why do you ask?”

“We’ll come back to that. Keep talking.”

Charon said, “You mentioned that a single sacrifice would only open the way a little. The second part of the message is ‘that we may bestride thy path’. Does that mean that more sacrifices would allow someone or some thing to actually cross from one world to another?”

“Yes and no,” said Decamp. “From what I understand, and please remember that none of this is established fact, the effect of the sacrifices isn’t cumulative. In other words the gate doesn’t remain open and grow wider after each sacrifice. Things revert to their normal state after a while.”

“Yes,” Charon said, “But if you performed many sacrifices at once, would the gate open wider?”

“I think it likely. I believe the accounts of the summoning of ‘daemons’ spoke of mass sacrifices. I haven’t read of these things in a long while. I thought this particular business over some time ago, until you sent me those symbols.”

“But you’re obviously familiar with it,” Griffin said.

“Any long time student of the occult would be. No offense, Charon, but you are very young.”

“So everyone keeps telling me,” she said, shooting a glance at Griffin.

“And you’ve dealt with it before,” said Griffin.

“Only in passing. And...”

“We’ll come back to that,” Charon finished.

“Exactly,” said Decamp. “It’s the here and now that worries me at the moment, especially after you told me about your warning.”

“Huh?” said Griffin. “Why’s that?”

“Because a warning means that someone doesn’t want you to find out about something.”

“Well, yeah. I told my friend Carl pretty much the same thing.”

Decamp said, “It’s the timing that worries me. When Charon asked what the ceremonies could do I said usually they could summon a small amount of power. And I said usually because most of the time the natural order of our world protects itself from these sorts of contacts with other worlds. The very laws which govern our universe make it difficult for anything from outside to get inside.”

“Usually,” said Griffin.

“Usually. But there are times when it becomes easier to pierce the veil, so to speak.”

Charon’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. Halloween. It’s almost Halloween.”

“Precisely,” said Decamp. “Halloween. Samhain. Summers end. A point of power in all the ancient religions from the Druids to the Native Americans. This much weirdness this close to All Hallows Eve means that something is afoot and you seem to have stumbled upon whatever it is.”

Griffin said. “Yeah, but if they bothered warning us off, it means whoever is behind this thinks that whatever they’re doing can still be stopped. Otherwise, why bother warning us?”

“An excellent point,” said Decamp. “However first you have to find out who’s behind it and just what they’re up to, and you don’t have a lot of time.”

“Decamp,” Griffin said. “Worst case, what do you think could happen? I get the idea you have at least an inkling of what these killers want.”

“If they’re stepping up sacrifices this close to Halloween, it most likely means they’re looking to tear the veil asunder. To open the gate permanently so that they can enter the other side and so that the beings from the other side can return here.”

“Return?” said Griffin.

“Yes, as I told you, humans weren’t the first things to inhabit the planet.”

“So what was here before us?”

“Something powerful and utterly merciless. The things you’ve encountered so far are but the slightest examples of their power.”

Charon said, “A completely separate species from humanity?”

“That would depend on one’s definition of human,” said Decamp. “They’re usually thought of as another race. An elder race.”

Sitting in Decamp’s book-lined study with the bright morning sun streaming in, it seemed somewhat mad to be discussing extra-dimensional entities. Carl had been right though. The time to be incredulous had passed. Crazy or not, the possibility, hell the probability was that all of this was actually true.

“I guess my next logical question would be, how can we fight this?” Griffin said.

Decamp said, “Against the less powerful minions, the ones that are mostly in our dimension, conventional weapons work fine.”

That made Griffin think of Fish-breath and his friends. The .357 had seemed to get the job done there. He reminded himself that he needed to check the news when he left Decamp’s place. With any luck no one had identified him as the man involved in the shooting at the apartment. It had been dark and things had happened quickly.

“What do you mean the ones who are mostly in our dimension?” Charon said.

“Some of the things you may encounter may belong more to the other side than to here. Some of them are living in both dimensions at once. Guns may slow them down but they won’t stop them.”

“This is starting to make my head hurt,” said Griffin. “What will stop them?”

Decamp said, “These creatures use what we would term sorcery or witchcraft. They’re susceptible to it as well. The key is finding their weakness and to do that, you need to know your enemy. I suspect the answers lie close to where this started.”

“Meaning Brennert County.”

“Yes. You need to do some investigating. Whatever is happening there now probably started a long time ago. You need to do some digging.”

“That’s my specialty,” Charon said.

“Indeed it is. I’ll offer you any help I can of course. Call me at any hour.”

Griffin stood up and extended his hand. “Can’t ask for more than that.”

Decamp rose and shook hands. “I’m going to do some digging myself. We’ll talk again soon.”

Charon said goodbye and she and Griffin saw themselves out. The day had turned cold and the wind was still blowing hard. Griffin bumped the heater on when they reached the truck, more for Charon’s sake than his own.

“Do you think we can swing by my shop?” Charon said. “I’d like to get some things. Actually I need some clothes and stuff too if we’re going back to the hotel.”

“Should be safe enough in broad daylight,” Griffin said. “I’m going to stay clear of my place until I find out if the cops are watching it. We won’t be going back to the hotel though. We’re heading to Brennert. We’ll stop at Baba Yaga’s and then your place. I’ll buy anything I need when we get to Wellman.”

Griffin pulled out onto Church Street and headed for downtown. Church was a one way street and he’d need to find someplace to cut over to Cherokee Street to be northbound again. As he drove he played back the conversation with Decamp in his head. Something in the way Decamp had calmly ticked off the ways to fight the things from the other side made Griffin reasonably sure that the older man wasn’t speaking theoretically. Decamp had met these creatures himself.

*      *      *

The trails leading up to Mooney’s Bluff were as angled and treacherous as the ones leading down to Crawford’s Hollow. Carl took them carefully as he traveled them a lot less often. The Hollow was filled with meth-heads, rednecks, the impoverished and the forgotten—depending on which census you looked at the population of the area was only around fifty or could be closer to eight hundred—Carl expected the latter was closer to the truth—and the Bluff was home to a few very nice mansions.

The fact that he was heading to the Bluff to meet up with the man who owned the Hollow was not lost on Carl. Neal Crawford was an old man, but he was crafty in mind and sound in body. He was also very old money. Back in the Prohibition days his great grandfather had been a very successful moonshiner. The family managed to keep the money even after the laws changed. They invested; they sent their kids to universities. The rest as they say was history.

Carl cut the last corner in the winding road and saw the roof of the Crawford place as it came into view. The building was designed to look like a log cabin, but only if the average log cabin was two stories tall and came with around twenty extra guest rooms. Back in the fifties the Crawfords had built the home with the intention of making it an artists’ retreat. They’d even had a little success until the first serious drought came along and then the first bad winter. After that most of the guests opted to go elsewhere for their artistic contemplations. That, or the Crawfords just annoyed them half to death. It was hard to say with any certainty. In any event the huge old place was kept well and Carl climbed out of his truck with a half smile playing around his lips. He’d been here a few times when he was younger and his grandfather had been tight with the Crawfords. It was the right time of year for visiting, too; the trees were changing over, an explosion of fiery colors that could be best appreciated from the bluff. To the south was Wellman, with its three church spires sticking up toward the heavens. To the west of that was the Hollow, which looked half lost in early morning mists. If a person didn’t know better the dark area could almost be confused for a lake from this height, especially with the fog still creeping over the entire thing. You couldn’t properly call the area mountainous, but the hills were steep and rolled away in waves of frozen autumn colors. The air was cold and crisp. He promised himself that he’d swing by the Crow’s Haven Orchard on his way back and grab some apples. A treat to take the suck off the rest of the day.

“I haven’t seen you in almost two years, boy. You pick the strangest times to show up here.” He recognized Crawford’s voice immediately, and smiled a bit as he saw the man.

Neal Crawford was a tall, lean drink of water, almost four inches taller than Carl, but easily forty pound lighter as well. He always looked like a strong wind would blow him away. Despite that fact, he gave off an air of good health and good cheer that never seemed to fade. This year he was sporting sideburns and his hair was a little longer than was fashionable. He looked like he was practicing to be a county-western singer. Clothes, hair, the whole nine yards looked like it had come from a catalogue of Travis Tritt fashions. And it might well have for all he knew.

Crawford was well into his sixties, possibly even his seventies, but he was vibrant and he was friendly. His face broke into a happy smile when he saw Carl and his handshake was as firm as steel. As always, when he shook Carl’s hand, the sheriff could almost sense that the man was taking it easy with his grip. The hair was a bit grayer this time around, but other than that, Neal Crawford looked the same as he had when Carl was ten.

“How are you, Mr. Crawford?”

“Son, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Neal?” Crawford sported a strong southern accent, but it was more of a soft drawl, and though he’d been born in Brennert County, he almost sounded like an old timer from North Carolina.

He grinned. “Old habits die hard.”

“Oh, that they do.” The man’s hazel eyes regarded him with sharp curiosity and warmth at the same time. “What’s bringing you all the way up here? I don’t for a second believe you’re paying me a social visit.”

“Well, I’d have called, but you don’t have a phone.”

“Can’t stand those damned things. Someone needs to talk to me, there’s a perfectly good road.”

“As I just drove it, can’t say as I disagree with you.”

The wind whipped the old man’s hair into a frenzy and Carl felt the cold bite at him. The temperature was pleasantly cool down in Wellman, but up here where the winds were a bit more brutal, the cold tended to want to sink into flesh. “Why don’t you come on in? I just made a pot of coffee. Or if you’d like, Mildred can set you up with a cup of cocoa.”

“Coffee’d be great.” They moved inside as the winds picked up even more and by the time Carl had taken off his coat, Mildred, the woman who tended to Neal Crawford’s needs, had brought in a tray of coffee and cookies. He smiled warmly at her as she set it down. He had no idea how old Mildred was, only that she, like Crawford, seemed nearly timeless. She looked like she was in her forties. She’d always looked like she was in her forties. Maybe it was the mountain air.

After they’d each carefully chosen from the cookies and fixed up their coffees, Crawford looked at Carl with those sharp eyes and got to business. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Carl.”

“You own Crawford’s Hollow.”

The man nodded. “That I do. I certainly pay enough in taxes on the land.”

“You know, I’m just curious. I know that the Crawfords are responsible for naming Crawford’s Hollow. I know the town of Wellman got its name from William Wellman. Robert Brennert and Brennert County. Was there ever a Mooney I don’t know about to give this place it’s name?”

Crawford smiled. “You’re being too literal. You ever hear of Buckhead in Atlanta?”

Buckhead was the place where, if you had money, you went to spend it in Atlanta. Shops and more shops, with a side of restaurants and boutiques. “Of course.”

“Go look it up on a map from the Civil War era. The name has changed. It used to be Buck’s Head.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yes. But I’m pretty sure you aren’t here about the name of this bluff. What’s really on your mind?”

“You charge anyone living there rent?”

“No. You know I don’t. Why are you asking?”

“The Blackbournes. How well do you know them?”

Neal Crawford leaned back in his comfortable chair and looked at Carl for a long moment, his eyes half hooded. “They’re my kin, Carl. We’re not close, but I know them.”

“They’re your kinfolk?”

“Carl, if you look far enough back there’s a chance they’re your kin, too. My family just pays attention to that sort of nonsense.” He waved a dismissive hand. “You know all about the moonshining nonsense. It’s local history and local color. My great-grandfather was a man who liked to know a few mistresses.” He leaned forward, an ornery smile on his face. “Have you seen Siobhan Blackbourne?”

“Oh yes.” Carl had to nod his understanding on that one.

“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. As homely as most of the men folk are in the Blackbournes’ the women often make up for it.” He shrugged. “Few generations back my folks and theirs got together and had a few bastards. So it’s always been a simple rule: leave the Hollow to the Blackbournes. Stopped a lot of troubles in the past and these days it’s just the way things have always been.”

“I never would have guessed, Mister—Neal.”

“Well now, that’s the idea, isn’t it?” he chuckled. “I’d just as soon you keep that to yourself, by the way. I would rather not stir that particular pot of gossip if you see my point.”

“Not a word,” Carl promised.

“So what do you want to know about the black sheep side of my family?” The old man smiled as he spoke.

“What can you tell me about Frank Blackbourne?”

“Frank?” Crawford frowned. “About the size of this house?”

“That would be the one.”

“Well, I know he died a long while back. I think it was in a bar fight or some such.”

“Somebody beat him in a bar fight?”

“No,” Crawford smiled tolerantly. “No. If you’d ever seen the man in person you’d know better. No, Frank was a little addled in the head, but mostly harmless. The thing about Frank was that he also took it personally when people talked poorly about the family. His grandmother, well, she had a reputation for being a little crazy. When she died Frank tried to behave himself, but one night at one of the little joints along 41, a honky tonk that’s long gone and good riddance, some damned fool started spouting off about old Abigail Blackbourne and Frank heard the man going on about the crazy old lady who finally got what she deserved.”

He paused for a moment and took a bite of his cookie. Carl could seem him trying to work out exactly how to say what he wanted to say. “You ever try to fight off a grizzly bear?”

“Can’t say as I have, no.”

“I said before Frank was a big man. You seemed to know that so I’ll guess you’ve seen pictures. But Frank was barely human. I mean he was that big, Carl. Probably close to four hundred pounds and all of it muscle.” He paused again. “Let me put it into perspective. You ever see what a grown man can do to a ten-year-old boy if he decides to put a serious beating on him?”

Carl felt his jaw clench. Albert Burnside was currently in prison for what he’d done to his son. Albert came home drunk, started hitting his wife, and when his boy, Toby, tried to stop him, Alvin demonstrated exactly how much difference there was between a two-hundred pound man and a sixty-five pound preadolescent. Five years later and Toby was still in a coma.

“Yeah. I have.”

Crawford nodded. “It was like that. I don’t much care what sort of fighting skills a man has, some people are just too damned big. I understand the man Frank beat down had been a Golden Gloves contender in his time. You know the sort, big, drunk, bitter and mouthy.” Carl nodded. “Well, Frank made him looked like a little boy. Frank broke most of the bones in the man’s body with a couple of punches. Then he got mean.” Neal Crawford was deadly serious when he spoke, not a hint of his earlier amusement remained. “Frank beat the man to death. He didn’t stop until three other men tried to stop him and all of them wound up regretting it. He let them live, but it was a long time before they were mended.”

“What happened to Frank?”

“The sheriff at the time tried to restrain him and in the end he had to put Frank down. Shot him several times before he’d stop.” His eyes said what Carl had already guessed. Carl wasn’t the first man in his family to be a part of the Brennert County Sheriff’s Department. He was fourth generation.

Before the conversation could go any further, someone knocked on the front door of the house loudly enough that both men were startled by the sudden noise.

Mildred moved toward the door and at the same moment, Carl felt the hairs on his neck and arms raise themselves up. There was an old saying that was ringing in his head as the woman reached for the doorknob: Speak of the Devil and he will surely show himself.

Carl was halfway out of his seat when the door was opening.

Frank Blackbourne opened the door with surprising gentleness, careful not to brush against Mildred as he entered the house. Mildred, for her part, was quick to get out of the mountainous man’s way.

There was evidence that said Frank had been shot. Looking at him now, there was no sign of that, though his clothes had definitely seen better days.

Once he was past Mildred the man moved faster, his body filling the hallway before he reached the sitting area. Carl had enough time to draw his weapon before the man reached the room.

Neither of them bothered with trying to speak.

*      *      *

The symbols were gone. Griffin stood just inside the door of Baba Yaga’s with gun drawn. The symbols had been eradicated from the floor as if they had never been there. Griffin checked the rest of the storefront and the backroom before motioning for Charon to come in. She locked the door behind her. It was Sunday and the store was normally closed but someone might wander in.

“Now why would they come back and clean up after themselves?” Charon said.

Griffin shook his head. “Either covering their tracks or just messing with us. Saying look, I can come in any time I want.”

“Well it’s just creepy.”

“It is. Get your stuff together. I want to look at those locks again.”

Griffin crouched by the door and examined the locks in the hard autumn sunlight. No scratches. No sign of anyone tampering with the lock at all, and this time the visitor had not only let himself in, he had locked the doors behind him when he left. Even with Decamp’s talk of extra-dimensional creatures, Griffin still wondered how someone was getting past doors so easily. It was going to make defending against them pretty damned difficult if you couldn’t even sleep behind locked doors.

“Charon,” Griffin called toward the back. “This is going to sound really stupid, but do you know any spells to keep supernatural beings from entering a building?”

Charon stuck her head through the beaded curtain. “That’s not stupid at all, Griffin. In fact it’s brilliant. Decamp mentioned that we have to find these things’ weaknesses and that they were susceptible to witchcraft.”

“Yeah, but he also mentioned that they’re creatures from another dimension, so it’s more science than magic.”

“Magic is what people called science before they figured out how things work. There may be rational explanations of how these things function, but the rules they follow are ancient. I’ll bring along some of my grimoires and do some searching.”

“Grimoires?” said Griffin.

“Spell books.”

“Ah. Of course. Silly me.”

*      *      *

There are moments in your life where a simple decision can change everything. Go left, you avoid the heavy traffic problems on the interstate and you arrive home fifteen minutes early, just in time to see your best friend leaving your lover’s bedroom. Go right and the traffic jam keeps you stuck for an extra hour, but you remain oblivious to the infidelity. Stop at the liquor store for a six pack just in time to meet the man holding the place up or head for home and get hit by the man in the SUV who was trying to read the text that tells him what he was supposed to pick up at the grocery store on his way home.

Pull, aim and fire at the behemoth coming your way, or dodge to the left and let the old man standing behind you deal with the charging giant.

Really, sometimes it’s not even a choice.

Carl fired four times, each bullet hitting his target in the chest. Frank Blackbourne stopped charging and fell to his knees a good ten feet from where Carl was standing. Carl smelled burnt cordite and the stench that came from Frank. The man reeked of body odor and something worse. As he watched, Frank fell forward and caught himself on his oversized hands. He coughed hard and moaned weakly and then vomited a thick slew across the hardwood floors.

Neal Crawford was a good man. He reached for the wounded man, an expression of deep concern written on his aging features. Carl managed to catch his shoulder before he made it completely to where he wanted to be.

Frank, on his hands and knees and gagging, looked up and snarled. Blood fell in a dribble from his lips and he stood back up, shaking his head like maybe he’d gotten his ass handed to him in a fight instead of getting fatally shot four times. All in all, not really the result Carl was looking for at that moment.

“Good God.” Neal stepped back of his own volition as Frank got back up. “Frank? Is that really you?”

Cold blue eyes regarded the old man from under a deeply furrowed brow. The mottled flesh of his face looked worse than usual—and in his defense, he had just been shot repeatedly—and Frank coughed, violently leaning against the wall for support. The wall obligingly stayed in place but it let out a groan of protest.

“Meemaw’s…hunfff…Meemaw’s necklace. Gimme it.” Frank ignored Neal and looked at Carl. The expression on his face brooked remarkably little argument and under a lot of circumstances, Carl might have obliged without hesitation. In this case, however, he was still holding a serious grudge.

“Fuck yourself.” He eyed the man cautiously. Though he was leaning and panting and bleeding, he didn’t exactly look like a man who’d just received four bullets through his chest.

Frank stood up taller. “You got you a nasty mouth, boy.” The voice didn’t come from his mouth. It came from somewhere lower. The completely irrational thought popped into Carl’s head that if Frank had a talking penis he was just going to leave the scene and keep walking. He shook the notion away.

“You killed two of my people. Either you get back on your knees or I shoot you again.” He took careful aim.

Frank laughed; his eyes didn’t look at all amused, but he laughed just the same. The sound came from his mouth this time and also from somewhere in his abdomen. The giant pulled open his shirt, tearing the buttons from their holes and ripping the sodden, bloodied fabric away with ease.

And damned if Carl didn’t look. His eyes took in the four holes where the bullets had blown their way into Frank’s chest. They looked incredibly small in the field of mottled, hairy flesh that surrounded them. There was a bit of flab on the man’s body, but mostly what could be seen was muscle and more muscle. Frank let his hand drop and though he couldn’t see all of the man’s stomach, he could see a spot to the left that ran toward his pants and hip, where the skin was a mass of twisted flesh and bubbled scar-tissue. “Can’t hurt me with bullets, boy. I’m too big for bullets.”

The voice came from the scarred area.

“Nope. Too damned weird.” Carl shook his head. “You want your Meemaw’s necklace, you turn yourself in. You don’t turn yourself in, I’ll hide it where you can never find it again.” He took a couple of steps back as Frank glared at him.

“I’ll kill you, boy!” Frank stepped forward and the voice came from lower again. Both of the man’s ham sized hands were balled into fists. And as he stepped forward a second time, Carl physically saw him change size. He grew, but not in a smooth or organic fashion. His flesh bulged along his hands and then rippled and bulged again. The sound of fabric tearing reached Carl’s ears and he saw the fabric of the old pants on Frank’s legs split as he took a third step. The shoe on his left foot exploded, falling into shreds. Carl stared at the foot that blew out the shoe, not quite sure of what he was looking at. It surely didn’t look much like a foot. There were thick lumps of uneven flesh, and there were bulging veins and at least three extra toes were growing out of that mess. And there was no way you could cram the uneven collection of muscles and bones into the conventional shoe it had been situated in a moment earlier. The already thick meat of Frank’s calf swelled and doubled in size.

Somewhere behind him Neal Crawford let out another plea to God and behind Frank, Mildred said a quick prayer.

As neither of their responses stopped Frank at all, Carl took aim and fired four more bullets into the man’s head and neck. He was very careful to aim for the eyes first. Payback for what the bastard had done to Nichole and Fred.

Frank roared as his head snapped back. Carl’s aim was solid and both of Frank’s eyes were blown out by the first two shots. The third tore a trench across his scalp and gave him a new part for his hairline. The fourth opened a very large hole in Frank’s throat. Blood and viscera spattered across the wall behind Frank, enough to let Carl know that the bullets had done their work. Frank didn’t fall this time. He kept coming.

And as Carl watched, the wounds in Frank’s face changed. They didn’t go away but they withered, becoming smaller. His eyes were still gone and he couldn’t see, so the giant groped blindly and Carl carefully moved back. He hazarded one quick glance to make sure that Neal was okay and was relieved to see that Neal had decided to be elsewhere. The older man was moving well away from the conflict.

“Now you made me angry, boy! Now I’m gonna whoop tha hayull outta you!” The words slurred as they came from Frank’s abdomen. Carl was tempted to look, but he was too busy watching the new eyes growing on Frank’s head. They didn’t look like normal eyes. They didn’t even look a little human. Still, a neat trick that, growing new eyes. The skin they grew on looked as rough and diseased as the flesh around whatever was making all the noises under Frank’s pants.

Carl shot Frank’s left knee three times. The man roared from both mouths and slid down the wall, screaming incoherently.

Carl took that as a good time to move past the giant, and managed to get halfway past him in the narrow hallway, before Frank slapped him into the wall hard enough to knock him through the plaster and make him drop his gun. His face and arm ached from hitting the wall, his hand screamed from the bruising force that had led to him dropping his weapon. Rather than let himself worry about it, Carl snatched the weapon up and ran for the door again.

He grabbed Mildred’s shoulders and spun her around. “Move!” He didn’t wait for her to agree, but instead ushered her forward, toward the door and his truck.

He had no idea how old Mildred was, but she could haul her ass when she needed to. The woman ran hard and fast, not quite screaming so much as she let out little squeaking gasps.

Behind them the walls shook and he saw the plaster splintering next to him as he moved her through the threshold. Once outside they both ran faster. Mildred bolted for the side of the house and Carl ran for his truck at high speed.

“Comeoncomeoncomeonohshitcomeon!” He wasn’t making much sense. Then again, neither was anything happening around him. Carl opened the passenger’s side door of his truck, sliding in a mad scramble to keep his feet. He looked back at the front of the house and saw the walls shudder. It seemed Frank was getting bigger again. Much bigger.

He was beginning to doubt whether his little arsenal was going to be enough to get the job done. Carl wasted two precious seconds before he grabbed up the 10 gauge. The damned things were barely legal weapons, add in the fact that the shotgun was loaded with solid lead slugs instead of buckshot and you were looking at the sort of stopping power that was normally reserved for elephant guns.

He looked at the front of Neal Crawford’s house, expecting Frank to come tearing through the walls. And he kept looking. After almost a full minute of waiting, he approached with extreme caution. The door opened when he tried it. Despite his worries there was no sign of Frank. The hallway, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, all of it was damaged. As if someone had built a perfect replica of a house to small scale and then rolled a bowling ball across half of it. There were stress fractures and cracks in everything.

“Neal? Mildred?”

Neal Crawford walked into view at the end of the hallway his eyes wide and his skin pale. “You okay, Carl?”

Carl thought about that for a moment and nodded his head. “Frank?”

Neal pointed toward the back of the house. “He went out the back door.” The man looked back over his shoulder. “And the wall next to it.”

“Are you okay, Neal?”

“I don’t think he was after me, Carl.”

“He’s after his ‘Meemaw’s necklace.’”

Neal looked at him for a second. “Abigail Blackbourne.”

“You know her?”

“I might have met her when I was a kid, but not that I can remember clearly. I know the name.”

“Why is she so important?”

“My granddaddy used to say she was moonstruck.”

“What does that even mean, Neal?”

“Moonstruck might mean different things in different places, Carl. But to my granddaddy it meant she’d been around the Moon-Eyed people.”

“The who?” The term seemed vaguely familiar, but brought forth no strong recollections.

“The Moon-Eyed people. An old legend from this area. The Cherokee Indians used to talk about them. Said they existed in the area before the Cherokee. Before mankind.”

“’Before mankind?’” Carl shook his head. “What are we talking about? Little green men?”

Neal looked at him like maybe he was a little on the slow side. It was a “bless your heart,” moment. As in “Bless your heart, you’re too stupid to know any better.” Just lately there were several older men in his world who were looking at him like that. “Remember how we talked about Buck’s Head and Buckhead?”

“Yeah.” Still not getting it, but the man looked at him like he should be.

“Mooney’s Bluff.” Neal stared for a few heartbeats and then clarified. “Moon-Eyes Bluff.” This is the area where they were supposed to live so long ago.”

“You know a lot about these Moon-Eyed people?”

“No, but there’s a professor in Wellman that might be able to help you. He knew your daddy.”

Carl nodded. “Andy Hunter.” He shook his head. “I’m beginning to think I’m going in circles.”

Mildred moved into the room, walking with the timid steps of a recently startled doe. “Is everyone okay?” her voice shook as much as Carl’s knees wanted to.

The old man put an arm around her shoulders, and Mildred folded into him in a way that had nothing at all to do with a servant in a household. That was okay. Whatever was between them was strictly their business and none of Carl’s.

“Listen, I have to go after Frank. Call my office if you’d like. Call your insurance company. I’ll fill out all the paperwork as soon as I can.”

Neal waved a dismissive hand. “Just you be careful, Carl Price. Whatever is going on, you be careful.”

Carl nodded his head and walked outside. He took the back door and looked at the path Frank had left behind. The property dropped down a steep slope on the other side of the house and there was no way in hell that Carl’s truck would make it down that slope without sliding over the edge. Thick waves of kudzu hid the paths that might exist and almost guaranteed that a vehicle of any type would lose traction within moments. There was also no way in hell he was going after Frank without several weapons.

Much as it hurt him, Frank would have to wait. For now he had to find out about whatever the Moon-Eyed people were supposed to be. For that he had to get back to Wellman. Frank had been to Andy’s place once already. He hoped the bastard didn’t head there a second time. He was tired of getting surprised by whatever the hell Frank Blackbourne was. One thing for certain, the man wasn’t human.

*      *      *

“Welcome to Wellman,” Griffin said as they entered the city limits.

Charon wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting but Wellman looked like many other rural Georgia towns she had seen. A main street made up of buildings that obviously dated back to before World War II and a mixture of old family businesses and new shops aimed at modernizing the town.

“We’ll come back to the Sheriff’s Department after we drop our stuff off,” Griffin said.

Charon said, “There’s a hotel around here?”

“We’re not going to a hotel.”

“Huh?”

“You’ll see.”

Griffin steered the truck down several tree-lined streets before turning into a small neighborhood of well kept houses. He pulled into the driveway of one such house, a ranch style with a two-car garage, and turned off the engine.

“Whose house is this?” Charon said.

“It’s mine.”

“Yours? You live in an apartment in Gatesville.”

“And I own a house.”

Griffin got out of the truck. He picked up Charon’s suitcase and started toward the front door. Charon just stood for a moment. What was the old Churchill quote? A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. That was Wade Griffin. She picked up her laptop and some of her books and followed him through the open door.

The house was clean and didn’t have that musty smell that closed up places sometimes have, and yet Charon sensed that the place hadn’t been lived in for some time. It felt empty. She stopped in the living room. There was a couch, a coffee table, and a television stand with no TV. That was it. Nothing on the walls. No knickknacks or decorations of any kind.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Charon said.

Griffin said, “I don’t live here but I have maids in and there’s a guy who mows the lawn and keeps and eye on the house. I haven’t decided what to do with it yet. I’ll probably sell it at some point.”

“Why did you move? This is a nice house.”

“I prefer living in a more metropolitan area. This house was someone else’s idea of a home.”

Charon had a sudden feeling that she should tread carefully. “Oh, I didn’t know you had been married.” She hoped it was had. Please let it be had.

“I wasn’t. Not exactly. Long story and not one I care to tell. I put your suitcase in the master bedroom down the hall there. I’ll be sleeping in the guest room.”

“I don’t mind taking the guest room, Griffin.”

“Nah, you’ll be more comfortable in the main bedroom. I’m going to make sure everything’s functioning in the kitchen. We’ll make a grocery run later when we go see Carl. Make yourself at home.”

Charon wandered down the hallway to the master bedroom. It was furnished in the same style as the living room. Early modern Spartan. A king size bed. Two bedside tables. A chest of drawers. Nothing else. Griffin had apparently moved all his personal stuff to his apartment and gotten rid of anything else. And why wouldn’t he? Like he said, no one lived here. But who had? Griffin had shared this space with someone, which might explain why he didn’t want to sleep in the master bedroom. Too many memories, maybe?

Charon put down the bags containing her laptop and her books. She pulled out one of the grimoires, the one she understood the most of, and started checking ward spells. Things to keep the monsters out. There seemed to be more ghost warding spells than anything else. People were really afraid of the dead, it seemed. Ah, demons. Now she was getting somewhere.

Griffin stuck his head in the door and said, “I just called another old school friend, Dennis Gramling. His grandfather is an expert on local folklore. I figured he would be someone we should talk to.”

Charon said, “That sounds fascinating. How long has Mr. Gramling lived in the area?”

“One hundred and three years.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. Dennis says his grandfather Whit was born in 1909. He still lives by himself in a cabin in the woods. Has a cellphone though, apparently. Likes to talk to his grandkids. Dennis is going to find out if he’ll give us a couple of hours tomorrow.”

“That will be terrific. Jeez, he lived through both world wars.”

“According to Dennis, Whit’s still very sharp and has an amazing memory. Especially for spook stories as he calls them.”

“Don’t take this personally, Griffin but I may have to throw you over for Whit Gramling.”

“Chance I’ll have to take. In the meantime I’ve got some more calls to make before we go see Carl. Your laptop should work fine anywhere in the house. I’ve got souped-up Internet access.”

“Isn’t that kind of expensive, seeing as you never come here?”

“Oh I don’t pay for it,” Griffin said with a grin as he ducked out of the room.

Charon laughed and went back to her books.

*      *      *

Of course he wasn’t home. Andy Hunter was always home, but not just then. That was on Carl. He should have called first. Instead of lamenting it, he called the office—small twinge of regret/guilt/pain when Thompson answered instead of Nichole—and checked in. Nothing new. No surprise. Yes, he wanted someone to take a statement from Neal Crawford. No, he wouldn’t be coming in tonight. He was exhausted.

Home. He checked each and every room after he locked the doors, and then he took a very long shower, with water as hot as he could stand it. The heat helped soak away a little of the muscle tension. The cold tile floors didn’t even make him shiver as he dried off.

Carl felt like he was made of wood; like he was incapable of feeling anything, really. He knew the symptoms. Grief. He needed to shut down for a few hours, that was all. A decent night’s sleep and the rest of the world would make sense again.

He double checked all the doors and windows, and then set the .38 under his pillow and the hunting knife on the side of the bed. Paranoid? Maybe, but someone was moving into houses and slipping past locked doors, so maybe not.

Either way, he was exhausted and as soon as he’d put on his flannel PJ bottoms and t-shirt he flopped on the bed. The moment his head hit the pillow, he was asleep.

And as he slept, he had dreams. A nightmare about Frank—and really, he’d have expected that—in which the man kept changing, growing, until he swallowed the whole town while Carl tried to run away. No matter how fast he ran or how far, the Frank-blob was right there on his ass, ready to whoop tha hayull outta him. And after that he had a slightly more pleasant dream about Jolene Blackbourne in which she called him “daddy” in a way that had nothing to do with him being a parent to her or anyone else.

Maybe the Siobhan fantasy was inevitable. As attractive as Jolene was, she didn’t hold a candle to her mother, and in the dream Siobhan crawled over him in his bed and proceeded to kiss him again and again with her perfect, kissable lips. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman and there was a certain inevitability to a few wet dreams; still, the one with Siobhan was particularly intense and he awoke to the sound of his own pleasure, his sweating body cooling in the chill autumn air.

Somewhere along the way he’d thrown his blanket to the floor.

Somewhere along the way he’d stripped off his pajama pants. The shirt was still on, but rolled halfway up his torso.

Carl sat up fast and reached for the .38. It was exactly where it belonged and he carried it with him as he checked out the entire house again, from top to bottom. A little voice in the back of his head kept telling him to put on his PJ bottoms before he went anywhere, because, really, he didn’t want to run across anyone in the buff did he? He ignored the voice. Anyone saw him naked, he’d shoot first and ask questions later.

No one saw him. There was no one in the place to see him and the doors and windows were still locked.

That made him feel a little better until he saw his reflection in the bedroom mirror and paid attention. There was a large red mark and a slowly growing bruise along his face and arm where Frank Blackbourne had swatted him into the wall in Neal Crawford’s place. But those weren’t the blemishes that caught him off guard. There were marks on his legs, his stomach, his neck. He knew the marks well enough and had seen them on his body a few times in the past when dealing with particularly amorous paramours.

Carl looked closely to make sure he was right. Oh yes. He was right. Hickeys. Several of them.

Carl took in a deep breath to calm himself and caught the scent of a woman’s perfume. Not just any woman’s scent, either. But that of the female who had so often caught his attention lately.

For the first time he was aware of the pleasant ache that often accompanied a vigorous bout of sex. He’d have noticed earlier if not for the adrenaline and the sea of bruises he was already handling.

No one was in the house but him. He was certain of that.

At least he was certain no one was there now.

Carl took another shower. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw and the water came out first tepid and then cold. It was all he could think to do.

*      *      *

Griffin said, “We’ll have to wait to get Jerry’s files and talk to Carl. I just called his office and he’s out and doesn’t plan on coming back this evening. The dispatcher didn’t know what he was up to, or wasn’t willing to tell me.”

“Couldn’t you give him a call? He needs to know what we found out from Decamp.”

“He does, but it can wait, I guess. Much like myself, Carl doesn’t like anyone looking over his shoulder when he’s running an investigation.”

“Present company excluded, I hope,” Charon said.

Griffin thought she sounded just a tad hurt. And truth be told, she was right. He didn’t mind her company one bit. Aside from all the crazy stuff going on, he had enjoyed spending the entire Sunday with Charon. He had forgotten what it had been like to actually have that kind of companionship.

He said, “Present company definitely excluded.” That got him a smile. “Now since Carl isn’t available and we don’t have much in the way of food, what say we get some Chinese take-out? There’s a place that delivers not too far from here.”

“I like the sound of that. I need to study up on the warding spells anyway. What are you going to do?”

“A little net surfing. Still a couple of things I want to look into.” Actually there was just one thing. Griffin went into what had once been his office. His desk was still there and he placed his laptop on it. Funny how much furniture he had left here, but then when he had left he had been trying to forget a lot of things. Somehow it had just seemed easier to buy new furniture when he moved to the apartment. New everything really.

Griffin turned the laptop on and brought up Google. He typed two words. Carter Decamp. He got a bunch of hits instantly and the first one supplied the answer to the nagging feeling of familiarity he’d had since meeting the man. Decamp had been a Gold Medalist fencer at the 1984 Olympics. Jeez, Griffin had seen video of the matches. He had also apparently been a professor of Literature at Emory University. The guy got around. Most of the articles Griffin found were about Decamp’s fencing career or his time at Emory. Not much personal information aside from a lot of speculation as to why he had retired from teaching so early on. Almost an hour of surfing didn’t turn up much more in the way of hard facts. He did find some posts on various forums that both Decamp and Charon visited, but most of the subjects and books being discussed were totally beyond Griffin’s field of knowledge.

Griffin’s stomach growled. He switched off the laptop and went back to the living room where he found Charon reclined on the couch, surrounded by books. “Sorry, got carried way. You ready to order?”

Charon looked up over the top of a book. “Maybe we’d better pick something up while we’re out. We’re going to need to do some shopping. I think I know just what we need to keep the monsters from our doors.”

“Really?”

“Um hmmm. Pretty much all the texts agree. I need some sea salt and some sage and couple of other things.”

“We can get those things around here?”

“It’s mostly spices, Griffin. We can get it at K-Mart.”

“K-mart, for all your demon stopping needs.”

“More or less. Of course without your favorite witch none of it would do you any good. I have to chant some spells and put some stuff on the doors and windows, but if the various grimoires are right we should be able to keep out whatever it is that wants in. Unless this is all hokum.”

“But you don’t think it is.”

“No, I don’t. Now, what’s a girl got to do to get some dinner around here?”

*      *      *

The screaming started sometime after midnight. Griffin rolled out of bed, snatched the .357 from the nightstand, and ducked into the hallway in a shooter’s crouch. He was relieved and a bit confused to see a very sleepy Charon standing in the doorway of her room, clad in an oversized t-shirt.

“Are you all right?” Griffin said.

“Yes, are you?”

“I’m fine. So who the hell is...”

The scream came again, louder and more sustained. Griffin said, “Stay behind me.” He padded toward the living room. Even just awakened, Griffin’s night vision was good, and the slight glow from the streetlights outside allowed him to see that there was someone near the front door and that someone seemed to be writhing in agony. Griffin felt his heart rate pick up, as he smelled a familiar foul odor. Two silver eyes glared from the darkness. Griffin flipped on the light.

The thing looked to be one of Fish-Breath’s brothers but even the events of the other night couldn’t prepare Griffin for what he was looking at now. The creature seemed to be halfway through the door. No, that was wrong. The door was intact, but Griffin could see part of a pale white upper torso which seemed to terminate at the pelvis just before meeting the door, but there was an area of distortion, a blurred and indistinct region, between the creature and the door. Like part of it was somewhere else. There was a lot of dark brackish blood and the creature’s thrashing seemed to be making things worse. The dark viscous fluid ran from several ugly cuts and splattered about as the thing twisted and screamed.

In his time Griffin had seen some things he wanted desperately to forget. Rows of overflowing mass graves in South Africa. A man slowly decapitated with a hacksaw in Columbia. But as horrific and as mad as those things had been, they were the products of human evil. This? This was enough to make a man want to turn and run.

“God, Griffin,” Charon said. “What’s wrong with it?”

When Charon spoke the creature turned its face toward her and it screeched again. Its lips pulled back and Griffin could see rows of sharp teeth and a black tongue. In the brightly lit room the thing’s eyes seemed to be black as well, like those of a shark. It hissed and screamed and tried to reach out with long, clawed fingers toward Charon and Griffin.

“I can’t stand this screaming,” Charon said, backing away. “Is it in pain? It looks like it’s wounded.”

“I think it’s trapped,” Griffin said. He took a long, slow, breath, willing himself calm.

The creature screamed and writhed and seemed to be trying to push itself through the door, leaving bloody hand prints on the wooden panel. It jerked and twisted and howled at Griffin. He couldn’t remember ever hearing so much rage and pain in a voice. He didn’t think the thing could get loose, but he couldn’t take any chances. Not with Charon here.

“Cover your ears,” Griffin said. He raised the .357 and chose a spot on the creature’s forehead. He squeezed the trigger and the back of the misshapen skull exploded outwards. The creature gave another spasm and then was still. Pistol ready, Griffin inched forward until he could see the thing from a side angle. “It’s like part of it goes somewhere else and part of it is in the door panel.”

Charon lowered her hands and said, “I thought it might disappear when you killed it.”

“No such luck. It’s still caught between dimensions.”

“Huh?”

“I think this is the thing that visited your shop. One of the othersiders who could move in two dimensions.”

“Of course,” Charon said, moving a little closer to the dead creature. “That’s why it could come and go as it pleased. It could reach around our three dimensional world from the other side and unlock doors. You think it came here to leave another message?”

Griffin said, “I’d guess that this time it came to kill us. It may not have come alone, but it was the first one to try and come through the door. And your wards stopped it.”

“You think so?”

“What else could it be? The thing couldn’t cross into this dimension and it couldn’t step back. It was literally tearing itself apart trying to get into either dimension, but your spell held it in place.”

“My spell,” Charon repeated.

“Yeah, I think you’ve graduated to witch first class now.”

“Jesus.”

“Don’t think Jesus has much to do with this thing.” Griffin looked down at the twisted body. “Decamp said bullets wouldn’t necessarily work on the othersiders who could move between the dimensions. Looks like he was wrong in this case.”

Charon said, “Or the ward spell weakened it enough that you could kill it.”

“That’s possible too.” Griffin moved up to the door and threw the deadbolt back. Then he unlocked the door.

Charon said, “Griffin what are you doing? What if there are more of them out there?”

“Then they’ll end up like their trapped, dead brother here if they try and cross the threshold. I want to check something.” He swung the door inward and looked at the other side. He had half expected to see the lower half of the creature’s body but there was nothing but the smooth, flat door panel.

“What do we do now?” Charon said. “We can’t just leave that thing in your door.”

“In the morning you can remove the ward from the door and maybe the thing will fall into one dimension or the other. After that you can replace the ward.”

Griffin couldn’t quite believe how easily he was getting used to using words like wards and spells, but in some ways he was starting to think of them the same way he thought of bullets or body armor. Just another weapon. And Wade Griffin understood weapons.

“This is not happening,” Charon said. “It’s not. This is just too much.”

Griffin sensed that the young woman was close to coming unglued. She had already stood more than most people could have handled in the last few days. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair. “It’s too much for me too. But it’s dead now. We have to hold it together.”

“I’m sleeping in your room the rest of the night. No funny business, I promise. I just can’t sleep alone right now.”

“To tell you the truth, I’d just as soon not be by myself either.”

*      *      *

“Sounds like this Decamp guy knows his stuff,” Carl Price said. “Also sounds like he’s not telling you all he knows.”

Griffin said, “I agree, but I don’t think he was trying to hide anything. I think he was just being cautious, not exactly sure of how much he should share with a couple of people he just met.”

Griffin, Carl, and Charon were seated at a picnic table behind the Sheriff’s department. All three had steaming cups of coffee, and Griffin had brought a box of Dunkin’ Donuts. The fall wind was sharp but not uncomfortable. The usual up and down autumn weather for Georgia.

Carl took a bite of donut and leaned an elbow on the table. “You’re perpetuating a stereotype, bringing these donuts to a cop shop, Wade.”

“You don’t have to eat them,” Griffin said.

“I’m okay with the stereotype. Anyway, most of what Decamp told you jives with what I got from Neal Crawford about this pre-humanity stuff.” Carl took a long breath. “And I cannot believe we’re sitting here talking about this crap. The world has gone crazy.”

Griffin said, “You got that right. And if the rest of what Decamp said was true, it’s going to get a lot crazier.”

“You mean about the deadline?”

“Yeah. Something bad is coming and Halloween looks to be the day, which means we’ve got less than a week to find out what’s happening and who’s involved.”

Carl said, “Don’t think there’s much question about who. No matter which way we turn there’s a Blackbourne standing there grinning at us. Which reminds me,” He turned toward Charon. “You said you were able to keep those, what was it Wade called them, othersiders, out using a spell. Could you fix my place up that way?”

“I’d be glad to, Carl,” Charon said.

“Good to know. I don’t want you to do it yet, but I may need it quick-like when I need it.”

“I’ll have the preparations ready. You just call Griffin.”

“I’ll do that. Speaking of which what happened to the one in your door, Wade?”

“It was halfway decomposed when we went to check it in the morning. I thought I might have to bury it in the backyard, but when Charon removed the ward from the door, the thing just sort of faded away.”

Charon said, “Carl, when you were talking to Neal Crawford about the Moon-Eyed people, did he mention any old ruins in the area?”

“No, nothing about that. He just said they were supposed to live on the bluff.”

“You’re familiar with the legends, Charon?” Griffin said.

“There are a lot of references to the Moon-Eyed folk in local Native American lore. Theories abound about who they might have been. Everything from wandering Norsemen to a lost Welsh prince. But those all came later. The original Cherokee accounts say the Moon-Eyed people were small in stature and that they lived underground and couldn’t abide light. That’s why they called them Moon-Eyed. They could see in the dark. They’re usually connected to old stone walls like the ones on Fort Mountain and Blacktop Mountain. No one knows who built those walls.”

“We’ll ask Whit Gramling about it when we talk to him today,” Griffin said.

Carl said, “Whit would know. He’s something, let me tell you. I drove out to his place to check on him after that big thunderstorm a couple of weeks back. He was out back of the cabin, chopping kindling. I hope I’m in that good shape at 103.”

“I’m not sure you’re in that good shape right now,” Griffin said. “No offense, Carl, but you look like hell.”

“Rough night like I told you.”

But what aren’t you telling me, Griffin thought. He had the feeling that Carl was holding something back. His account of his encounter with Frank Blackbourne had been harrowing enough, but it seemed that something else had happened too. Oh well. He’d talk about it or he wouldn’t.

Griffin said, “Guess Charon and I had better go and keep our appointment with Whit, but I’ll tell you Carl, I’m getting a little tired of just gathering information. These creeps made a run at me last night and I’m thinking it may be time to push back a little.”

“Don’t worry, Wade. We’ll do some pushing soon enough. We can’t just go bulling our way in though. I told you what Frank was capable of. Shooting him didn’t do much good.”

“Maybe we just need bigger bullets.”

Carl grinned. “Maybe.”

*      *      *

Sometimes it’s the smallest things that lead to the biggest discoveries.

Take as an example the case of Tony Moreno. Tony Moreno lived in Tennessee and traveled through Brennert County on the way to Savannah, Georgia. He was going down that way to see his old Army buddy Bill Walker and Bill’s growing family. It was only supposed to be a brief stopover, really. A pit stop on his way down to Miami, where the company he was selling auto parts for was located. He never made it to Savannah to say hello to his old chum, his chum’s wife or the newborn little boy that was the main reason for the side trip.

No, Tony stopped to take a leak on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere and was unpleasantly surprised by the four men who seemed to come out of nowhere to grab him. Men, as if that word could properly describe the genetic aberrations that grabbed him and hauled him further into the woods.

There are places in the woods where no sane human being would go without substantial backup. Tony got to see one of those places intimately before the spikes were pounded into his eyes and his scrotum. He also got to learn exactly how much a knife stroke can hurt well before he was blinded.

And while Tony was dying, another member of the same group took the time to first loot and then remove Tony’s car from the side of the road.

The car was a rental, not that Leland Blackbourne gave the least bit of a damn. Instead he drove the car down rutted tracks that were seldom used and moved deep into the lowest areas of the Hollow, where the Ford was stripped of radio, tires and several untraceable engine parts. By the time he was done the manufacturers of the vehicle would have had trouble recognizing what was left.

Still, not everything was taken from the car. No, what was not really understood by Leland—whose physical appearance was less than pleasant and who had never attended school and whose education was limited to basic math and reading taught him by his mother and the fine art of auto-stripping taught by his cousin Owen—was that certain precautions are often taken by auto manufacturers and rental car companies. The GPS tracking device hidden in the frame was activated exactly one week after the car was not returned and only after several attempts to reach Tony Moreno had failed. The signal was not the strongest, and the location didn’t help with detection, but be it the right combination of cloud cover and luck or merely that a sheriff’s department squad car came close enough, the signal was eventually noticed.

Deputy Will Bradbury expected to locate a stolen car. It wasn’t all that unusual to run across them and, frankly, the Blackbournes had been known to jack a car from time to time. What he didn’t expect as he started his search was to find so many damned cars.

The Hollow has several areas where access is limited. To be kind the area is not well developed and the geography has never made the notion of paved roads a viable one. If not for the fact that Leland Blackbourne lacked in imagination when it came to hiding the remains of his stolen toys, it’s possible that the sheriff’s department might not have ever learned about the stolen car ring. As it was, the remains of over fifty cars were located, all of them stripped and dumped in the same area.

But even when he was looking right at them, Will had trouble seeing them. The foliage in the area consisted heavily of kudzu and the thick leafy vines had overrun most of the vehicles, wrapping around the remains and shrouding them in green so thick that it became nearly impossible to see them until he actively looked for the shapes and interpreted them. He had to pull several thick layers of the plant life back before he could see several of the vehicles.

Strange fact that came to light over the next day: none of the cars had been reported stolen before. Several of the owners had been reported missing, however, including Anthony Robert Moreno, who left behind a wife and two lovely daughters.

Will Bradbury called in his discovery. He knew better than to use the radio: Carl would skin him alive if he broke that particular rule. Half an hour after he’d made the call the Major Crimes Unit—which consisted of whoever was available at the time—arrived to look in on the situation. Then Ben Randall and Stuart Carter—the lucky dogs who were playing Major Crimes Unit that day—took one look and called Carl. Carl showed up a few minutes later. He brought along three tow trucks. Two from the department and one from Wellman’s Citgo station.

Carl took his time looking the site over and he jotted several notes to himself. He also told Randall and Carter that he expected them to have information on each and every car to him before the end of their shift, including the owners and the current whereabouts of the same.

It wasn’t the first time the deputies decided that their boss was a prick and it wouldn’t be the last.

*      *      *

While making his way from Crawford’s Hollow, Carl took the time to look carefully at every residence he could see along the way.

He also called Griffin to let him know about the discovery. Maybe it was nothing, but he doubted it. His stomach told him there was a connection, especially since he had no doubt in his mind that the Blackbournes were involved.

He parked himself not far from the dirt road that led to Merle Blackbourne’s dubious palace and waited there as the first truck came by, hauling the wreck from the lower area of the Hollow. By the time the second truck came past, Merle showed himself. He stood at the edge of the rutted path and watched the truck’s taillights. Then he spit on the ground and shook his head as the third one came by.

Carl wasn’t close enough to hear words, but he could see the fury on the man’s face. His complexion was positively ruddy as he screamed at one of his men and pointed down the road toward the automobile graveyard. Good. That was good. Seeing something piss the bastard off made Carl feel that he was doing something right. Maybe it was irrational, but there it was.

Merle looked his way after about two minutes of making his opinion about the situation clear to his people. The look he cast was surely just as dark as Carl’s thoughts.

Merle reached into the pocket of his blue jeans and fished around until he found a small bundle of cloth. He opened the bundle and stared at the contents for a long moment before rolling something small and black between his forefinger and his thumb. Then said something softly and flicked the small object in Carl’s direction.

Carl shrugged and supposed that was the redneck equivalent of giving him the finger.

He should have known better, but sometimes reality doesn’t always prepare us for what it has in store.

Carl started driving away when he got a call from Andrew Hunter. “Andy, good to hear from you.” He held the phone against his shoulder as he drove carefully along the uneven tracks.

“A man leaves me four or five messages to call him and I eventually take a hint.” The professor’s tone was pleasant enough. “What can I do for you, Carl?”

“I wanted to know what you might know about the legends of the Moon-Eyed People.”

“Carl Price, I’ve written three books on the legends of the Cherokee Nation. You’d know that if you ever bothered to go to the damned library.”

He smiled. “I happen to have copies of your books, Andy. I just thought it made more sense to actually go to the source of the books to expedite matters.”

Somewhat mollified the older man responded. “Little albino men with big round eyes who couldn’t abide the light. Or possibly a Welsh prince named Madoc, depending on who you talk to.”

“Can you tell me about the little albino men?”

“They were supposed to be in this area when the Cherokee came around. According to the legends they lived in caves and underground, couldn’t stand any light at all, but could see in complete darkness. One old fella I spoke to years ago said their eyes were supposed to glow in the darkness, and because they were so round that was why they got their name. At any rate, the Cherokee supposedly drove them off to the west a long time ago.”

Carl nodded his head. He’d heard the legends, of course, but wanted to know what one of the authorities on the subject had to say. “Have you ever seen evidence that they existed?”

“There are a few old stone walls they allegedly built. But again, they were supposed to be nocturnal, and to live underground, so I imagine most of what they might have done would have been found in caves and such. Not too many of those that I’ve seen that had anything worth noticing.” He paused for a moment, which was good because Carl had to take a particularly sharp turn on his way out of the Hollow. “Of course there are a lot of old miner’s caves around here, and more than one of those was supposed to have old pottery and the like in it when they were discovered by the miners.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard that one.”

“Mostly the finds were dismissed as ramblings from desperate gold miners. Remember, the people who claimed they found that stuff weren’t actually finding any gold, despite their best efforts. They might well have been making up tales to see if they could sell anything in order to recoup their losses.”

“Any evidence remain?”

“Not as such. Mostly just rumors of what used to be there.”

“So, any idea why Mooney’s Bluff might be special to the Moon-Eyes?”

“I think you’ve just answered your own question. According to very old local legends, the Moon-Eyed People lived up on the bluff and did all sorts of things up that way.”

“Yeah? Anyone ever find evidence?”

“Didn’t I already say no? What are you dense?”

“Sorry. I’m just fishing, Andy.”

“Well, according to the old legends there are caves up in the bluffs. I never found any, but I also never went looking. Who’d be able to find them through all the kudzu anyway?”

Had Carl been driving at a good clip he might well have wrecked his truck at that moment. Kudzu was a relatively new thing in the region. Some bright boy had decided it would be a good grazing plant at the beginning of the twentieth century and a little over 100 years later the damned stuff had overrun plenty of areas, concealing whatever didn’t move.

“Damn. Anything could be hiding in that stuff.”

“Exactly my point, Carl. You could almost hide a city in those vines.”

Having just seen a junkyard worth of cars hidden by the foliage, he was easy to convince.

*      *      *

Whit Gramling’s cabin crouched on the edge of a gravel and dirt road a few miles outside of Wellman proper. The trees around the cabin were a riot of autumn colors, mostly gold but some red as well, and shot through with the greens of pine and dark spruce. Griffin had forgotten how bright the autumn trees were this close to the Blue Ridge Mountains.

“It’s gorgeous out here,” Charon said.

“Yeah, I was just thinking that. Guess I had to move away to notice it.”

Griffin parked behind a beat up, light green F-150 of 1970s vintage. Whit Gramling waved from the front porch of his rustic cabin as his two visitors walked up the path to his front door. Griffin said, “Afternoon, Mr. Gramling. I’m Wade Griffin and this is Charon.”

Whit said, “Dennis told me you were coming. Said you wanted to hear some spook stories.”

“Yes sir, we do,” said Griffin.

“Well come on up on the porch and have a seat.” Whit was seated in a rocking chair that might have matched the age of the cabin. He was wearing faded denim overalls over a dark blue chambray work shirt and he had a nicely blocked fedora pushed back on his head over curly gray hair. His eyes were pale blue and seemed to take in everything around him like those of a young child. Griffin liked him instantly.

“I love your hat, Mr. Gramling,” Charon said as she stepped up on the porch and took a seat in one of two straight-backed chairs.

Whit grinned and nodded. “Can’t go wrong with a Stetson. You can call me Whit, by the way. My father was Mr. Gramling.”

No question that the man was still as sharp as the proverbial tack. Griffin said, “How long have you lived in this cabin?”

“Hmmm, built it when I got back from Germany in forty five. There was a big housing shortage back then, you know. So what, 66 years? But I’ve had to mostly rebuild it a couple of times. This version’s maybe 30 years old. Had electricity put in back then, but that was mostly for the wife. She only got to enjoy it for about ten years though.”

Charon said, “Sorry to hear that, sir.”

Whit’s smile was wry. “Thank you, sweetheart. But it’s fine. We had a good life. You make it as far as I have and you see a lot of folks go. Anyway, you wanted to talk about spooks. What were you interested in? The wailing widow? The lost Confederate platoon?”

“Both of those sound fascinating, but we were wondering if you knew much about the Moon-Eyed people?”

Whit’s expression didn’t change but Griffin thought he saw something shift behind the pale blue eyes. Whit said, “Oh I know right smart about them. Don’t see them much these days this far from the bluff though.”

Charon said, “You’ve seen them?”

Whit nodded. “They go a roaming on dark nights when no one else can see. Creep through the woods quiet like, nothing showing but their eyes.”

Griffin remembered the weird silver glint in Fish-breath’s eyes. The thing in the door had had it too.

Griffin said, “So they’re not just a legend?”

“No, but there are fewer of them around here than there used to be. When I was a kid it wasn’t safe to go up on Mooney’s Bluff at night, especially not this time of year. In fact it wasn’t a good idea to go into the woods anywhere near here the closer it got to All Hallows. The Moon-Eyes stayed clear of town for the most part, but now and again someone would go missing during the night.”

Charon said, “They took people?”

“Not many. They didn’t like to draw attention to themselves, so they usually settled for drifters and hobos.”

“Why did they take them?”

“Best not to say. Not the sort of thing to talk to a young lady about.”

“I’m pretty tough.”

“I just bet you are. Let’s just say that them that was taken was a long time dying there in the dark.”

“And you still lived out here in the woods like this?” Charon said.

“Shoot, sweetheart. They wouldn’t come within a mile of this cabin. It’s protected.”

“Sea salt and sage?” Charon said.

“Well now. What’s a pretty young thing like you know about all that?”

“I read a lot.”

“So do I. But no, I used finely ground silver mixed in the mortar around the doors and windows. More expensive than salt but they won’t even try to pass it.”

“Good to know,” Griffin said.

Whit gave a slight shrug. “Like I said, haven’t seen one in years, but then I don’t go walking the way I used to.”

Charon said, “Did you ever see any stone walls or ruins on Mooney’s Bluff?”

“No, not like they have on Fort Mountain or the walls that used to be on Blacktop until eighty-six.”

“What happened in 1986?” Griffin said. He’d been to Blacktop Mountain. It was close to the Tennessee border near the Chattahoochee National Forest. His family had picnicked there when he was small.

Whit looked suddenly sheepish, like he realized he might have said too much but he went on. “Bunch of folks went missing near old Blacktop.”

Charon’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never heard anything about that.”

“No reason you should have. The law hushed it up pretty good and even they didn’t know what had really happened.”

Charon started to speak, but Griffin held up his hand. Whit seemed to be lost in a memory and Griffin had the distinct impression that he might clam up if they interrupted him. “Thing was, something had been stirring up the Moon-Eyes. It was about this time of year, which meant whatever it was it was bad doings. Some folks came to talk to me about it but I couldn’t help them much.

“There was some sort of big ceremony on the mountain and a whole lot of people died. I think someone was trying to bring someone over. One of the old ones. The walkers between shadows. They’re always looking for a chance. Watching. Waiting.”

Whit looked down at his feet and in the bright sunlight he suddenly looked every one of his 103 years. Griffin said, “We’ve taken up enough of your time, sir.”

Whit looked up and his pale eyes came back into focus. “I’m not quite done, son. I’m old but I ain’t gone senile just yet. There was a woman lived around here when I was a kid. She was one of the Denny girls. When she was little she used to play in the woods and bring back tales of the Moon folk. Said they whispered to her under the leaves.”

A sudden breeze came up and blew across the back of Griffin’s neck.

Whit said, “My grandmother said she went missing one night in 1891 or so. Abigail, that was her name, liked to walk in the woods near the bluff. Anyway, she was gone for three days and there were terrible thunderstorms up near the bluff every night.”

“Excuse me, Whit, but what has that got to do with something that happened on Blacktop Mountain decades later?”

“Hold your water, son. I’m coming to that. After Abigail turned up, her family hid her away for a while. Folks said she was never right in the head after she disappeared. The few times I can remember seeing her she seemed scared of her own shadow. Skittish like. I don’t think she lived much past fifty. But those thunderstorms. That’s what I was getting to. There was the same kind of weather up in the heights on Blacktop the night the Moon-Eyes tried to raise something. They failed but they come real close.”

“Whit,” Charon said, “Did Abigail have any kids? Are any of them still alive?”

“That depends on who you ask. But she had a lot of descendants over in Crawford’s Hollow.”

Griffin said, “The hollow? You mean she married a Blackbourne?”

“Yep. Can’t recall his name, though. Now, I’ve enjoyed our chat, but I’m suddenly feeling a mite tired. You get that way after a hundred.”

“I’d imagine so,” Griffin said, rising from his chair. “Thank you for talking to us, sir.”

“Any time, Griffin. You bring this good looking young woman around any time.”

“I might just come back without him,” Charon said.

“Now you’re talking,” said Whit. Then he leaned toward Griffin and the joviality went out of his voice. “They’re back, ain’t they son? Going to try again.”

“Yes sir, we think so.”

“Lord help us. I’d hoped I’d be gone before they showed up again. Like I told you they came near to opening a gate in eighty-six. If that Decamp fellow and his friends hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what might have happened.”

Griffin said, “Decamp? Carter Decamp?”

“Yeah, that was his name. Carter. Well you folks take care. Guess I’ll know one way or the other if the Moon-Eyes get what they want.”

Whit stood slowly and with a wave he stepped into the cabin. Griffin looked back over his shoulder at Charon.

“Oh my,” Charon said.

*      *      *

The autumn was progressing, but Carl had to wonder if he could find a way to get rid of the kudzu faster, preferably not in any method that would destroy the evidence he was hoping to find. It’d taken him almost fifteen minutes to work his way to a trail that showed the back of Neal Crawford’s sprawling home and during that time he stared at the spread of vegetation with little hope of seeing anything through it. The damned stuff was thick and well-settled in the area, falling down the side of the bluff like a frozen waterfall of mottled brown and green snakes.

“Shit’s still creepy looking.” He spat the words under his breath and tightened his jacket, telling himself the gesture was to ward off the cold and not the chill that crept through him at the thought of what might be hiding in the endless mass. He’d always disliked kudzu. It just never felt right to him.

Still, there was nothing he could do from where he was, and nothing he was carrying with him that would cut through the crap. It was time to head back into Wellman and find out what sort of luck Ben and Stu were having. Maybe he’d grab them a pizza on his way in, his way of apologizing for screwing up whatever plans they had. To be fair, Ben had no plans beyond cybersex with his digital girlfriend in Virginia—they’d never met and Stu insisted that the girl was probably a fat, old trucker—and Stu planned on watching the game. He could do that at the office while he tracked down old cars and looked for missing people.

In the woods to his left a crow let out a screaming caw loud enough to make his hair stand on end. He looked in that direction and saw the hoary old bird eyeing him disdainfully. That was, just possibly, the biggest damned crow he’d ever seen. It looked like it probably ate small dogs as snacks and could take on an eagle for sheer size.

It cawed again and a third time and several others of the same species answered from other places in the woods.

“What’s got you all riled up, buddy?” Carl looked around as the crows kept up their noises. He wasn’t used to them making quite that much noise, and he certainly didn’t like unexpected changes in routine when he was off in the woods alone. In fact, he was seriously considering making one of his deputies drive with him for a while, because the way the last few days had gone, he didn’t much mind the idea of someone watching his back.

Something in the woods answered the crows. The sound was so low that at first he didn’t really hear it so much as feel it, a low vibration that rose slowly in pitch and in volume, carrying across the woods and bouncing back from the hillside. A train, maybe? The tracks were a couple of miles away, but distance could certainly distort the sound of a train horn. Possibly, but that didn’t feel right.

The sound grew louder still, a prolonged noise that vibrated through the trees and made his skin feel rubbed raw. And he wasn’t alone in thinking the noise unsettling. As he looked for the source of the noise that great old crow rose from its perch in a kudzu sheathed tree and flapped into the air, screeching for its companions. They listened, and rose up as well, taking higher and higher into the sky before swarming away from the woods. Carl watched, shocked, having never seen that many of the carrion birds in one area before. Other birds, smaller for the most part, also took off, startled by whatever was out there, or maybe simply sensing what Carl himself sensed, that whatever it was, it was hungry.

Carl didn’t exactly run toward his truck, but he moved at a fast clip, keeping his eyes on the ground because the vines and the rocks made moving through the area very treacherous.

And somewhere behind him, something damned big moved through the trees. He could hear the sound of thick wood cracking and the hiss and rattle of leaves falling from their branches. His mind painted a picture of Frank coming for him, a hideously bloated, warped Frank, three stories tall and bellowing from whatever mouth hid inside the thickly scarred area of his stomach that lay hidden when he spoke with his other voice.

Fuck caution. Carl hauled ass, moving for his truck and whatever weapon he could find that might stop the thing making that noise and breaking past branches. The trip was mostly uphill, and he was starting to feel the burn by the time he reached the side road where he’d parked. His truck was not alone, and he recognized the car the instant he saw it. Siobhan Blackbourne’s Jaguar glinted in the autumn sun, freshly polished and about as pretty as a car could be. The fact that she was leaning against the hood only added to the attraction.

Carl’s mind flashed to the night before, the ache in his body, the marks on his skin and the vivid fantasies of sex with the woman he was looking at. They had to be fantasies, didn’t they? He couldn’t have slept through the experience and he didn’t remember anything clearly enough to believe they’d happened.

The air was crisp, but in the distance there were clouds gathering again, dark shapes in the sky that piled higher and higher and headed for the area like ships heading into a port. The woman smiled breezily at him, fully relaxed in the bright day and comfortable in her blouse and skirt combination. She was always in a skirt and blouse or a dress. He rather liked that. He also hated the fact that he was thinking about her that way. She was a Blackbourne, and currently that should have put her on the list of serious public enemies.

He kept his distance, far enough away that he wasn’t tempted to touch her. Damn what was it about her that made him feel so stupid and weak?

“Hello, Sheriff. I was buying myself some apples and saw your car. Thought I might take a moment to apologize if I was brusque with you the last time we saw each other.” She looked at him without any hint of teasing, without any sign that something had happened between them.

It was only as she spoke that he realized whatever had been making so much noise in the woods behind him had stopped. There was no roar, no sound of trees shaking, not even much of a breeze.

“Not at all, as I recall. I was the one in your house waiting for you, not the other way around.” That sounded good, like he wasn’t ready to start stuttering in front of her. Like he didn’t want to grab her and find out if his vague memories of what had happened the night before might match up with the reality of—No. He made himself stop thinking that way.

She nodded and looked away, once again indifferent to him, like he wasn’t exactly important and neither was the authority he represented and damned if he didn’t dislike that notion. “What brings you up here besides the apples?”

She squinted a bit against the glare and he flashed on her daughter making the same facial expression. It was unsettling how much they looked alike. “Maybe I just like traveling through the hills. Maybe I wanted to see the place where magic still happens.”

“Magic?”

“Don’t you believe in magic, Sheriff?”

He looked away first. Damn it. “Not really sure if I do, Ms. Blackbourne.”

“Now, see, I think you can feel it in the air up here. I think if you listen, you can almost hear the sound of something waiting to happen.” She took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “My mother used to tell me stories of little people in the woods up this way. Said they came out when the stars were just right in the sky.”

“The man claiming to be your cousin Frank claimed his grandmother had a magic charm. Said it was stolen from her grave and that was why he was back.” Oh that did it. Her expression changed in an instant. She became guarded. He could see the shutters falling behind her amazing blue eyes.

“Did he now?”

Carl nodded. “Seemed to think it would protect her from something, even though she’s dead.”

“Well, if it’s the same Frank I knew, the one that’s been dead for twenty years, I suppose he might have a different opinion of death than most people, don’t you?”

“If it’s a hoax, someone’s been going through a lot of trouble.” Carl looked her in the eyes. “Frank Blackbourne’s grave is empty. Abigail Blackbourne’s grave is only a short way from his, and it looked like it had been disturbed.” Amazing how well she carried that calm exterior. “He said something about a charm necklace or maybe a bracelet.”

“I’m sure whoever you’re dealing with has an agenda of his own that I know nothing about, Sheriff.”

Carl nodded his head and moved toward his truck. “You be careful up here, Ms. Blackbourne. I thought I heard something rolling around in the woods back that way.”

“There’s not much that can hurt me, Sheriff. I’m tougher than I look.”

He looked back at her. The clouds were still a ways off, but for a moment they blocked out the sun and he looked at her, surprised by the light that seemed to shine from somewhere deep inside her eyes.

*      *      *

On the drive back from Whit Gramling’s place, Griffin noted that Charon was more quiet than usual, obviously considering what Whit had told them. She spoke up just as they reached downtown Wellman. “Griffin, do you remember what Carter Decamp told us about sacrifices? How the othersiders would have to have a mass sacrifice to create enough power to, as he put it, sunder the veil?”

Griffin said. “Yeah and from what Whit just told us, I think Decamp might have had first hand knowledge of that up on Blacktop Mountain.”

“Right, that’s what I was thinking too. But see, if the current group of othersiders is planning the same sort of ceremony, then won’t they need the people to kill? I mean it’s five days until Halloween. If they’ve been gathering sacrificial victims, shouldn’t we have noticed? I know Whit said they usually went for transients and such, but you’d think there would be some sign that people were disappearing.”

Griffin said, “You’ve got a really good point there. I should have thought of that.”

Charon said, “And if that’s the case then there are who knows how many people being held prisoner somewhere right now. Jesus, they must be terrified.”

Griffin didn’t like to think about what conditions those people might be being held under. He said, “I wonder how many victims qualify as a mass sacrifice? I bet your pal Decamp could tell us.”

“I can call him and ask.”

“Let’s wait a bit. I may want to see him again in person for our next chat.”

“I really don’t think he was trying to deceive us, Griffin.”

“No, I don’t either. When you’ve been in one version of law enforcement or another as long as I have, you come to realize that no one ever tells you the entire truth. Despite your internet chats, Decamp doesn’t know us from zip. I think he would be more forthcoming if we saw him in person though. For now, we need to think about those possible sacrifice victims. Who they might be, and for that matter where are they being held? When we get to the house I’ll give Carl a call. That’s the kind of thing he could check out.”

Griffin turned onto the street where his house was located. It was early afternoon and the sun was still bright, but there were dark banks of clouds in the distance. Griffin noticed a black BMW sedan parked in front of his house. He slowed as he approached it, and rather than pulling beyond it into his driveway, Griffin parked the truck behind the car. He could only see one occupant to the vehicle, but that didn’t mean others hadn’t disembarked earlier and were now waiting in positions advantageous to blowing Griffin and Charon away.

“What are we doing?” Charon said.

“Well, I’m going to have a chat with that guy who’s parked in front of my house. You’re going to wait here.”

“Why do I always have to wait?”

“I might need you to run over him,” Griffin said. “Speaking of which, you ever fired a gun?”

“I used to shoot with my dad some but it’s been years.”

Griffin reached into the holster hidden in the truck door and pulled out his Beretta 9mm. He thumbed the safety off and worked the slide. “Okay, this is a semi-auto and it’s cocked now. That means that every time you pull the trigger a bullet is going to come out. You’ve got 16 rounds counting the one I just put in the chamber.”

Griffin handed the gun to Charon. She took it a bit gingerly but not fearfully. She said, “I really really don’t want to shoot anybody.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that. I’m just going to have a chat with Mr. BMW here, but I want you to be ready.”

Griffin unholstered his .357 and got out of the truck. He held the gun down by his leg and started toward the car. The driver got out when he saw Griffin coming, but he did so in a slow, almost leisurely way and then leaned against the BMW. The guy was tall and seemed to have a Johnny Cash fixation. He wore black slacks, a long-sleeved black shirt with thin black tie, and black boots. His skin was pale white and his hair matched it. An Albino? Perhaps, but he was wearing dark glasses, so Griffin couldn’t see his eyes. Griffin was willing to bet they would have the ‘Blackbourne look’ though.

“You can lose the cannon,” the man said in a raspy voice. “I’m not here to make trouble today.”

“What are you doing here then?” Griffin said.

“Just came to have a look at you. You killed one of my brethren last night. That’s not easy to do.”

“I am daring and resourceful.”

The pale man smiled a thin smile. “So I’ve been told.”

Griffin said, “I’d ask you in but I imagine you might have a little trouble at the door.”

“That seems likely. But don’t let that make you too comfortable. Some of my brothers are human enough to come in despite the wards.”

“Probably human enough to get their brains blown out too then,” said Griffin.

“Doesn’t mean they won’t come,” said the pale man.

“How many brothers you got, pal?”

“More than you have bullets, if it comes to that.”

“Your parents must be prolific.”

“Yes though I hardly think it will take all my younger siblings.”

“You’re the eldest?”

“My mother’s first born. Isaiah Blackbourne is my name.”

“Nice biblical, name. So tell me, Isaiah, what’s to keep me from just shooting you right now?”

“Nothing at all. I’m unarmed. Couldn’t stop you. But somehow I don’t think you will.”

“As you said, wouldn’t let that make you too comfortable.”

“I won’t. I don’t suppose telling you to stay out of Blackbourne business would do any good?”

“Probably not. Guess you’ll just have to try and kill me again.”

“It could come to that, but personally I’d rather you stay alive.”

“And why’s that?”

Isaiah Blackbourne grinned a wide grin and Griffin could see his very sharp teeth. “I’d like for you to see what happens to your world when the path is opened.”

Griffin caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and he twisted toward it, but checked himself when he saw it was Charon. Her hand was extended toward Isaiah, and Griffin could see something glittering in the air.

“Gaah,” said Isaiah, staggering backwards. As Griffin watched, the air around the pale man seemed to shimmer and Griffin imagined he could see something, a distortion sort of like the one he had seem around the othersider who was trapped in the door. He had a vague impression of more limbs and greater mass than Isaiah should have, but then the effect was gone.

Isaiah spewed several curses as he got into his car. He pulled out with much screeching of tires and burned rubber out of the neighborhood. Griffin looked back at Charon. “What did you do?”

“Tested a theory. I had some mixed sea salt and sage in my pocket and I threw it at that weirdo.”

“And what the hell happened?”

“I’m not sure, but I think we got a look at the parts of him that aren’t in our dimension.”

*      *      *

Arlo’s jaw wasn’t mending so well. And cousin Beau’s arm was swollen and starting to stink to high hell.

“Ya’ll aren’t exactly getting better.” She looked at Beau and stared at the traces of angry red that were moving away from the makeshift cast. She wasn’t exactly a college graduate, but she knew blood poisoning when she saw it.

“We’re gonna get better, Jolene. You just watch,” Arlo’s voice rasped and wheezed as he spoke. He was always a little optimistic. Like how he thought they’d have sex someday.

“Arlo, honey, you aren’t going to get better. You fucked up. You let that pretty man go and break your face. And look at it. Go on, look in a mirror. It’s all swollen and puffy and the only reason I can understand what you’re saying is because your brother always sounds that way.” Beau started to react and she shook her head. “Not you, Beau. I mean Caleb.” He nodded, mollified.

“We was just doing what you asked.” Beau was whining a bit. The fever was starting to get the better of him.

“No sir, you were not. I asked you to clean up your mess, not make it worse.” She’d wanted the reporter stopped, and she’d wanted to make a point at the same time. That was why she’d asked her cousins to handle the matter. She’d given them very simple instructions, written out exactly what they had to do, even drawn them a diagram. And in their defense, they got the words right and even carved them in the right places, but they got sloppy.

If she hadn’t been there to clean up the mess when they went back for the things they’d left behind, she didn’t want to think about what might have happened. Her mother wasn’t exactly the sort of woman you were supposed to disappoint.

“Jolene, I don’t feel so good.” Arlo looked at her and trembled a bit. The fever was doing a number on him, infection settling into his body for the long haul. He wasn’t as bad off as Beau, but he was getting there.

“I know, honey. Finish your soup.” She smiled for him and he tried to smile back. He was so easy to play with. “It’ll make you all better.”

Arlo looked down at the bowl. It was empty. “All gone.”

Jolene ran her fingers through his hair and across his sweaty scalp. The poisons would do their business in the next few minutes. “You get some sleep, sweetie. Jolene will watch over you.” Her smile was sincere enough.

It took time, a good fifteen minutes or so before the rat poison finished what it had started. Beau died first, not surprising when you considered his infections. Arlo took longer and vomited a thick pool of blood and other things before he died. When he was finished with his death throes, she turned on all of the gas stove’s burners, taking the time to put out the pilot lights first. The weather was getting colder and no one would be too surprised by a crappy heater catching the place on fire. Just to be extra sure, Jolene nudged Arlo with her foot until his hair was actually touching the heater’s coils and she could see the hair starting to burn. After that she got the hell out of Dodge.

She was a quarter of a mile through the woods when the place exploded. She watched with her binoculars, just to make sure that no one got in or got out.

“It’s true. You want something done, you just have to do it yourself.” She sighed. Life was really a lot easier when she could just make other people handle the dirty work. Still, now and then you had to finish what you started and this time around, there was so very much to finish.

“First, I guess it’s time to give Carl a hint or two. Cute, but slow. That one’s gonna take some time to settle up proper.” She moved through the woods at a surprising speed, and around her the animal life froze, careful not to catch her attention. They knew a predator was close, even if that predator looked mostly harmless.

She had, of course, already given him a clue, and in the process inadvertently awakened Frank. That was a special sort of chaos that she hadn’t expected.

Frank was a legend. He was one of the first to survive, and his death had caused so many members of the family trouble that for a while no one was allowed to leave the Hollow, except for her mother. Those had been good times, when she hadn’t needed to deal with the more unpleasant members of the family.

Even now the word that Frank was back from the dead was causing all sorts of issues. Merle was fit to be tied, and her mother? Well, there weren’t words to express her mood, were there?

The thought made Jolene smile. A lot of the family forgot about her. She was a distraction for the regular folks, like her mother had been in her time, and considered little more. Merle called on her when someone needed to be played with, and other than that left her alone. It didn’t matter that she was barely out of high school; she’d been toying with men since she was twelve or so, mostly travelers who didn’t know any better, but not always. A few of the men in town had thought to catch her attention over the years, which was why she always enjoyed spurring on a few arguments.

Barry Dunlop came to mind. Barry was close to forty years old, old enough to be her daddy, really, and he did everything he could to get into her pants short of actually trying to rape her. And when she wouldn’t take the hint, he started spreading ugly rumors about her. She didn’t much care about the rumors, really. They were mostly comical and the people she cared about—the few at school she considered friends—all knew better, but that didn’t mean she approved of Barry being the one to spread the unpleasant stories.

The bikers she sicced on Barry made sure he never talked about her again. He was still alive, sort of, but not really in the sort of condition that allowed him to spread ugly rumors. The bikers? They were long gone. All she had to do was tell them about a party in the Hollow, and the family took care of the rest.

Jolene had plans of her own, and they had little to do with what certain other members of the family thought were important. Of course you couldn’t exactly discuss things with the family. They didn’t like to have conversations so much as they liked to kill anyone who pissed them off.

So it was time to shake things up on the home front. All she had to do was make sure that the men she needed to do her work were in the right places. That meant the sheriff, his big friend, and Cousin Frank.

The good news? They were already on a collision course.

*      *      *

Fun fact about police systems. They can tell you damned near anything about a person. For example, despite appearances, Siobhan Blackbourne was not young enough to be her daughter’s sister. According to the paperwork she was in her thirties. She also had a substantial bank account—several actually—as a result of marrying well and divorcing even better. More power to her, Carl supposed.

On paper at least, she was clean. Of course the same could be said of Merle, who had so far managed to avoid ever having a charge against him that stuck.

That was about to change, of course.

Carl looked at the large collection of cars that had already been pulled from the graveyard they’d found in Crawford’s Hollow. There were a lot of vehicles, and more still to come. More importantly, they were starting to paint a very unpleasant picture, one that was looking very bad for certain members of the Blackbourne clan. So far the boys had tracked down eight separate cases where the drivers or owners of the vehicles were nowhere to be found. They’d been reported missing and never bothered to show up after the reports were filed. Mostly they were out of towners. There were fingerprints to be found. So far no less than four members of the clan had foolishly left evidence behind. There were still at least seven unidentified sets of prints that could have come from vehicle owners or from other sources.

So, yes, as the patriarch of the group, Merle was about to get a headache the size of the county.

And Carl couldn’t make himself feel at all bad about that fact.

Carl sat in his office and tapped away on the keyboard, searching for members of the family that could possibly be tied into the raid he was already planning. The Blackbournes were knee deep in something, if he could find a way to keep some of them locked away until after Halloween, maybe that could slow down or prevent the weirdness that seemed to be heading for all of Brennert County at high speed.

Or maybe they’d pull their crap off anyway, but at least their numbers would be thinned and that would make it easier to handle the situation if he had to.

The buzzer rang on his office phone and he answered.

“It’s Carl.”

“I’d sure as hell hope so, Carl. It’s your office I buzzed.” Carl rolled his eyes. Tyler Booth was trying to have a sense of humor again. The only thing lamer than the man’s sense of humor was his ability to score with the ladies. Tyler dated even less than Carl and Carl almost never managed to find the time for going out on anything remotely like a romantic occasion.

“What can I do for you, Tyler? I’m a mite busy just now.” He let the annoyance stay in his voice.

Tyler completely ignored it, which was one of the man’s gifts. He could ignore anything short of a howitzer aimed at his face.

“Got Merle Blackbourne out here. Says he’d like to talk with you.”

Well, now that was a surprise.

“Tell him I’ll be right with him.”

Carl came out of his office two minutes later, and looked at Merle. He’d have liked to have thought that somehow the man might seem less threatening away from his home, but that just wasn’t the case. He was still a fairly large man and very confident in his power.

Merle looked at him for a long moment as if contemplating exactly what he wanted to say. Finally he said “Walk with me a spell, please, Sheriff.”

Carl nodded and they headed for the door. It was a simple enough situation. Merle wasn’t about to make any statements that might be overheard.

Twenty feet from the front of the building Merle looked toward Carl and nodded his head. “I were in your position, I suspect I’d be getting ready to come into the Hollow and make a few arrests.”

“Can’t say as the idea hasn’t crossed my mind, Merle. Got a lot of stolen cars and a lot of missing people. I figure I need to find out what happened to them.”

“Way I see it, you got a lot of cars. Ain’t seen any people.”

“Cars that belong to people who are missing, Merle. It ain’t rocket science to figure the two might be related.”

“Let’s cut the shit, Carl. You come on in, you do what you need to do, and I can guarantee you don’t find anyone. No one. Not a soul.” Merle’s eyes were calm, his face almost serene, but his tone was a touch on the tense side.

“Merle, I have two dead deputies and a murdered friend on my plate. What the hell makes you think a few empty houses are going to stop me from digging until I get what I want?”

The man nodded his head amiably enough. “You have my sympathies, as we’ve already discussed. I can get you Frank. I can probably arrange a few others, too. You tell me who you need, I can have them turn themselves in.”

Carl stopped walking and stared hard at the man. “Suddenly you want to play nice, Merle?”

“It ain’t playing nice, and you damned well know it.” He spat the words. “It’s called playing smart. You start tearing up my territory, things are going to get ugly and you know it. You got your people to look after and I have my family. Be smart, Carl. Let’s just get this done with as little mess as possible.”

Carl looked the man over from head to toe. There was a certain logic to what he said. The logic wasn’t really what Carl wanted just then. He wanted disruption and ways to throw whatever Merle and his family of lunatics was thinking about doing.

“If I say yes, I’d need the people on that list by the end of the day. Sunset, is what I’m saying here, Merle. Not midnight.”

“Might could take a bit longer to get Frank to come in.” Carl gritted his teeth. Might could. He hated that phrase and always had. You might. You could. It wasn’t supposed to be both.

“I could give you until sunrise for Frank. I’d still need the rest of them today.”

“Give me the names.” Merle was too accommodating. Carl didn’t like it in the least.

“Come on back to the office. I’ll get that list for you.” Merle nodded. “You don’t come through for me, Merle, and I can promise I’ll be shaking down every single place I can think of to look, starting with your house. You understand me?”

Merle’s half smile crept back in. “I don’t much like threats, Carl.”

“I don’t like to give them. I’m just letting you know that I’m serious here. I’ve got enough on my plate with the recent deaths, I don’t need to waste a lot of my time looking for your kin.”

Carl walked back into his office and closed the door. He looked over the list of people who had been identified and jotted the names down. Then just for fun, he added seven more names from people he knew were dirty enough to be involved. There was no proof, but he was good with that. This was just a maneuver to buy him a little time. He had no doubt that they’d still be raiding the Hollow in the morning. This way, however, he maybe got a few of the more serious players out of the way before hand.

When he handed the list to Merle the man started reading, his lips pursed up like he was half expecting a kiss. He’d wait a damned long time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll be here.”

Merle headed for the door and Carl let him go. He held his breath until the bastard was through the threshold.

He wasn’t watching as well as he should have. If he had been, he’d have seen the Blackbourne patriarch cut himself in the palm of his hand and let several fat drops hit the dirt of the parking lot.

And if he’d been paying attention, things might have gone very differently.

*      *      *

“That,” Charon said once she and Griffin were in the house, “Was a very creepy man.”

“He was, and you seriously pissed him off,” Griffin said. He placed Jerry’s notebooks and laptop on the coffee table.

Charon said, “He didn’t sound too thrilled, even before I threw that stuff at him.”

“No, I was needling him. Trying to get him mad. Sometimes you learn things that way.”

“And sometimes you probably get shot at.”

“That too. I’m going to call Carl. Why don’t you see if you can get the laptop up and running.”

“Will do.”

Griffin dialed Carl’s cell. Carl answered on the third ring. “Wade. What’s up?”

“I just met another of the Blackbournes I’d never heard of. This one named Isaiah. An albino.”

“I don’t know that one either. They’re coming out of the woodwork lately. Hopefully this one hasn’t been dead for twenty years.”

“He’s lively enough, but I don’t think he’s fully human.”

“Great,” said Carl. “Merle was just here by the way.”

“Sounds like we have them rattled with all our digging around.”

“It does. So did you learn anything from Whit?”

“Yeah, I’ll get to that, but listen. Charon thought of something that could be pretty bad. Figured you have the manpower to do some checking.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

Griffin told Carl what they’d learned from Whit Gramling about the events on Blacktop Mountain in 1986 and what that probably meant in terms of hostages. He also gave him the Reader’s Digest version on the story of Abigail Blackbourne.

When Griffin was done, Carl said, “Yeah, I think you could call that bad. There could be a crowd of people in some serious shit. Charon’s right though. You’d think someone would have noticed a bunch of people going missing in that short a time frame. I wonder if the Blackbournes were being careful and snatching people outside the county? Might be worth making some calls to other Sheriff’s departments. I’ll put someone on it. Thing is, we just discovered something that would explain why some folks have disappeared, but not enough of them recently to fit in with any sort of mass sacrifice.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

“Better not, even on the phone. I’ve got some things in the works though and I should be able to tell you something by morning.”

“Gotcha. Well keep me posted.”

“ I will. What are you going to do?”

“Think I’m going to have another talk with Mr. Decamp.”

Griffin rang off and stepped back into the living room to find Charon frowning at the laptop. She said, “I don’t suppose you have a password for this thing?”

“Damn,” Griffin said. “Should have thought of that. The Tribune’s IT guy can probably get us in, but it will have to wait. We need to talk to Decamp.”

“I called him while you were talking to Carl. He said to come on over.”

Griffin smiled. “You’re pretty handy to have around.”

“Keep that in mind, big boy.”

“Did you tell Decamp we’d heard about his earlier encounter with the othersiders?”

“No, but I said that Whit Gramling had mentioned him. I’m sure he put the rest together.”

“No doubt. All right then. Let’s go see the man.”

*      *      *

Charon marveled again at Decamp’s Victorian home as Griffin pulled into the driveway. She said, “I bet the upkeep on a place like this is huge.”

“Decamp said it had been in his family for generations,” Griffin said. “Guess he comes from money.”

Charon was picking up a slight edginess from Griffin. He was always...she supposed focused would be the word, but now he seemed to almost hum with a sort of intensity that was a little scary. They got out of the truck and Griffin led the way up the walkway.

Decamp met them at the front door as he had on their previous visit. He said, “Come straight through to the study. I have some coffee made.”

Griffin nodded a terse greeting and followed Decamp into the house. Charon hoped that Griffin wasn’t angry at Decamp for holding out on them. He had said he didn’t blame Decamp but she couldn’t get a clear read on Griffin’s mood.

When they were seated around Decamp’s desk Decamp said, “Charon told me you’d spoken with Whit Gramling, Griffin. I suppose he told you about Blacktop Mountain.”

Griffin said. “Not much. Just enough to know that what’s happening now has happened before and that you were involved. I have to say that I think you might have mentioned that to us. We are dealing with some pretty dangerous stuff here.”

Griffin was staring hard at Decamp but the older man’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t know you, Griffin. I’m not in the habit of giving out unnecessary information about myself to anyone.”

“Even if that information might save lives?”

“You seem to be all right.”

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear the last time, Decamp. Those othersider bastards murdered a good friend of mine.”

“And you’re doing what?” Decamp said. “Trying to avenge him? Ask yourself, Griffin. Are you interested in stopping the othersiders or just taking vengeance on them? That’s what I need to know before I trust you any farther. The last thing this situation needs is a loose cannon.”

Charon felt Griffin tense beside her, and for a moment she thought he might leap across the desk at Decamp. Then he said, “Can I get some of that coffee?”

“Certainly. Cream and or sugar?”

“Black. Cream is for sissies.”

Decamp smiled. “I thought I’d read you correctly the first time, Griffin. You’re a man with a lot of anger, but you try not to let it rule you.”

“Sometimes I fail,” said Griffin.

“So do I,” said Decamp. “Yes I held back information, but I felt it necessary. As I said, I didn’t know you and I wasn’t sure how much information to share. This isn’t the sort of thing you can talk to just anyone about. For all I knew, you were working with the Blackbournes.”

Charon took in an involuntary gulp of air. So Decamp knew about the Blackbournes. Had they been involved in the earlier attempt to open the path to the other side? It seemed likely, but the Moon-Eyed ones were far older than the Blackbourne family.

“But now you think differently?” said Griffin.

“Whit called me after you talked to him. He let me know he’d let my name slip and perhaps a few too many details, but that he trusted you. Whit’s a good judge of character, but then he’s had time to learn a lot about human nature.”

“He has at that,” said Griffin.

Charon wondered if she would ever understand men. A few minutes ago Decamp and Griffin had been snapping at each other and she could practically smell the testosterone in the air, and now they were chatting amiably. What the hell had she missed? No one had apologized. Maybe they had just established that neither was afraid of the other. Who knew?

“Besides,” Decamp continued. “After you left I did a little digging myself. Called in a few favors. Frankly I’m a little embarrassed that the situation has gotten this far without my being aware of it.”

“What do you mean?” Griffin said.

“I keep track of, for lack of a better term, supernatural occurrences. For the Moon-Eyed ones to have accomplished so much without my having any inkling means that they’ve been keeping a very low profile.”

“Wait,” said Griffin. “You think they’ve been trying to keep you from finding out they were up to something?”

“Oh yes. Without sounding full of myself, I stopped them before. They’ve been trying not to attract my attention, but now that I know they’re active I’ve begun to see a pattern in certain things that have happened in the last year or so. Unfortunately time is very, very short.”

“So you plan to become involved?” Griffin said.

“I’m already involved, Griffin. I just wish I’d found out sooner.”

“Carter,” Charon said. “Will you tell us about what happened on Blacktop mountain?”

“Yes, I suppose I had better.” Decamp settled back in his desk chair, absently placing his hand on the old book which rested to his left on the desk top. “As cliched as it sounds, it was a dark and stormy night.”

*      *      *

Blacktop Mountain Georgia. 1986

A bright flash of lightning illuminated the trail, allowing Carter Decamp to see his companions, if only for an instant. Ahead of him, Jim Mankiller moved carefully around the loose boulders left by an oh-so convenient landslide two days earlier. The only road to the top of Blacktop had been effectively blocked. Behind Decamp, Sheriff Mike Reece crept up the path, trying to follow in Mankiller’s footprints as closely as possible.

Really, they had been following the tall, gaunt, Cherokee Mankiller since the beginning, Decamp reflected. It had been Mankiller who had caught the signs of activity among the strange pale folk who dwelled on the North Face of Blacktop Mountain and it had been Mankiller who had brought Decamp into the matter. The two men had shared an interest in the paranormal since their days together at Emory University.

Of course Decamp had never thought that those interests would lead him to be out in the pitch darkness of Blacktop Mountain on All Hallow’s Eve. But Mankiller’s evidence had been overwhelming and Decamp had caught the connection between the sightings of the so called Moon-Eyed people and a series of deaths and disappearances that had plagued Northern Georgia for the last few months, escalating as Halloween approached. Bringing the hardheaded Reece into the matter had been a challenge. Still was, really.

“Okay, we’re past the worst of it,” Mankiller whispered. “Let’s stop here and get our gear ready. Things may turn bad fast.”

“I’m still not convinced we’re going to find anything,” Sheriff Reece said.

“But you’re here all the same,” said Mankiller.

“Only because of Decamp here. He’d have made a good homicide detective.”

Decamp said, “I still wish you’d brought along a few men, Sheriff.”

Reece hawked and spit. “Yeah, I can just see trying to justify that to the department. Paying overtime to a bunch of deputies to help us fight little men who live underground.”

Mankiller said, “I told you before that the part about them being small is myth. The Moon-Eyes are as large as you or I. Some are larger than men but I suspect they are not natives of this world.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Reece said. “Decamp has told me all I care to hear about creatures from other dimensions. I’m just here because I think whoever is up here may be involved in those unsolved murders on my patch. Now everybody check your guns and let’s hope the rain holds off a little longer. The wind and lightning are bad enough.”

Decamp made a quick examination of his army issue Browning .45. He had oiled her that afternoon. He checked his pump action shotgun as well.

Reece had an AR-15 converted to full auto and a big .38 revolver. The Sheriff looked over at Decamp and said, “I see you brought a sword. I know you’re a fencing champ and all, but you really think that thing will do you any good?”

“Depends on what we run into,” Decamp said. “And besides, the sword doesn’t run out of ammo.” He didn’t bother telling Reece about the blade’s unusual properties. It had been forged with silver along the edge and there were certain words in Latin etched in the blade. The blade had once rested inside a cane that had belonged to an old family friend, a judge from North Carolina. Decamp had had it reset in an unadorned hilt.

Mankiller had at least three pistols of various makes and a heavy bladed hunting knife. He was the best knife fighter Decamp knew, and given Decamp’s years of training with various edged weapons that was saying something.

“Guess we’re set,” Reece said. “What’s the plan?”

“The clearing I told you about is just over that rise. We should be able to approach through the trees and see what’s going on.”

“If we could see, that is,” said Reece. “Darker than a witch’s heart out here.”

Decamp said, “We’re at a disadvantage there. The pale folk can see in the dark.”

“So you keep telling me,” said Reece and though Decamp couldn’t see the Sheriff in the darkness, he could almost feel the man rolling his eyes.

“You’ll be able to see the Moon-Eyes coming,” Mankiller said. “Their eyes glow with a silver light.”

“Uh huh,” Reece said. He hefted the rifle. “Let’s get moving.”

Lightning flashed again and Mankiller started through the trees. Decamp and Reece fell in behind him. The wind was picking up and leaves fluttered and whirled around them, reminding Decamp of bats. He kept the .45 ready, his thumb on the safety.

“Careful here,” Mankiller whispered. “We’re close to one of the walls left by the Moon-Eyes in the old times. Sometimes one of the entrances to their tunnels is near a wall like this.”

Decamp could just make out the low wall. It seemed to have been constructed of wide, flat stones. He stepped over it where he had seen Mankiller step. Once past the wall the three men came out of the trees at the top of a bowl shaped clearing. Then the lightning flashed and someone screamed and for a moment Decamp though he had lost his mind because of what he saw in the shallow bowl.

Decamp recalled seeing a copy of Dante’s Inferno when he was a kid. The book had been illustrated by Gustav Dore, and Decamp remembered being terrified by the images of lost souls writhing in torment. That was the image that flashed in Decamp’s mind as the lightning showed him a scene of a living hell.

Dozens of naked white figures, twisted and cavorted in the clearing like great maggots in a smashed and upturned skull. They danced around a stone altar and on that altar was bound a terrified and naked man. One of the white figures had a crude wooden mallet and he was using it to drive some sort of spikes into the man’s groin. The man screamed again in agony. In that brief flash, Decamp had seen that there were several mutilated corpses scattered around the altar.

“They are trying to open the gate,” Mankiller said. “We have to stop the sacrifices.” He pulled something from a canvas bag and hurled it. “Shield you eyes!”

Decamp did as he was told a moment later he realized that Mankiller had hurled a flare into the midst of the obscene revelers. Now Decamp could see them clearly. Mankiller had been right. Most of them looked to be about average human size, though some were smaller and others much larger. Their skin was an unhealthy bluish white and the ones in the glow of the flare had eyes as black and reflective as pools of oil. In the darkness beyond the flare, he could see other eyes shining with a baleful glow.

“Jesus Christ,” Mike Reece said. “You weren’t shitting me.”

“No,” said Mankiller. “My people have known of these things for centuries.”

“They’re coming our way,” Decamp said.

They were. A mass of the dead-white creatures were swarming up the sides of the bowl toward the three men. Decamp got the idea that the pale ones were trying to put themselves between the intruders and the altar. They didn’t want the sacrifices stopped, Decamp realized. He could see some of the pale folk herding some crying, pleading people toward the altar.

And then Decamp didn’t have time to see anything else because the Moon-Eyed folk had reached him. He could smell the unwashed reek of them. A dark underground smell full of worms and the cold air of deep places. Decamp leveled the shotgun at the crowd and fired. Whit Gramling had told him to use rock salt in his shotgun shells and that certainly seemed to do the trick. The pale ones shrieked and stumbled and fell frothing on the ground.

Decamp heard the bull fiddle moan of Reece’s machine gun and he saw pale figures jerk and buck as the slugs slammed into them. But some of the creatures, the larger ones, were still pressing forward. Decamp drew a bead on one of them, an emaciated, almost deformed figure and hit it full on with his last shotgun shell. The creature was staggered but it kept coming forward. Decamp dropped the shotgun and put a .45 slug through the thing’s forehead, but still it lurched toward him. What the hell was this thing? Mankiller had spoken of some of the Moon-Eyes who were living in two dimensions at once, still partly in that place from which the race had come centuries ago.

Decamp fired the .45 again to buy himself a second, then shifted the gun to his left hand and with his right he whipped the silver edged sword from the sheath on his back. He lunged forward and drove the keen blade through the pale one’s chest. The creature shrieked and fell. Decamp vaulted the body and cut at the throat of another of the larger Moon-Eyes. Dark blood erupted from the wound, spattering Decamp with foulness.

“We have to reach the altar!” Mankiller yelled. “I don’t know how many sacrifices they need but something’s happening!”

Something was indeed happening. Decamp could feel it in the air. A heaviness, a pressure, as if the atmosphere itself had grown thicker, more oppressive. He worked his jaw and felt his ears pop.

“Last magazine,” Reece shouted. “Let’s make it count.” He ran into the crowd, firing the AR-15. The pale creatures scattered and Decamp and Mankiller followed in Reece’s wake.

Now Decamp could see the altar clearly. The man he had seen on the altar earlier was gone and a different man, this one much older, was being bound in his place. It occurred to Decamp that some of the figures helping to bind the man were human. They were swaddled in heavy robes but Decamp could see that they weren’t pale ones. One of them was a woman, though the cloak’s hood hid her features. What sort of people would be helping these things?

Decamp had allowed himself to be distracted and he paid for it. One of the bigger Moon-Eyes came lurching from his left and struck him a heavy blow. Decamp went down, rolling and trying to gain some distance, but the pale creature pressed the attack. Decamp managed to get to one knee and he swept the sword upward, opening the creature’s belly. As it toppled, Decamp scrambled to his feet just in time to see another of the big creatures rear up behind Mankiller. Before Decamp could shout a warning, the pale one grabbed a handful of Mankiller’s hair and jerked his head backwards. With its other hand the creature ripped Mankiller’s throat open. Bright, red, arterial blood spurted as Mankiller’s lifeless form fell to the ground.

Decamp groaned, but forced himself to keep fighting. There would be time to mourn Mankiller later, if he survived. He heard Reece cursing and risked a glance toward the Sheriff. He was firing the big .38 with his right hand and using the empty machine gun as a bludgeon with his left. Decamp had lost the .45, but he still had the sword and he began cutting his way toward the altar. He could see something behind the robed figures. An area not so much of light but more the absence of darkness. A sort of roiling gray area that was growing larger. The people in the robes were chanting in a language Decamp had never heard and several pale ones were dragging another victim toward the altar. The last victim. Did that mean that once the last sacrifice had been made that the gate would open?

Decamp decapitated an attacker, then spun and ran another through. He had almost reached the altar when someone stepped into his path. For a moment he thought it was just another of the Moon-Eyes, but then he realized that this opponent was dressed from head to foot in black and had bone white hair to match his white skin. He looked human enough except he appeared to be an albino. However his eyes were pale and there was just a hint of silver light in them.

Decamp lunged in, aiming the point of his sword at the albino’s heart. Without seeming effort the pale man twisted out of the way and backhanded Decamp with a blow that rattled Decamp’s teeth and sent him sprawling. As he struggled to get up, Decamp saw a ring of the Moon-Eyed ones closing over him. Then a loud voice told them to move back and the albino was standing over him.

“Get him up,” the albino said and two of the pale ones forced Decamp to stand. The albino leaned close so that his face was inches from Decamp’s. “Who are you?”

Decamp would have liked to have spit in the pale man’s face but he found his mouth was dry. He said, “No friend of yours.”

“That much is obvious. Well I’m glad you’re here. The calculations are imprecise and we may need another sacrifice.” He glanced to his right. “Or two.”

Decamp followed the pale man’s gaze and saw three Moon-Eyes dragging a struggling Mike Reece to stand next to Decamp. Reece said, “I’ll kill you, you god damn bastards.”

“Unlikely,” said the albino. “You’ve arrived just in time to witness the return of my kind to this world. If you’re lucky we’ll have to kill you before the path is fully clear. You won’t like what happens afterward.”

Decamp said, “You asked me who I was. Now who are you?”

The albino smiled, showing crooked sharp teeth. “You can call me Isaiah.”

“Stop playing with those fools,” the woman in the robe said. “Come and help me finish this sacrifice. Hold this pathetic thing’s head still so I can get the spikes in his eyes.”

“Don’t,” Decamp said.

Isaiah turned back to glare at him. “You’re giving us orders? What do you mean, don’t?”

“Look at my right hand,” Decamp said. He followed Isaiah’s gaze down to the object he had pulled from his pocket when the Moon-Eyes were dragging him to his feet.

“What is it?” The woman called. There was something haunting about her voice. Decamp blocked it out. He needed to stay focused, to stay angry. It was the only way he could do what he was about to do.

“It’s a fragmentation grenade,” Decamp answered for the albino. “And the pin is out. I’m holding the lever down. I let go and the grenade goes off.”

“You’ll be killed too,” Isaiah said.

Decamp smiled. “Like I’m going to live through this in any case. Now tell your friends to let me go. Mike too.”

“Release them,” Isaiah said. “For all the good it will do you. If you get away from the clearing, you won’t get down this mountain alive. I can promise you that.”

“You’re assuming I’m leaving,” said Decamp. He saw the albino’s eyes widen in realization, then Decamp tossed the grenade. A simple underhand toss, like throwing a softball to a child, but directly at the glowing gray space behind the altar. At the Gate. Then Decamp lunged forward carrying Reece to the ground in front of the altar. He felt a terrible concussive force and the world went black.

*      *      *

“As you’ve probably surmised,” Decamp said, “The altar protected Reece and me from the shrapnel in the grenade. Most of it anyway. I have a tiny fragment in my left calf, still.”

“What happened to the robed people?” Griffin said.

“I don’t actually know,” said Decamp. “When Reece and I came to, it was morning and all the bodies were still there, both the Moon-Eyes and the sacrifice victims. However the Moon-Eyes were decomposing at an amazing rate in the sunlight. The entire area was filled with trenches and deep holes. I think that there was a network of tunnels under that clearing and the surrounding area. The grenade opened them up. What few ancient ruins had been on Blacktop were destroyed.

“But as to the robed people, whom I later learned were members of the Blackbourne family, there were no signs. My theory is that they somehow used the power they had generated to escape. Their plan to open the Gate fully had failed but perhaps they were able to step between the dimensions and save themselves. That’s my best guess anyway.”

“Well we know for a fact that Isaiah escaped. Charon and I met him.”

Decamp frowned. “That’s not good. Over the next few years I learned a good bit about the Blackbournes. Isaiah is sort of the family enforcer. He can move in daylight as easily as the more human members of his family, but he has all the talents of the othersiders, as you call them.”

“And bullets don’t bother him,” said Griffin.

“Not regular bullets at any rate,” said Decamp. “I can probably help you with that. What’s your preferred caliber?”

“I use the .357 mostly.”

“Ah, good. That will chamber .38s.”

“It will but I prefer the knockdown power of the .357 shells.”

Decamp said, “The .38s I’m going to give you are special.”

Charon said, “So why didn’t we ever hear of what happened on Blacktop?”

“Simpler times,” said Decamp. “In those pre-Internet days it was easier to cover things up. As I said, the pale folk decomposed alarmingly fast, and there were no remains at all by the next day. Most of the sacrifice victims were homeless or without families so they were buried quietly. The others were marked up to a serial killer, my poor friend Jim Mankiller included. We told his family the truth of course, and they agreed that the world was best left unaware of Jim’s real fate.”

Charon said, “But he saved so many lives. It seems terrible that no one knows.”

“I know,” said Decamp. “And now you know.”

“What happened to Sheriff Reece?”

“Mike died of a heart attack about five years ago,” said Decamp. “Or at least I’ve thought it was a heart attack all this time. Now that I know that the Blackbournes have been active, I have to wonder if Mike’s death was really from natural causes.”

Griffin said, “You’d better ratchet up your security measures too, Decamp, now that the Blackbournes know you’re aware of their plans.”

“You can count on that,” said Decamp.

“By the way,” Griffin said. “What the heck were you doing with a frag grenade? I mean, I’ve seen your weapons collection, but that’s not the kind of thing most collectors have sitting around.”

“Let’s just say that my run-in with the Moon-Eyed people wasn’t my first or last encounter with the supernatural. I learned to have a lot things handy.”

*      *      *

There were a surprising number of people who remembered Merle Blackbourne from his time in high school. Most of them tended to think of him as a backwater, ignorant, scrawny little redneck. A few of them had learned better the hard way.

Sometimes he even had to teach his own family a lesson or two, much as he didn’t really like to do that. Sometimes, however, a man had to remind people why he was in charge. He slammed the meat hook into Jeb’s thick shoulder and hauled him backwards, cursing up a blue streak as the freak screamed. The blood that flowed from the wound was as black as ink, and the boy’s skin was as white as snow. His teeth were yellowed and stained and numerous. When he snapped at Merle, the man kicked him in the face and hauled on the hook a second time.

“I fucking told you to find Arlo and Beau! That was three hours ago! Where the fuck are they!?”

Jeb looked up at Merle and maybe thought about trying to bite him a second time, but then reconsidered. Even if he somehow managed to hurt the man—not likely—there were others who would stand with the patriarch and defend him from anything Jeb wanted to do.

His voice was feeble. It was always feeble, as if to make up for the fact that he was one of the strongest that could exist in both worlds. “The hut where they should be was burned, Merle. I found them, but they’re dead.” He stood up and Merle pulled the meat hook from his arm. The pain was still there, but the wound was already mending. Jeb was strong. He knew that was why Merle felt the need to beat him worse than some of the others. Merle sometimes thought all of the Pale Family were feeble in the head. That was his mistake and one that he would pay for when the time was right. But for now Merle still had his uses.

“Now, the problem with that is I need those damned fools to turn themselves in to the police, so we don’t get all of our plans screwed up, Jeb.”

“I can bring you the bodies.” Well, most of them. Jeb was pretty sure some of their remains had crumbled.

Merle closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, a look of long suffering crossing his coarse features. “It’s not the bodies, Jeb. It’s the fact that you didn’t tell me about it when you found them. Instead you’ve been fucking around in the woods and acting like everything’s just fine. It isn’t just fine. You understand me?”

“You shouldn’t talk down to me, Merle.” He stood at his full height inside the house that Merle ruled. The room was tall enough to allow him that luxury. Many of the human houses were not.

Merle looked down at the ground for a moment and then looked back at Jeb. “You should go fuck yourself, Jeb. If you could follow orders, maybe we could have kept this all peaceful like, until we could get everyone over here. Now? Now if we’re really fucking lucky, the sheriff will wait until daylight before he comes here to arrest me and you and every last member of the family.”

Jeb smiled. Merle was joking. He had to be. “Merle, the sheriff can’t even see me. Not unless I let him.”

“Which is why I need you to go to his house tonight, Jeb. Take a few others with you, okay?”

Jeb shook his head. “That’s not what Mother wants. She said he was special.”

“Your mother always thinks everyone is special if he’s got a pretty face. She’ll get over it if he just happens to die. And I’ll tell her it was my idea, so you won’t have to worry about getting punished.”

Jeb thought long and hard about that, so long that Merle started looking at his meat hook and then at Jeb’s other shoulder. Jeb got the message, but he still took his time answering.

“I’ll do it, Merle. I’ll kill him good and proper. No more warnings.”

Merle nodded and smiled.

“But Merle, you better think twice before you use that meat hook again.”

Merle moved forward and swung a meaty hand that slapped against Jeb’s face with a hard report. “Next time I have to use the fucking hook on you, Jeb, I’ll take out your goddamned eyes and we’ll see if you like the darkness then, okay, Bubba?”

Jeb leaned down and snapped his teeth half an inch from Merle’s face. Most men would have been pissing themselves. Jeb knew that from experience. Merle didn’t so much as flinch.

“Ain’t a dog, Merle. Better stop treating me like one.”

“See? I was trying to be nice with you, Jeb. Because I like you.” Merle set his hand against Jeb’s chest and Jeb shrieked at the searing pain that ran through his entire body. He tried to back away, tried to even just flinch, but nothing happened. He could scream for a hundred hours and nothing would happen. How long did Merle leave his hand there? Jeb couldn’t have said. The pain was too big, larger than the sky and the moon.

After a few eternities Merle moved his hand and Jeb fell to the ground, shivering. “You’re right, Jeb. You ain’t a dog. You’re my little fucking bitch. Remember that.” The words were hissed into his ear. “I marked his car earlier. You go find him. You kill him. You let me down again, or give me any more reason to get angry, and I’ll burn your goddamned eyes out. You hear me, Jeb?”

Jeb nodded and whimpered. The pain was fading, but the memory lingered. He forgot himself. Merle was the Patriarch. He knew things. He knew words of power and all the gestures that could burn.

Jeb waited until Merle was moving away from him and then he stood up. It was time to go, time to hunt.

The sheriff had to die, no matter what Mother said. Otherwise the pain would come back and Jeb didn’t think he could take that again. Not this soon.

Jeb called and his brothers and sisters responded. Not all of them, of course, only a handful, some of the gifted who could walk both worlds.

Despite the ghost of pain that still haunted him, Jeb licked his lips. He was hungry. He wondered what sheriff tasted like.

*      *      *

The night was basically done and Andy settled back in his favorite recliner, put his feet up on the futon, and sighed a long, deep comfortable sigh. The cocoa was perfect. Just the right temperature and the marshmallows had melted into a confectionary goo guaranteed to shoot a diabetic’s blood sugar through the stratosphere. Vivaldi played softly on the speakers and exactly four pumpkin spice cookies were waiting for his consumption. Now all he had to do was pick up his book and start reading.

The book was right there. He just had to reach.

Instead he looked at the damned phone and felt a flush of urgency. “Moon-Eyed People. Pfeh.” Brave words, but he looked at the phone as he said them.

There were caves, you see, and then there were caves. Andrew Hunter had examined a great number of caves over the years and most of the ones in the area were merely a reminder that greedy men had once sought gold in the vicinity before heading on for greener pastures. Most of them.

A few phone calls earlier in the day, a couple of people he knew could answer questions about other caves in other areas. North Carolina, even one or two in Mississippi and further to the west. There were other people with other caves and other experiences. They were the exceptions. Aren’t there always exceptions? All he had to do was pick up the phone and tell Carl about what he’d seen in the distant past, let him know that there might actually be a decent reason for calling Mooney’s Bluff by the name it used to have. Just a few old markings on cave walls, a couple of old illustrations drawn hastily—probably nothing more than a Cherokee child’s worried flight of fancy—that showed a representation of warped, round-eyed people with too many teeth and pointed to a spot on the bluff that Andy knew was buried under foliage.

It went against logic to think there might be anything to the old stories. Logic was, of course, the foundation of Andrew Hunter’s world. You found data, studied data, and recorded data. You did not start believing the old myths and folk tales of the region where you grew up. That was the world according to Andy. Foolish to even give consideration to the old tales.

Even late in the night, when the cloud cover outside hid away the stars and the moon and the only lights left were the street lamps down the road and the ones that you were ready to read by.

“Andrew Machen Hunter, now is not the time to start spooking yourself into a tither.” He rose up abruptly and looked around the room. From where he stood he could see the front door, the kitchen door and the main windows in both the living room and the study. Mostly what he could see, however was the light reflected from his own lamps. He looked back down at his phone. The sheriff was exactly one call away and he owed Andy a few by now.

He closed his eyes and listened to Vivaldi’s notes. Soft, sweet sounds. They were countered by the light creaking of boards and the shuffle of feet on the porch of his house. He’d been born here, he’d spent most of his life in the house. He knew the history of the place and had replaced more than one or two boards on his own. Plumbing he left to professionals. The occasional replacement for a board on the porch or a doorknob he could manage all by himself. And how did he know if a board needed replacing? Simple. He listened when he walked. That oversized baboon that Carl had wrestled with had cracked a few boards when he broke the table and when Carl dropped him to his knees. Nice trick that one. He’d have to ask Carl to show him how it was he’d so easily staggered a man twice his size.

Carl would be glad to show him. That was what made Carl the sort of man he’d voted for as sheriff and also what made him the sort of man that Andy gladly did research for, he wasn’t just the son of an old friend, he was a good man. His father would have been right and proper proud of him.

Andy didn’t let himself think as he grabbed the phone and dialed. He didn’t consider the fact that he was an old fool who lived alone, or that he didn’t even have a decent handgun, only an old hunting rifle for which there were no bullets. He didn’t bother trying to convince himself that the noises outside were made by a curious raccoon—he knew the sounds of the local animals well enough to know that whatever was moving across the weakened boards was bigger than a raccoon or even a coyote. He just dialed and tried not to let himself panic as he listened to the sounds. There were several figures out there. He looked away from the streetlights and toward the kitchen door. He could see the shape of something—just possibly someone—creeping around in the darkness. The kitchen lights were off he didn’t like to waste energy. The curtains were thin—it wasn’t like he normally worried about anyone peeping on an old fart who liked to wander the house in his flannel pajamas.

The fourth ring and Carl picked up. “It’s Carl.”

“Carl, it’s Andy Hunter. I need you. There’s something here.”

“I’m on my way. Do you have any weapons?”

“No. Maybe a kitchen knife.” His heart was hammering.

“Better yet. Go to the kitchen and get some salt. If it’s…if anything comes for you that doesn’t look human, throw the salt.”

There were a dozen different legends of creatures that couldn’t stand salt. He’d never heard that about the Moon-Eyed Folk, but Carl sounded certain.

“Salt. Got it.”

“Better idea though? Stay in the light and maybe light a few candles just in case. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Andy looked through the back door window again and it seemed there were more of them, the round eyes glowing at him like they belonged to cats, only cats that were too big. Not the size of grown men, but close enough.

Andy moved toward the kitchen—irrationally grateful for cordless phones—and flipped on the light switch. His heart was pounding harder now, too hard. He didn’t like this one little bit.

“Carl? You might want to call for an ambulance, too. I think I might be having a heart attack.”

“God damn it, Andy. Don’t you dare go dying on me. I don’t have the time for any more goddamned funerals.”

“You sound just like your father.”

“Just hang on, all right? I’m on my damn way.”

The conversation ended with a click. Andy grabbed the round cardboard container of table salt from his spice cabinet and moved from room to room, turning on the lights and trembling.

By the time he was done turning on lights his hands were shaking and his chest felt like someone had decided to park a car on it. But the sounds were gone. The little noises had faded away and that feeling of being watched was, if not gone, at least muted.

And then he heard the voice, soft and feminine, that called from the other side of his kitchen door. “Take the hint, old man. Read the damned note and take the hint.”

Then the voice was gone and the silence was almost complete, broken only by the faint sounds of Vivaldi, and then by the distant wail of sirens growing closer by the second.

Andy sat still and waited, too scared to move.

But he remembered the words. He’d look around. He promised himself he’d find any possible note.

Just as soon as the sun was up.

*      *      *

Wellman, Georgia lay spread out in typical fashion, with the main square in the center of town spreading in all directions. At the very heart of the oldest part of the town was a small park, kept clean and clear of debris by a small community of citizens, mostly retired, who took particular pride in their hometown. There was a small playground, nothing elaborate, just a few swings and a small slide and, of course, monkey bars which were carefully placed in a large area filled with sand. There might have been a few people tempted to leave their trash in that sand, but they weren’t tempted for long. The reproachful looks of the three or four senior citizens who spent their days around the park would have sent most would-be litterers heading for the hills.

Currently that square was decorated for Halloween, much to the disgust of a few church groups who insisted that everything about Halloween was satanic and designed solely to send souls screaming down to hell. Streamers of orange and black plastic had been wrapped around each of the old style lamps in the square, and around the bandstand that would be used on the Saturday before Halloween as both a display of the various children’s costumes and to present awards for the same. The Jaycees liked to celebrate with a little show for the kids and that included live music from a band no one had ever heard of, costume contests and a few booths for selling refreshments and letting the tykes spend a few quarters on games of chance where they could win prizes that cost roughly a dime to manufacture.

Several displays adorned the fronts of the local shops that were fortunate enough to line the square; scarecrows, pumpkins carved into jack-o-lanterns, a mannequin wearing a hockey mask and sporting a plastic machete and a few other odds and ends helped set the mood.

Jolene Blackbourne sat on one of the swings and swayed softly in the chilly night air, looking at the man with her and smiling with just the right mixture of sexuality and naïveté to make the poor sap fidget. The ability came as naturally to her as breathing. She could look at a man and know exactly how to play him. The sad part for her was that her mother was even better at it. Sometimes she thought about that for a while and wanted to carve her mother’s face off. She suspected that made her normal. But also knew better than to ever tell anyone about those thoughts. Especially her mother, who could crush her with ease. Whatever she thought she could do, she knew her mother could do it better.

The man with her was only special because of his job. He didn’t know that, and even if he’d suspected it—he didn’t—he didn’t much care.

Despite the chill in the air, they were both sweating a bit. Exercise did that sometimes.

Vince Cleburne was a bus driver. He drove the route from Rome, Georgia to a small casino on the Cherokee reservation in North Carolina five nights a week. For the last three weeks running he’d made a point of stopping at the Rabbit Hutch Diner on the Square. The first time was just a coincidence, because he had a desperate need to void his bladder after one cola too many on the drive up. That was the night he met Jolene, who smiled just so, and gave good flirt with her amazing blue eyes.

Since then he stopped every night. Not for long, only for about ten to fifteen minutes, long enough for the people on the bus to hit the bathrooms and maybe grab something to eat. The diner’s owner was glad to make to go boxes, and has started planning for the bus’s stops. Vince got free food and he got to spend time with Jolene. The diner made decent extra money.

And Jolene stayed in family’s good graces.

Because Jolene knew something that a lot of people didn’t know. She knew that the bus would be full to capacity on the Sunday before Halloween. And on the Saturday and Friday preceding as well. The Casino always made it a point to offer specials on drinks and hotel rooms for almost every holiday. They always did brisk business at Halloween.

How did Jolene know that? Because Vince was a talker. He liked to tell people how hard he worked, and he also liked to tell Jolene how well some people tipped on special occasions. They’d be stopping a little longer than usual on all of those nights because Vince was looking forward to spending a little time with Jolene.

She gave Vince one more deep kiss when he sighed and said he had to be on his way. Her hands promised him a very special event or two come the weekend just ahead. Vince walked a little awkwardly when he headed back for the diner and the free cheeseburger he’d take with him on the road.

Jolene waited until he was well away from her before she spat the taste of his kiss from her lips. “That boy’s about as fun as a pap smear.” She looked over her shoulder. No one but her or her kin could have seen the figure waiting in the shadows. “Trust me, they ain’t any fun.”

It spoke only in the old tongue, which meant she had to listen carefully before responding to the sibilant hisses and the voice that sounded more like leaves blowing in the wind than anything else. “Why do you let him live?”

“Oh, he won’t live much longer. He just hasn’t served his need yet.”

“What is his purpose?” He stepped from the shadows, pale skin almost hidden in the darkness, his eyes squinting against the faded lights from the diner and the lamps in the square. It was very, very rare for one of his kind to move this far into town.

“Well now, doors don’t open without help, do they? He’s providing the necessary lambs for slaughter.” She looked into the glowing eyes and smiled as understanding came to them.

Just like that, her family was happy. The visitor would spread the word to all the right people, and Jolene would come out smelling like roses.

That was good. She needed to make everyone happy. It saved her a lot of trouble and stopped people from asking exactly the wrong questions about her.

A few moments later her guest left; the lights were too much for him to bear for long.

And half an hour after that the diner closed, leaving the square effectively empty except for Jolene.

Then she was off to handle her last meeting of the night.

There was so much to do and time was quickly running out.

*      *      *

Three in the damned morning. Carl yawned mightily and headed for his house, exhausted and tense and not really sure that sleep would ever be a possibility again. Andy was fine, but shaken up and vigorously at that. The man was a college professor and one of the sharpest minds that Carl knew, but he was not cut out for combat or even serious suspense.

The thought that anything he’d done might lead the man to harm was enough to churn his stomach and that was the last thing his internal organs needed just at the moment. Poor Andy looked around like a cat stuck at a dog show, and though Carl checked the area out, he didn’t see anything unusual.

Finally the ambulance came and gave Andy a once over and despite Carl’s urgings the man stayed at his house instead of heading off to the hospital just to be safe.

In the end, that was all okay. Carl just thought about what the morning would bring, the raid on Crawford’s Hollow and on the Blackbourne house, and he got all warm and fuzzy inside. Merle had managed to rope in four of the suspects. That was four less assholes to deal with in the morning.

He was going to handle this as quickly and thoroughly as he could.

He’d left a message with Griffin to call him bright and early, because he wanted his friend to have a chance to come along for the ride. He was going to be damned busy leading his guys through the Hollow. He might not have as much time as he’d like to actually examine the clues they might find in the house. As luck would have it, he knew a good detective and he knew he could trust Wade. Hell, if he didn’t know he could trust the man he’d have busted him a long time ago for a few of the things he knew the man had hidden around his county.

He was just contemplating how early to set his alarm clock when the white blur stepped out of nowhere and slashed at the side of his truck. It sounded like branches scraping the hell out of the side of his truck for a second and then the impact shuddered through the vehicle and Carl had to slam on the brakes and jerk the wheel hard to avoid sliding off the road.

The white shape moved, running for the truck at high speed. Carl didn’t waste time thinking about the possibilities. Instead he stepped from the truck and let instinct take over.

Instinct told him to duck the massive hand that came for him. The thick fingers rammed against the truck instead of capturing him, and Carl slid in close. He was too close in to use the pistol, so he used his fist, driving his hand into the soft spot where the ribs faded into the armpit. He hit hard and stepped back, pistoning his other fist into the abdomen of the thing he was fighting.

It was big, no two ways about it, with long, lanky limbs, pasty white skin and a mouthful of teeth that looked intimidatingly like steak knives carved from yellowed ivory. While the thing was grunting and then turning to face him, Carl yanked the hunting knife from his belt. Technically the weapon was illegal. He had no intention of turning himself in. The thing roared at him, a noise like screeching brakes on wet asphalt, and Carl retreated as the thing charged, lumbering toward him at a preposterous speed because of the too long legs.

And as it came closer, Carl stepped in again. Simple physics in action, the creature couldn’t get a decent grip on him or even deliver a proper blow if he was too close in for it to get any leverage. While the thing blinked its large black eyes and tried to react to his change of tactics, he drove the twelve inch blade deep into its neck and jaw, ramming the weapon in to the hilt. The thing let out a second screech and while it did, he elbowed it in the throat.

By all rights it should have been dead. Instead it shoved him backward and fell away, clawing at the blade he’d buried in its lower face.

Carl hit the ground hard and rolled as best he could, skidding on his side and shoulder instead of landing with enough force to break bones. Just the same, the impact was disorienting. No, wait, he only thought he was seeing double. There was more than one of the damned things.

Carl stood back up and reached into his jacket. Sadly, he didn’t have any more knives. On the other hand, the brass knuckles would do in a pinch. He spat a thin stream of blood from his mouth and looked at the things. They were actually uglier than the first one. The good news was, they weren’t quite as big. On the other hand, the odds were officially five to one and the big bastard he’d cut was looking more pissed off than injured.

Something short and flabby with insanely thick legs and arms charged at him, moving with a loping gait that spoke of how badly malformed it was. Hell, he could barely decipher where the face on the thing was. These were what Wade had told him about, he was certain of it.

And they were about to rip him apart.

Fatty grabbed for him. The thing had absolutely no fighting skills that he could descern. Rather than try, he gave it a right hook across what might have been an eye and watched its head snap to the side violently. That thick arm caught him in the side and showed him that there was muscle somewhere under the flab. Carl grunted and fell back a second time, feeling the nerve cluster at his solar plexus freak out a bit. Had the thing connected completely he’d have been effectively paralyzed.

The third one knew how to fight. He was busy looking at Shorty when it came up from behind him and hit him in the back of the head. Carl fell flat, stunned, and knew he was screwed. They were too strong and there were too many of them.

The thing that had hit him looked over its shoulder as it moved past, stared at him with eyes that glowed in the shadows where its face should have been. It had thin white hair over most of its body, and the claws on its hands looked about right for peeling the metal off his damned truck.

He tried to stand up and the short one kicked him in the head. He rolled again, knowing he’d be lucky if all he got from the blow was a serious bruising.

Shorty came at him again and stopped abruptly when its head exploded. One second the bastard was hauling his foot back to punt Carl’s face across the street and the next the freak was falling backward, spilling black goo from the stump where its head had been.

Carl tried to get up and felt his arms shake in protest. He was dead if he stayed where he was.

One of the things that hadn’t yet had a chance to use him as a piñata let out a howl as its left arm blew apart. And then the road lit up with a powerful white light and the things let out screeches and backed away from him.

Another shot, and the wounded one flopped down on its side, half of its ribcage blown out.

And then they were gone. The remaining three vanished in front of him, running from the powerful light and simply vanishing a moment later. He saw it happen and still had trouble accepting it.

Carl lay there for several moments and then finally managed to get to his hands and knees. From there getting to his feet was relatively easy. The world wasn’t spinning too much and he only felt a little like puking his guts out.

He waited for a sound, a sign, anything. When he’d counted to two hundred and nothing happened, Carl climbed in his truck and reached for his shotgun. When he had it in his grip he stepped back out to look at the bodies, but they were gone.

Gone.

“What the fuck?” No one answered him.

Carl drove home. He took it nice and slow.

*      *      *

It was late afternoon when Griffin and Charon got back to Wellman. Griffin made a careful check of the house before letting Charon enter, but everything was still secure. He put down the bag of items he had purchased on the way home and set the boxes of Decamp’s ‘special’ ammunition on the coffee table. As he did so, his gaze fell on Jerry’s notebooks.

Griffin said, “We still don’t have the password to Jerry’s laptop but I suppose I should read through these notes. At this point it’s probably a moot point. Jerry was investigating the Blackbourne’s connection to the local drug trade and they killed him. End of story.”

Charon said, “Looks that way, but there still might be something useful in there.”

“Agreed.” Griffin started shuffling through the notebooks. Fortunately Jerry had written dates on all of them so Griffin was able to find the most recent with little fuss. Before he could locate anything about the meth lab, Griffin’s cell phone chirped.

“Griffin?” the voice on phone said.

“Speaking.”

“It’s Whit Gramling, son. I found something I thought might be of use to you. Some notes I made after the incident in eighty-six. I added what I knew about the Moon-Eyes to what Carter Decamp told me. Forgot all about it until this morning.”

Griffin said, “That might be worth looking at for sure, Whit, but it will probably be tomorrow before I can come and get them.”

Charon said, “What does Whit need?”

“Hang on a second please, Whit.” Griffin pushed the mute button. “He has some notes about what happened on Blacktop.”

“Oh, I’d like to see those. I’m trying to find anything else we can use for protection. If you want to stay with Jerry’s notes, I can go get Whit’s info.”

“I don’t know if you should go out there alone,” Griffin said.

“He’s 103. I think I can fight him off.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Things are pretty strange just now.”

“Griffin, it’s broad daylight and Whit’s place is better protected than your house. Besides, I think I’ve shown I can take care of myself. I saved your cute ass back at your apartment.”

“All right. But you go straight there and come straight back. And take the Beretta with you.”

Charon snapped off a salute. “Aye aye, captain.”

Griffin still didn’t like it, but what could he do? Charon was an adult and she had certainly proved herself capable in a scrape. Still, a small voice in the back of his head was telling him it was a bad idea. As things turned out, he should have listened.

*      *      *

When Charon reached Whit Gramling’s cabin, she found the old man in the same rocking chair he had occupied on her previous visit. She got the idea he probably sat there a lot. There was a small table to one side of him, piled with books and papers, and she noted a thermos near the chair. Whit peered at Charon over his reading glasses as she got out of Griffin’s truck. Charon climbed the sagging wooden stairs to the porch and took a seat.

“Well now,” Whit said. “You’re a darn sight easier to look at than that Griffin fellow.”

“Depends on who’s doing the looking,” said Charon.

Whit nodded. “Yes I could tell you had your cap set for that one. He figured it out yet?”

“Getting there, I think. You’re pretty observant, bub.”

“The eyes are holding up if some of the other stuff has gone,” said Whit. “Anyway, I dug around in some boxes and found this stack of notes.” He indicated a brown folder on the chair. “Might be something worth knowing in there. Carter wrote a bunch of what you call, annotations, on my notes.”

“You should write a book, Whit. All the things you know about local legends and folklore.”

“Might get to it yet. You let me know if anything in there might be worth writing about. Been years since I read through that stuff. Carter Decamp might be interested in seeing those notes after more than two decades. Did you say you knew him?”

“Yes, we’ve met a few times. An interesting man.”

“He’s that. Dangerous too.”

“I’ve just begun to discover that.” She suddenly recalled what Griffin had said. “Anyway, I hate to run off, Whit, but I need to get back and study these notes.”

Whit said, “Yeah it’ll be getting dark soon. Best to be out of these woods by dark. Especially this time of year.”

“I don’t know why you would say that,” a smooth, sibilant voice said from Charon’s left. Startled, she jerked her head toward the sound.

Isaiah Blackbourne sat in one of the straight-backed chairs just a few feet away with his feet on the porch railing. Neither Charon nor Whit had heard him arrive. He smiled with his sharp, sharp teeth and said, “Now me, I’m a night person.”

“You get off of my property, Isaiah Blackbourne,” Whit said. “I don’t know how you’re staying this close to the silver in my cabin anyway.”

Isaiah said, “I am shocked at your lack of hospitality, Whit. Especially after I came all the way out here just to see you. As to the silver, well let’s just say I’m not as sensitive to it as some of my brothers.”

Charon could feel her heart hammering in her chest. The albino scared her more than any of the things she had seen so far. Still, she took a hard swallow and said, “What do you want here?”

“Not much,” said Isaiah. “Actually I just came by to kill old Whit here. Been wanting to for a while, but my mother was concerned it would attract the wrong kind of attention. That’s no longer an issue, though, so he can die.”

Whit said, “Do what you came to do then, you bastard, but let this girl go. She’s blameless in all of this.”

Isaiah put his hand to his chin as if he were considering what Whit had said. “Well I don’t plan to kill her. Not right now anyway. Finding her here was just a stroke of luck. No, I think I’ll take her with me. Home to meet the folks. Then I can kill her the old way. The proper way. Afterward maybe I’ll leave her head at the boyfriend’s house so he can see how she looks with spikes in her eyes.”

“You fucker,” Whit said.

Isaiah smiled. “Whit! Such language in front of a lady.”

The next moment Charon found Isaiah’s face so close to hers that their noses were almost touching. She hadn’t seen him move. He had been sitting in that relaxed pose, and then he was in front of her. He said, “And just in case you were thinking of trying the sea salt trick again, I’m ready this time. You only got me before because I was focused on your boyfriend.”

“Yeah well are you ready for this?” Whit said, bringing a sawed off shotgun from under his coat.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Isaiah and the next instant he was holding the shotgun and he had struck Whit with a backhanded blow that knocked the old man from his chair to the porch.

“Whit!” Charon shouted and leaped to get between the old man and the albino. Whit still seemed to be breathing but his eyes were closed and the right side of his face was already beginning to swell. Charon spun and clawed for the Beretta in her jacket pocket. She winced and cried out as Isaiah’s hand clamped down on her wrist.

“None of that now,” Isaiah said. “Do I need to break all your fingers to keep you in line, sweetie?”

“What you need to do is move the hell away from her,” Carter Decamp said. It was Isaiah’s turn to be caught flatfooted. Charon looked toward the front steps and there stood Decamp with a big semi-automatic handgun leveled at Isaiah’s head. She could see the hilt of a sword extending over his shoulder.

Decamp said. “In case you’re wondering, Isaiah, this gun is loaded with silver bullets. Just like the Lone Ranger. You may be a bit more resistant to silver than some of your kind, but I think a silver bullet through the brain pan will get the job done.”

“You should have done it rather than talk about it,” Isaiah said. He was a blur of motion and then he was standing in front of Decamp with one hand pinning Decamp’s gun hand and the other gripping Decamp’s throat. “Is that a grenade in your pocket, Decamp, or are you just happy to see me?”

Charon angled to the side as she got the Beretta out of her jacket. Her wrist ached terribly but she steadied the gun with her other hand and fired three quick shots into Isaiah’s torso. The albino howled and pitched Decamp away, turning toward Charon. Charon saw Decamp’s gun go spinning away as he fell.

Charon fired again but this time Isaiah actually seemed to twist out of the way of the bullets. But that wasn’t possible. No one could move that fast. Of course, she thought. He’s not moving that fast. He’s moving in and out of the other dimension, crossing space that way. Charon fired again and used the split second she had bought to reach into her other pocket and pull out a mixture of sea-salt, sage, and the powdered silver she’d made Griffin buy. She knew Isaiah would dodge if she threw the gritty mixture at him so instead she threw it straight up so that it made a cloud that Isaiah couldn’t help but step through as he rushed at her.

The albino coughed and spat and tried to brush the stuff off of him. Decamp rolled to his feet and drew his sword. He said, “Well done, Charon. He’s trapped in this dimension for the moment.”

“I’m still fast enough to deal with you, old man,” Isaiah said and he leaped at Decamp with his fingers extended like claws.

Decamp sidestepped but Isaiah’s long, sharp nails still raked across his shoulder, tearing through cloth and flesh. Decamp grunted and danced nimbly away from Isaiah’s next attack, scoring a cut on the albino’s chest that tore open his black shirt and drew black blood.

Charon began digging through the bushes, seeking the gun with the silver bullets. Decamp might have been an expert swordsman but Isaiah Blackbourne was just too fast. It was amazing that Decamp had managed to cut him at all.

Isaiah snarled and attacked low, tearing a chunk from Decamp’s leg. Before he could move away, Decamp slashed the silver edged blade across his face, knocking away his dark glasses and laying one cheek open. Isaiah screeched in rage and slammed into Decamp, knocking the sword from his hand and bearing the man to the ground.

Sitting astride Decamp’s chest, Isaiah grinned down with his razor teeth and said, “What can you do without your sword, old man?”

Decamp said, “Stab you with this knife.” And he drove a wide bladed knife that he had slid from a sheath at his belt into Isaiah’s stomach, ripping upward with the keen blade and spilling Isaiah’s entrails. The albino coughed blood and toppled to the ground. Decamp sat up. “I don’t know if you remember this knife, Isaiah.” Decamp’s face was close to that of the dying albino. “It belonged to a man named Jim Mankiller.”

“Carter!” Charon said, hurrying to the fallen man.

Decamp managed to get to one knee but his injured leg wouldn’t support his weight. He said, “I’ll be all right. Check on Whit. And call 911 while you’re at it. I think I’m going to need an ambulance.”

Charon hurried to the porch, dialing as she went. The operator came on as she was checking Whit’s pulse. The old man was still alive. Charon spoke calmly, giving the operator directions and the extent of the injuries as she knew them. She also mentioned she was a friend of Sheriff Price and asked that the Sheriff’s department be notified. The operator told Charon to stay on the line.

It had grown full dark and Charon kept checking the surrounding woods looking for the glow of pale eyes. When she saw the approaching blue and red strobes, she broke connection with the 911 operator, and almost instantly her phone rang. She checked the ID. Griffin.

“Are you all right?” Griffin said when she answered.

“I am, but I’m going to have to ride to the hospital with Whit and Carter Decamp.”

“What? What the hell happened?”

“Isaiah Blackbourne came to kill Whit.”

“God damn it, Charon. I knew I shouldn’t have let you go alone. Where’s Blackbourne now?”

“He’s gone where the goblins go,” Charon said. “Decamp killed him. Now shut up and meet me at the hospital.”

“I’ll get a cab and be there before you are. Hang in there.”

“I will.” She broke the connection before she could say I love you. It had been on the tip of her tongue after hearing the concern in Griffin’s voice. She pocketed her phone and waved to the deputies who were climbing out of their cruiser with weapons drawn.

*      *      *

“It occurred to me after our last talk that once the Blackbournes knew that their plans were out in the open then they wouldn’t worry about keeping a low profile anymore,” Decamp said. He was sitting up in a hospital bed. “They’d left Whit alone the same way they’d left me alone. I really just drove out to Whit’s place to see that his wards and defenses were in place and to warn him.”

“Good thing you did,” Charon said.

“A very good thing,” said Griffin. “How’s the leg?”

Decamp shrugged. “They’ve got me so doped up I can’t feel anything, but I think it will be fine. Luckily for me, Isaiah hit the fleshy part and missed most of the muscle. And I sprinkled the wound with some stuff that will keep any infection from Isaiah’s claws from setting in before the paramedics arrived.”

Griffin couldn’t help grinning. As Carl had said, Decamp knew his stuff. He said, “I was in the middle of reloading some shotgun shells with the stuff you told me to get when Charon called.”

Decamp said, “Good, because I’m afraid I’m out of the fight. It’s up to you and your Sheriff buddy now. Speaking of which, thanks for getting the deputies to turn a blind eye to this.” He moved one of his pillows, revealing his .45. “I don’t think the pale ones will come here, but one never knows with the Blackbournes.”

Griffin said, “Carl’s name carries a lot of clout in Wellman. Just don’t shoot anyone you don’t have to.”

“I’ll do my best. Have you heard any more from Whit’s doctor, Charon?”

“He’s stable but he hasn’t regained consciousness. Tough old bird got right in Isaiah’s face.”

Decamp said, “I know he had some medals from World War II. He wasn’t afraid of much.”

Griffin glanced over at Charon who was leaning on the wall of the hospital room. He said, “I’m going to take Charon home before she keels over. Thanks again, Decamp. You’re a stand up guy.”

Decamp said, “You have my sword?”

“Yeah, it’s safe in my truck.”

“Hang on to it until I get out of here. You might need it.”

“Thanks, I’ll take care of it.”

Decamp nodded and leaned back on the pillows. “I’ve no doubt of that. Now get out of here. Keep me posted.”

*      *      *

Back at the house, Griffin once again made a check of the doors and windows. He had added some of the powdered silver to the sea salt mixture and nothing had been disturbed. He checked the security panel as well. Just because the othersiders couldn’t get in, it didn’t mean that intruders of a more terrestrial nature couldn’t.

He recalled suddenly that his cell phone had vibrated while he was at the hospital. He checked the voice mail and found that he had a message from Carl. After listening to the message he knew why Carl hadn’t wanted to tell him what was going on earlier. The Sheriff’s department was going to raid the Hollow come morning. The fewer the people who had that information, the better.

Griffin dialed Carl’s number but got no answer so he left a message of his own. He said, “I’m in. I’ll call you again in the morning if I don’t hear back from you.”

When he was done he found Charon leaning on one side of the door to her room. She said, “I feel like someone dropped a house on me.”

“It’s always like that after a fight.”

“You’ve been in a lot of them, haven’t you, Griffin?”

“More than I care to think of.”

Charon trailed her fingertips across Griffin’s face. She had changed into one of the oversized t-shirts she liked to sleep in. She looked small and vulnerable there in the doorway. Griffin said, “You going to be okay? You saw some bad stuff today.”

“Well,” Charon said. “Not to be a baby, but I was going to ask if I could sleep in your room again.”

Griffin said, “I have to tell you, I’m not sure I can guarantee you’ll be safe in there anymore.”

Charon stepped closer. “Who says I want to be safe?”

Charon had just showered and Griffin could smell her shampoo and the soap she used. He suddenly felt that there was too much oxygen in the room. He reached out and cupped her jaw in his hand. Turning her face up, he kissed her. Charon returned the kiss, sliding her arms around Griffin’s neck. He moved his hands to her back, then down to the swell of her hips. They stood that way for a moment, sharing the kiss. Then they fumbled into Griffin’s room without releasing one another and tumbled into the bed, where for a while they forgot the horrors of the night.

*      *      *

Two hours of sleep and then Carl showered, shaved and got ready for the day. It was a big day, too, one with scheduled raids and oodles of excitement planned for kids of all ages. Or at least for his deputies.

They met at the station and Carl waited patiently while they showed up. According to the radio summons, the meeting was for a discussion of fiscal budget cuts. That meant two things: first, Nadine Crabapple and her gossip network lost interest instantly. Second, the deputies all showed up, because some of them were probably afraid they’d get the axe if they didn’t.

Instead, they got overtime.

When everyone was present and had loaded themselves up on the coffee and donuts he provided for them, Carl explained that there was going to be a raid and that it was going to be going down immediately. And of course, he explained that the raid had to do with Nichole and Fred and the people responsible for their deaths. And just like that, he had a force that was willing to go straight into Hell to take care of business.

*      *      *

The early morning air was cold as sin, and Carl took a sip of his cup of coffee as he drove. In the seat next to him, Wade Griffin sat looking remarkably calm for a man who was about to go into the lion’s den. “You sure you’re up to this?”

Wade looked at his face and resisted the urge to wince. It probably took a little effort. In his defense, Carl’s face looked like two miles of bad road. The beating he’d gotten the night before showed clearly on his features in the form of scratches and a few bruises. “Well if I’m not, I guess I’ll find out in about four minutes.”

“I’m not doubting your abilities, you know that, but this is likely to get very ugly very fast.”

“And while you’re getting your ass shot off, I’ll be sneaking around and not being seen, so I don’t really see the problem here.”

Carl shook his head. There was no arguing with his logic, and he knew very few people he’d rather have on his side if things got bad. The thing was, Wade wasn’t going to be on his side. Wade was going to be sneaking around all by himself.

It had to be done. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

He pulled off the road a little and let a few of the other cars slip past as quietly as they could. There was a very long trail of cars, really. A surprising number. He was the sheriff. He knew how many deputies there were in the county, but even he was taken aback when he saw them all together.

They’d waited until the light was starting to show but the sun hadn’t made it over the hills around the Hollow and then they made their move. The local deputies took the lead while Carl stopped at the edge of Merle Blackbourne’s property. As soon as the truck stopped, Wade was in motion, slipping away with surprising stealth for a man the size of a small barn.

And as soon as Griffin was in motion, Carl swung back onto the road and started driving again. He waited only two more minutes as he slowly moved down the rutted path and then he hit the lights and the sirens both.

The caravan had been positioning itself for over ten minutes, doing so with no radio communication. The simple rule here was that they’d let the sirens do the talking. As soon as Carl’s flashers and sirens started the rest of the group did the same thing. The predawn light changed drastically and the scream of dozens of police sirens stole away any hope of sleep for the people of Crawford’s Hollow.

*      *      *

There are a lot of places where a person can hide. The Hollow had more than a fair share of them. Along the trails leading into the Hollow there were smaller trails and those often lead to trailers or small homes, but in a few cases they also lead to actual farms.

Deputies Rick Adams and Tonya Perez found one of the farms when they turned down the relatively well-paved dirt trail. There was an actual house, a decent sized barn and a pig pen that reeked of the inhabitants’ less savory toilet habits.

The smell was potent and made Perez’s eyes water. As soon as the sirens started echoing she hit their own flashers and sirens and climbed from the squad car. There was no one in the mood for playing, not after they’d been filled in about the cars, the missing people and the potential ties to the deaths of two of their own.

The people from inside the farmhouse stayed inside, except for an older man who opened the door and looked at them long and hard for a minute before he came outside. He was a lean man, with dark hair, light blue eyes and the sort of stride that said he’d damaged one of his legs a while back and never fully mended.

“You could turn that damn thing off if you wanted. Gonna be hard to hear you over the noise.” The accent was thick, a hard southern twang as opposed to an easy drawl. Perez nodded and Adams reached in and turned off the siren. The man eyed them for a moment and nodded his head. “What can I do for you folks?”

“Need to check your house, sir. We’re investigating a series of car thefts.”

“Not without a warrant.” The man was remarkably calm.

“Spoken like a man with something to hide.” Adams didn’t even try to keep the contempt from his voice. She liked her partner well enough, but the facts were what they were: He could barely tolerate her as an Hispanic and he absolutely loathed the people in the Hollow. He looked at them as the worst type of white people, the sort that justified the existence of other colors and races. He did his best to hide his feelings, and he’d actually warmed up to Perez after a few months, but old habits died hard.

The man looked at Adams with a cold expression of his own. “Or maybe I just don’t like the sort of asshole that wakes my entire family at seven in the morning with sirens and lights instead of just knocking on the door, son. You ever think about that?”

“Are you calling me an asshole?” Adams took a step forward.

“Did you wake my family?”

Perez held out the warrant for the man to see. “We’re checking every house in the Hollow.”

The man moved out of her way. “Good luck with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s houses, and there’s houses.”

Perez shook her head. “What do you mean?”

“I expect you’ll find out soon enough.”

They found nothing in the house, save for a frightened gathering of children and a portly, bleary-eyed woman holding her newborn twins. Perez apologized for the inconvenience and they headed back for the car.

And even as they reached the car, they heard the first gunshots from down the road a stretch.

And then they heard a few more.

And then there were screams.

*      *      *

Not everyone in the area was a member of the Blackbournes. It just seemed that way. A few of the deputies managed to come out the event without running across any troubles, but they were the exceptions.

Just across a narrow bridge that required the deputies to walk rather than take their vehicles, Ryan and Erikson, who normally managed to stay out of trouble along the state border run, encountered a brutish man who took one look at them and ran like a jackrabbit. They pursued and quickly tackled him as he tried to get to his stash of meth and crack cocaine. It wasn’t much by most standards, but the man fought like his entire life was on the line. Had he been wise he would have merely surrendered and gotten a slap on the wrist for his troubles. Instead, he resisted arrest and committed a felony by attempting to flee. He made fifteen yards before Ryan took him down. He kicked Ryan exactly once in the leg before the two deputies subdued him. They thought of a few other charges while they carried him across the bridge and he continued to struggle and scream obscenities.

Down another path four men of different ages were caught halfway through a drunken binge that also apparently involved having sex with a couple of minors from down the road. They were arrested without incident, however the parents of the two young teens realized what was going on and blew two of the men away and wounded a third before the deputies could stop them.

Down at the very base of the Hollow, in the swampy area where the houses were actually built on stilts to avoid the occasional floods, deputies Westmuller and Harralson caught a withered old woman eating what they believed was the meat from a human femur. Turned out they were right. One of them pointed a weapon at her and told her to drop her meal. The other was busy losing his lunch on the porch at that moment. By the time Harralson was done vomiting, the hag had already killed his partner. She killed him two minutes later. They were never found.

On one of the few named roads in the Hollow—a cheerful stretch of gravel laden path called Cemetery Road because of the headstones that lined both sides of the narrow run—two of the deputies managed to catch seven members of the Blackbourne Clan. The seven surrendered without incident.

While those seven were being taken away, Jolene urged another group to go on ahead and give themselves up. Three of them listened, but Brae and Petey did not agree with the notion. They ran as hard as they could and were tased for their troubles.

Jolene was spotted several times, but she was not reported by a single one of the deputies. They were normally too busy dealing with other members of the family.

One of the deputies—Brett Allyn—decided to run after Jolene when she decided not to listen to his demands that she stop. The first thing that he learned was that he really wasn’t in very good shape. The second thing he learned was that she was “a slippery little bitch.” The third thing he learned was that when Jolene calls for help, she normally gets a response. In this case the man had the unfortunate bad timing to grab her when her cousin Frank was close by. Frank beat him unconscious, and promptly began carving runes into his flesh. Jolene, always happy to help, gave Frank four thick carpenter’s nails before she took off again. Deputy Allyn was found two days later.

Carl pulled in front of the house he called Chez Blackbourne with a dozen other deputies along for the ride. He knew there was little chance that Merle was going to let them into the house. That was all right. He could do without actually getting inside as long as a good number of the people inside came to him.

They came. They also came armed and ready for a fight.

Merle walked out first, shaking his head and looking genuinely saddened by the state of affairs.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

Carl held out the search warrant. “Either the rest of the people we discussed come out now, or me and my people go in looking for them.”

Merle looked at the warrant, spat once, and stepped back. As he stepped back, he let out a sharp whistle.

And the bullets started firing from the woods around the house. Carl expected a few people in the woods. He hadn’t expected a damned army.

The good news was that he was prepared. Every last one of his people was wearing body armor, and they’d brought weapons too. The firefight was not long—they seldom are—but a great number of bullets were fired and a goodly number of those bullets hit their targets.

Carl took a hard run at Merle, determined to get the patriarch of the clan in his custody. Merle stood his ground and raised his hands above his head. And just as Carl was reaching for him, the air shifted and something big stepped forward. He couldn’t even see what it was, only feel it as he was thrown backward.

Carl soared through the air and did his best to prepare for the impact. Really, it was all he could do. The body armor helped. He rammed into the side of his truck hard enough to rock the vehicle on its tires.

Despite the pain, and he was decidedly feeling pain, Carl aimed for Merle and fired. He saw the look of surprise on the man’s face and even as he pulled the trigger he knew he had Blackbourne dead to rights. The shot was clean and true. It never hit him. Something else stopped it in the air a good ten feet before it would have hit Merle. There was a ripple in the air and then a sound so low that Carl could barely hear it. And Merle ran back toward his house and moved inside.

And the air hit Carl again. Only this time he couldn’t really roll with the punch. He was already braced against his truck.

He knew darkness.

*      *      *

The sheriff went down and the deputies, well-trained and very serious about taking care of their own, got busy. They didn’t stand still and wait for the Blackbournes to come to them. Instead they moved into the woods and went on the offensive, chasing after the shooters. Radios blared and weapons fired and the Blackbournes, who were not at all prepared for serious resistance, very quickly surrendered. By the time the last of the people in the woods was getting cuffed, Carl was back up and looking decidedly pissed off. His nose was bleeding, his face was swelling and he was limping.

Ben Randall and Liz Holiday caught up with him as he was getting to his feet. Liz was looking about as angry as a pissed off mountain cat. “You hurt, Carl?”

“Goddamned right I’m hurt! And right now I’m about five ways to twitchy, so get the fuck behind me.” He didn’t walk to the front of the Blackbourne place, he stormed. He drove his shoulder into the front door and slammed it open. Merle was halfway down the hallway and reaching for a shotgun. Carl shot the fucker in his leg and watched Merle drop, screaming.

Liz moved on his left and Ben on his right and the two of them watched and supported, not quite willing to point out that grabbing the man and hauling him to his feet wasn’t really proper procedure under the circumstances.

The air in the room felt wrong, heavy and wet and colder than it should have. That was enough for Carl.

Carl shoved Merle against the wall of his own home and pushed the barrel of his pistol into the man’s face. “You call it the fuck off! Now! Right fucking now! You hear me!?!”

Merle nodded hard and screamed something that made no sense and half a second later the pressure went back to right.

“Your sorry fucking ass is under arrest!” Merle’s leg tried to buckle and Carl held him off the ground, his arm shaking with the strain. “Read this man his goddamned rights, Liz!”

Liz recited the Miranda as Carl hauled Merle through the front door, one hand on his neck, the other holding the pistol to the side of his face. There were several people in the house, and while Carl and Liz were busy with Merle, Ben went into each room with his gun drawn and grabbed person after person, giving none of them a chance to consider going for weapons. He was a scrawny red-haired kid with too many freckles but at that moment he was also a very scary bastard with a big ass gun and a bad attitude. They listened.

Carl stayed in the car with Merle, who wisely kept his mouth shut. When everyone had been hauled out of the front of the house, Carl called the deputies back. The place felt wrong and he knew in his heart that something was decidedly not right. He didn’t want his people getting killed by whatever had thrown him through the air with such ease. He had Merle and suspected that as long as he did, whatever was there would leave him alone, but even though it was daylight and the things he’d dealt with the night before were supposedly nocturnal, he wasn’t taking any chances.

Besides, Wade was in there. Why call attention to him?

By most standards the raid on Crawford’s Hollow was a success. Over one hundred people were arrested on charges ranging from minor drug offenses to attempted murder, and there were still charges pending from the cars that had been collected.

But when it was all said and done, four deputies were missing, and that was not a good sign. All attempts to get their attention by radio failed and more troubling still, though their cars had GPS trackers, they could not be located.

Four deputies and two cars. One of the cars was later found on Highway 41, trashed and burned. The other was never found.

Carl had his suspicions, but no way to prove them.

Either way, the matter was being attended to.

*      *      *

Griffin moved through the woods in the pre-dawn twilight, keeping low and watching for sentries. It wasn’t likely that the Blackbournes kept anything like a regular watch, but Merle might have people watching the property, especially now. The trees were fairly heavy in that part of the Hollow and Griffin could just make out the rear of the old Blackbourne place in the dim light.

Jeez, but how the house rambled. He had heard that the place had been rebuilt and expanded so many times that no one knew exactly what was part of the original structure, but hearing about it and seeing the almost mad sprawl of the place were very different. Some walls were brick and some were covered with aluminum siding, while still others were bare or painted wood. Sections of roof met at odd angles and there were chimneys, gables, and windows placed without seeming order. For a moment, as he looked at the place, Griffin thought he caught an odd shimmering effect on the edge of the many levels of roof, but then it was gone. Weird.

Griffin picked out a likely looking entrance point, a small window close to the ground. That would probably lead to a cellar or basement. He didn’t relish the idea of seeing what sort of things the Blackbournes kept in a basement, but then again he figured climbing into someone’s bedroom window would be just as bad. In any case, he wanted to get close before the sirens wailed and people started looking out windows. He made one last quick scan of the area, then ran to the back of the house and crouched near the window. It wasn’t even locked. The Blackbournes were confident in their sinister reputation it seemed.

Griffin slid the window open and looked inside. Just a small room with a disused furnace and a bunch of crates stacked against one wall. Perfect. Griffin slipped inside and closed the window behind him. On the far side of the room a flight of stairs led up into darkness. Griffin crossed the cracked concrete floor and went up the stairs, placing his feet on the inner edge of each step to minimize creaking. He found a wood paneled door at the top and this one was locked.

Griffin set down the small bag he had brought along and removed a lock pick-gun and a small flat probe with an angle on one end. He slid the probe inside the keyhole, inserted the pick-gun and three seconds later, the lock released. If people had any idea how easy it was to open a lock using those two tools, they would invest in better locks.

Griffin replaced his tools, shouldered the bag, and slowly opened the door. Beyond was an empty hallway that seemed to stretch an abnormally long distance toward the front of the house. The place couldn’t be that big, could it? Griffin started down the hall which had a surprising number of doors set along its length. It reminded Griffin of those old Scooby Doo cartoons where characters would chase each other in and out of doors in a hallway. Griffin stopped at the first door and opened it with as little noise as possible. A bedroom, but thankfully unoccupied. Still there was something odd here. Bright sunlight was streaming through a window on one side of the room. Griffin knew that he hadn’t been inside more than a few minutes, but he checked his watch anyway. Eight minutes. The sun would just be coming up. Griffin went to the window and looked out.

It was another one of those moments when his brain wanted to shut down, reboot, or just plain run away. Outside the window, the ground was at least sixty feet below. Griffin knew that the basement steps had taken him to the first floor, and for that matter, the Blackbourne house only had two floors and no window in the place should be that high. Of course all of that was secondary to the simple fact that the scenery beyond the window wasn’t Crawford’s Hollow. Instead Griffin was looking at countryside that would have fit more readily in The Hound of the Baskervilles, a wide expanse of grassy moor running to the horizon, occasionally broken by great boulders or pillars of stone.

Griffin had to turn away from the bleak impossibility of the window before he lost his breakfast. He hurried back into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Inured as he thought he had become to the supernatural in the last few days, this most recent assault on reality was over the top. He paused for a moment, slowing his breathing, and reminding himself that he had a job to do. Carl had wanted him inside to find out what the Blackbournes might have hidden in the old family home and he was going to do that, regardless of what weirdness they threw at him. He slapped the holster at his side and felt the reassuring weight of the .38 revolver. The .357 had been too big and heavy for this sort of mission, but the .38 was loaded with Decamp’s special slugs.

Griffin shook the tension out of his shoulders and opened another door. Thankfully this room was just a storage room of standard design. Nothing surprising here. Unfortunately the next room was the size of a football field.

Griffin stood in the doorway of this next impossible room. How in hell were the Blackbournes doing this? The room looked like something out of a Jane Austen novel. A wooden floored ballroom, complete with an old fashioned chandelier. The early dawn light coming through the long row of windows on the other side of the room would have been comforting except that Griffin knew that there was no section on the outside of the house that was long enough to have that many windows side by side. Griffin didn’t leave the doorway. Whatever lay outside those windows, he didn’t want to know.

Griffin shut the door and looked up the hallway. Though he had come some distance, he didn’t seem to be any closer to the end of the hall. He looked back at where he had first entered and that door too seemed farther away than it should. Griffin skipped the next two doors, deciding just to try one at random. He chose one that was painted a dark shade of gray and swung it inward. The floor of this room was dirt and there was a big hole dug in the center of the room. Griffin eased up to the hole and looked down. It was too dark below to tell how deep the hole was, but he could hear something moving around down there.

The legends of the Moon-Eyed people said that they had lived underground and couldn’t abide light. Obviously some of the Blackbournes had no trouble with daylight, but according to Decamp those individuals were hybrids of some sort, at least partly human. But the true Moon-Eyes weren’t human at all and the closer to those ancient beings the Blackbournes were, apparently the less they could deal with light.

Lost in thought for a moment, Griffin realized suddenly that the noises he had heard were getting louder. He peered down into the hole only to find several pair of glowing eyes looking back up at him. Shit! Griffin backpedaled away from the hole just as two gnarled hands gripped the edge and a face right out of a nightmare appeared over the rim. The head was more round than a human head and the eyes larger and more oval. The nose was a vestige really, more two vertical slits under a bony ridge than a proper nose, and the mouth was much wider than a human’s, with what looked like far too many sharp, yellow teeth. As Griffin watched, two more heads popped up out of the hole and then all three of the creatures began to scramble toward him.

Griffin reached behind him and opened the door. He stepped into the hall and slammed the door just in time to feel something bang against the panel. There was no way he could lock the door or jam it from his side. Or was there? Griffin dropped his bag and pulled out the pick-gun. The device couldn’t be used to re-lock something as far as he knew but maybe he could screw up the lock. He jammed the pick-gun into the lock mechanism and twisted it until its metal end broke off inside. The door knob began to jerk and twitch but it didn’t turn.

Griffin knew he didn’t have long before the Moon-Eyes broke through the door. Mission or no mission it was time to get out. He turned back toward the way he had come and started hurrying down the hallway. Again it seemed that the faraway door wasn’t getting any closer.

One of the doors that Griffin hadn’t examined opened without warning and two pale skinned but mostly human looking figures stepped out. Griffin was on the first one before either of the pair had noticed him. He whipped an elbow into the side of the man’s head, then slammed him into a wall head first. The second man grabbed a handful of Griffin’s jacket, but Griffin caught the gripping hand and twisted it backwards until the bones in the wrist snapped. The pale man cried out and Griffin drove the edge of his right hand into the man’s throat, crushing his trachea. The man wouldn’t yell anymore and he’d strangle in his own blood in a matter of seconds. Griffin hit him in the nose with the palm of his hand just for good measure.

Unfortunately the fight had delayed Griffin long enough for the Moon-Eyes to smash their way through the door and they were pelting down the hall howling like wolves on crack. Griffin ran, cursing the freaked out hallway. The basement door remained elusively far away and now there seemed to be more doors in between it and Griffin. Running was only going to wear him out. Time to make a stand while he could. He turned to the closest door and went in at a dead run.

His feet almost slipped out from under him as he entered the room. The floor seemed to be made up of thick, slimy mud. There was no chance of bracing the door against his pursuers, so Griffin drew the .38 and shot the first pale one through the door in the head. The creature staggered and fell into the mud. The other two burst through the door and leaped at Griffin. He got off a second shot but it went wild as the Moon-Eyes landed on top of him.

The next moment the mud erupted and something which looked like a giant white worm reared up and bit the head off of one of the Moon-Eyes. One end of the worm-like creature’s gelatinous form was a round mouth full of hooked yellow teeth. The thing had to be 30 feet long, and probably five feet in diameter. Griffin couldn’t begin to guess the size of the room he had stumbled into this time. There was nothing but darkness beyond the worm and the mud. The worm shrieked, spitting blood as it twisted toward the remaining Moon-Eye and Griffin.

The Moon-Eye tried to back away, but he had forgotten Griffin. Griffin got his back against the door and kicked the Moon-Eye in the back, boosting the screeching creature toward the writhing worm. The worm’s mouth gaped wide and the Moon-Eye disappeared inside the tube shaped body down to his waist. The worm bit down and gave a savage twist, and the Moon-Eye’s lower torso fell into the mud, the legs still kicking.

Griffin jerked the door open and rolled into the hall. He scrambled to his feet, the mud on his shoes making him slip and slide. He heard another shriek, and glancing back he saw the upper part of the worm lurching into the hallway. Griffin took off at a dead run. He finally seemed to be closing on the basement door. He didn’t look back again. The sounds of the huge thing thrashing its way down the hall were enough. Griffin reached the door and stumbled down the steps into the basement room. The door exploded behind him and the worm’s mouth reared up. Griffin fired his last four bullets at the creature, causing it to twist away for a moment. He used that time to get the window open and drag himself out onto the ground. The window was too small too allow the worm’s quivering bulk to pass through, and Griffin’s last sight of the thing was looking straight down its throat as the wide mouth pressed against the glass, its hooked teeth full of black blood and chunks of pale flesh.

Griffin hurried away from the house and into the woods. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the Blackbourne family home as he could, and pretty god damn fast too.

*      *      *

“It sounds like the house wasn’t just built out in this dimension but in others as well,” Charon said. She, Griffin, and Carl were seated in Carl’s office. Charon had been glad to take Griffin’s advice this time and stay well clear of the raid, but now her particular sort of knowledge was needed.

“Want to try that one again?” Griffin said.

“And talk slow,” said Carl. “I’m a simple country sheriff.”

Charon has already tumbled to the fact that Carl enjoyed the country boy act, but there wasn’t anything slow about him. She let the comment pass though and said, “We’re dealing with a geometry that doesn’t work on our three dimensional plane of existence. Decamp said that some of the Moon-Eyes are living in more than one dimension and I think we’ve all seen enough evidence of that. Apparently though they’ve also found a way to make that house extend into dimensions outside of our own.”

“It was gigantic inside,” Griffin said. “And the space shifted while I was in there.”

Charon said, “Yes, I wouldn’t think an inter-dimensional house would be too stable.”

Carl said, “Then how do the Blackbournes deal with it? I mean they have to get around in there.”

Charon said, “My guess would be that the more powerful Blackbornes can shift with the house. Remember, living in multiple dimensions is the norm for them.”

“Going to make getting any of them out who don’t want to come out pretty damn hard,” Carl said.

“Unless we burn the place down,” Griffin said. “Or blow it up.”

“There’s a thought,” said Carl.

“I don’t know guys,” Charon said. “We should probably talk to Decamp before you do anything like that. Blowing up an unstable inter-dimensional house might cause some serious problems with our own dimension. And no, I can’t believe I just strung a sentence like that together either.”

Carl said, “Well anyway, the house isn’t our biggest headache right now. It’s whatever the Blackbourne’s have planed for Halloween.”

“Whatever it is,” Charon said, “Given what we know of past ceremonies it probably involves Mooney’s Bluff.”

“Might be something I can do about that,” Carl said. “Hell, if it comes down to it, I can get enough deputies together to sew the whole bluff up for the night. That would put a crimp in their ceremony.”

Griffin said. “We still don’t know where the Blackbournes are keeping hostages, if they have them, either.”

“Given what you said about the house, they could have dozens of people locked up in there,” Charon said.

Griffin said, “Carl, didn’t your buddy Andy say there were caves in the hillside under the bluff?”

Carl said, “He did and that would be a possibility as well. I’ll look into that one.”

“That works,” said Griffin.

“You going to talk to Decamp about the house?”

“Seems like a good plan, yeah.”

“Might want to go in the back and clean up a bit first. You’ve still got a lot of blood and muck on you.”

“And giant worm slime,” said Griffin.

“And that,” said Carl.

*      *      *

Andrew Hunter took it nice and slow as he circled his house looking for the note that the voice had told him to look for. It was a good thing, too, because the note was very well hidden, stuck as it was half under the back porch stair where he kept his spare key. He moved the key and decided it was time to find a better spot for it.

It wasn’t a heart attack. He supposed that was good news. The paramedics seemed surprised that he was in such good shape. He suspected the daily walks helped.

The note was on a simple scrap of paper. It said GIVE THE CHARMS TO SIOBHAN ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT and nothing more. It took him a few seconds to even remember the charm bracelet. To be sure he remembered Carl handing the thing to him, and he remembered looking it over, but mostly he thought it was rather unremarkable. That said, he called Carl as soon as he got inside and told him about the message.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this yesterday, Andy?”

“Watch your tone with me, boy. Mostly I didn’t tell you because you looked ready to curl up and die you were so tired, and I didn’t need you stomping around in the dark looking for something you likely wouldn’t find.”

“What makes you so sure I wouldn’t find it?”

“Because, son, this is my house. I know where everything is and you do not.” He sighed. “Now, you can either whine about not getting your way, or you can get over here with that little necklace so I can look at the charms a second time.”

“You think it will make a difference?”

He dropped the temperature in the room by several degrees with his response. “Well, we won’t know until you bring it. But as I now know you’re looking into certain local legends a good deal more, perhaps I can find a few correlations I didn’t before.”

“I’ll be right over then.” He smiled at Carl’s response. Maybe someday he’d take it easy on the younger man, but for now he deeply enjoyed the fact that he could make the sheriff of the county jump with the tone he used. It also made him feel a little better about calling on the same man like a little old lady the night before. No, it wasn’t rational, but it still made him feel better.

*      *      *

Jolene got home just in time to see her mother heading for the heart of town. Siobhan was dressed to kill, which in this case meant she looked like the sort of woman who could wrap a man around each finger and call them costume jewelry. That irrational twinge of jealousy roared through Jolene as she looked at her mother. And she knew it was irrational, too. Most men easily succumbed to her charms—there were exceptions, like Sheriff Carl Price, but she was still working on chipping away at that armor—but she had never met a heterosexual man who could resist her mother. Of course the difference was that her mother had years of practice with their unique talents and Jolene was still growing into them.

“Is everything okay, Momma?”

Siobhan didn’t even look in her direction. “You know it’s not. Like I haven’t already heard you were down in the Hollow when everything happened. It’s just a good thing I don’t have to bail you out, too.”

*      *      *

Siobhan Blackbourne walked into the county clerk’s office sporting three important things: her pocketbook, her cell phone and her lawyer’s phone number. Amazing thing about lawyers: they can be very effective with the right motivations. That was where the pocketbook came in.

What should have happened and what did happen were two entirely different things. The woman came into the area, met up with the clerk, talked to him and then a few minutes later was dealing directly with the Honorable Walter McPherson, a judge with a reputation as an extreme hardass, who had, in fact, agreed to the blanket warrants that were issued to Carl Price and his department in consideration of over fifty stolen cars and a strong number of missing persons. Fifteen minutes later, the judge agreed to let four of the dozens arrested in the Hollow go with only 5,000 dollars bail per individual. First among the family members released was Merle Blackbourne.

It’s probably an exaggeration to say that Carl Price’s stream of expletives could be heard all the way in Texas, but maybe not by much.

*      *      *

Books and more books, archives and volumes of collections of notes. Andrew Hunter scratched his head and sighed. There was something he was missing, an old reference to a pale people who could not abide the light.

Finally, frustrated from looking over his own collection, he tried reaching out to an old associate, genuinely not certain if the man was still alive.

The phone rang three times and then was answered. “Crowley. What.”

“Jonathan?”

“Yes, this is Jonathan Crowley. What can I do for you?” The voice was terse and bordered on a growl.

“Jonathan, this is Andy Hunter. We met at—”

“Oh, of course, Andy. Lovely to hear from you. How have you been?”

“Well, you know how it goes. We’re all of us getting older.”

There was a chuckle on the line. “True enough. Listen, Andy, I hate to be that guy, but I’m a bit busy at the moment. What is it I can do for you?”

“Actually, I’ve been researching the Moon-Eyed People for a man in this area and I ran across a necklace with several different charms on it. Most of them I can identify, but there are a few that are completely boggling me. And. Well, Jonathan, let’s be fair here. When it comes to the odd stuff you’re normally the go-to guy.”

“Do you have pictures?”

“I can certainly take a few.”

“Do you have a camera on your phone?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do.” Brief flash of pride. He liked not being a Luddite.

“So, shoot a few quick shots and send them my way. I can get back to you in around fifteen minutes. Sound good?” It sounded like the man was in a movie theater. There were screams in the distance and what sounded like growls. He hoped Crowley wasn’t interrupting anyone’s movie just for him. Then again, Jonathan Crowley wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. More likely he was watching a video at home.

“I’ll take them and send them straight away.”

“Hang on.” There was another, much louder noise and then silence. Sounded like his old associate had finally figured out where the pause button was on his remote control. “Perfect. I’ll get right back to you.”

Ten minutes of playing around with the controls on his “smart” phone was enough to make him feel like an old fart, but it also was enough to let him figure out which buttons and pictures correlated to allow him to take close up pictures of the different charms on the silver chain. He shot the pictures to Crowley and then wandered into the kitchen to make tea. It was getting damned cold outside and he could almost hear his joints creaking.

He’d just poured the water from his kettle into the old stoneware mug one of his old secretaries had given him years and years ago—she’d wanted to get closer, not the least bit aware that he wasn’t interested in anything but friendship—when his phone rang. The cell phone, of course, so he had to go hunt the thing down because he wasn’t smart enough to bring the fool thing with him.

“Hello?”

“Andrew? It’s Crowley. You have an interesting collection of charms there. Mostly they’re for protection. A couple of them are for luck. But there are three of them that are specifically designed for, shall we say unique purposes? There’s one to keep the dead where they belong. It’s kind of like a prayer bead that hopes the dead will keep sleeping. There’s another that is specifically to make unstable minds act more rationally—we’re talking very old here, too. We’re talking back to Babylon stuff. And in this case, it refers specifically to madness brought on by the moon. Oh, and the third is supposed to be for birth control. I’m not completely sure but I think a few of the old time religions used it. Egypt, possibly very early Assyrian. If the charms are real instead of duplicates, you’ve got someone who’s been carrying some serious antiquities around their neck.”

Andy frowned. “Well isn’t that the darnedest combination.”

“Like as not each was meant to be used separately. I mean, it isn’t every day you run across undead, pregnant crazies. Then again, we’ve both survived a few runs of hell week on campus.”

Andy chuckled. Before he could respond any further Crowley asked if there was anything else he could help with. When Andy said no, the man said it was great to hear from him and killed the call abruptly.

Sometimes that man made no sense at all.

Still, he jotted down the references and got ready to call Carl Price.

*      *      *

Charon sat in the passenger seat of Griffin’s truck as they drove through the Wellman town square in the gathering dusk. A few people were putting the finishing touches on the decorations for the town’s big Halloween party. From what Griffin had told her, it was a pretty big deal in Wellman. The centerpiece was a huge scarecrow surrounded by headstones, pumpkins, and corn stalks. Charon looked over at Griffin. His face had the alert attitude it always had when he drove, as if he were always expecting trouble. Maybe he was.

Charon said, “Um…we haven’t really had a chance to talk about last night.”

“Is there something to talk about?” As usual, Griffin was unreadable.

Charon said, “Well, I guess I’m wondering what that means to our, um, friendship. I mean are we an item now, or friends with benefits or was that just a heat of the moment thing? You know?”

Griffin glanced over at her and smiled. “I’m voting for item.”

Charon found she was having trouble breathing properly, but she also felt giddy. How long had she waited for this big idiot to realize she was right for him? She said, “I’m voting for that too.”

“Good,” Griffin said. “It’s unanimous.”

Charon said, “Not to jinx things, but curious gal that I am, I have to ask what changed things? You were fending off my best attempts at seduction.”

Griffin grinned. “Is that what those were?”

“Yes, smart ass.”

“I just got to know you, Charon. That’s really all it took. I had some problems in relationships before, and I guess I’m a little gun shy, but I realized last night, when I thought something might have happened to you that I cared a lot about you. So I acted on it.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too, but there are some things you’re going to have to know about me.”

“I’ve learned a lot just listening to you and Carl talk. Before you were a private investigator you were, what, a mercenary?”

“I’m still a mercenary, but no that’s not what I meant. Not precisely. It’s about my house and the woman who lived there with me.”

Charon sensed that this wasn’t something Griffin wanted to talk about. He was looking straight ahead and his voice sounded tight.

Griffin said, “I was living with a woman named Beth and we’d been together about two years. We were engaged and the whole nine yards. Anyway, and this is the important part, when you do what I do you make enemies. There was a guy, a seriously bad guy, who had been involved in an operation I took part in when I was working in South America. No point in saying exactly where, but anyway, this guy lost a lot of money and he blamed me. One night, Beth and I came home from a movie and he was hiding outside the house. He was good with a knife, and he made a run at me.”

“Did something happen to Beth?”

“She wasn’t hurt. Not physically. Like I said, the guy was good with a knife and I couldn’t take any chances with him so I killed him with my bare hands. Beth knew what I did. Intellectually she knew. But I guess seeing me kill another human being like that was just more than she could handle. She moved out that weekend and that was that.”

Charon placed her hand on Griffin’s arm. “I’m not Beth.”

Griffin said. “No, and you’ve seen me do some things, but I wanted you to know what could happen. I live a violent life and sometimes it has repercussions.”

“We’ll deal with those when they come, Griffin.”

Griffin nodded and they were quiet the rest of the short drive to the hospital.

*      *      *

Carter Decamp was sitting up reading when Griffin and Charon entered his room. Griffin thought his color looked bad, but who looks right under those florescent bulbs all hospitals seem to favor? Griffin said, “Evening, Decamp. You’re looking better.”

Decamp said, “Your expression says different, Griffin, but we’ll go with that. I’m feeling better, but the leg hurts like hell.”

“Isaiah took a big chunk out of it.”

“He did. Now, what have you two fine young people come to talk to me about?”

“Maybe we’re just visiting,’ said Griffin.

“And maybe I’m the Pope,” said Decamp. “What have you been up to since I saw you last?”

Charon took the room’s single chair and Griffin leaned against the wall and told Decamp what had happened during his visit to the Blackbourne house. When Griffin was done, Decamp said, “That’s very very bad. You can’t imagine what kind of power is involved in keeping a structure like that stable on one plane of reality. I don’t even want to think about how many people must have died to make that possible.”

Griffin flashed on the scores of missing cars Carl had uncovered. “So the Blackbournes are probably having to work to maintain it?”

“Oh definitely. And that bodes very ill indeed. They must have some reason for opening various dimensional barriers, but the chaos you described inside the house doesn’t make much sense to me. I could see one or two branching dimensions as a source of eldritch energy, but not dozens. Something serious is afoot.”

“Something to do with opening the path to the other side?” said Charon.

“Almost certainly. I just don’t see how it fits. I need to get home to my books.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,’ Griffin said. “I read your chart.”

“You’re a doctor, Griffin?”

“No but I’ve seen a lot of injuries. You need to stay here a few more days.”

“That’s what the doctors keep telling me. Seems my precautions didn’t stop all the infection from setting in.”

“Maybe we could bring you some of your books,” Charon said.

“You couldn’t get into my house, my dear.”

Griffin said, “No offense, Decamp, but I’ve seen your place. Those Victorian windows wouldn’t slow me down for ten seconds.”

Decamp said, “And you’d be dead in less time than that if you tampered with them.”

Griffin raised an eyebrow. “Booby trapped?”

“Not in the way you mean. I have certain dangerous items in my home and I’ve taken precautions. Why do you think the Blackbournes have left me alone all these years?”

Charon said, “You’ve warded your home.”

Decamp smiled. “And then some. But on to happier things. I spoke to Whit Gramling’s doctor and he says Whit is recovering nicely. That is one tough old man.”

Griffin was about to reply when an alarm siren went off in the hall. He said, “That’s not a fire alarm.”

“No, it’s more like a security alert,” said Decamp.

Griffin reached under his jacket and pulled out the .38 loaded with the special bullets. He pressed it into Charon’s hand and said, “Stay here. I want to see what’s going on.”

“What if you need your gun?” Charon said.

Griffin grinned and opened his jacket, showing the .357 in his shoulder holster.

“How many guns are you carrying?” Charon said.

“You can frisk me later.”

“Count on it.”

Griffin turned and went out into the corridor. A lot of people, obviously thinking the alarm meant a fire, were crowding toward the elevators and stairs. Griffin shouldered his way through, saying ‘Security’ in a loud voice. He got into the stairwell and hurried down the three flights to the lobby. The lobby was surprisingly empty and he soon saw why. A man wearing green scrubs was sprawled face up on the floor near the nurses’ station. His throat had been torn open and a vast quantity of blood was spreading across the floor. There were two more mutilated corpses between the first and the front doors. Griffin looked around and saw a nurse crouching in a corner near a potted plant. Her eyes were wide with fear.

Griffin stepped closer and caught a sharp smell of urine. The nurse had apparently emptied her bladder. Sheer terror will do that. Griffin was aware of sirens in the distance. He didn’t have much time. He crouched in front of the woman and said, “What happened? Who did this?”

The woman stared at Griffin for a moment without speaking. Her eyes were green and looked enormous. She’s in shock, Griffin thought. I’m not going to get anything out of this one.

Then the woman slowly lifted her hand and pointed toward a service elevator near the back of the lobby. She said, “He came out of the morgue.”

Griffin said, “The man who did this?”

The woman nodded. “Came out of the morgue.”

“Who was it? Can you describe him?”

“White,” she said.

“He was a white man like me?”

“White,” she repeated. “White like chalk. His skin. His hair.”

Griffin felt his mouth go dry. “He was an albino?”

The woman nodded again.

Shit, Griffin thought.

*      *      *

The county assayers office made life a little easier. The land on Mooney’s Bluff where the kudzu ran rampant was owned by the state, apparently. Surrendered by the owners for back taxes years and years earlier. That meant that clearing the kudzu away could fall under the official business of the county.

Bentley Perkins owed approximately a trillion dollars in fees on speeding tickets. Perkins, Ben to his friends, also owned a landscaping company. Carl made a few unofficial arrangements, provided the man could get to work on the kudzu that very day. Ben stared at the large field of dying kudzu that ran all the way to the property line for Neal Crawford’s house above the overgrown wall of the hillside.

“You serious, Carl?”

“Today, Ben. And all the tickets go away.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“Maybe the damn stuff is just creeping me out.”

Ben squinted and stared at the half-hidden shapes that waited under the kudzu. “Okay. You win that one.”

“All of it, Ben. Okay?”

“Ain’t like this is my busy season, Carl. Besides, I wouldn’t have half the work I do without your help, so I figure I owe you a few.” Carl didn’t actually handle the choices for who did what in the county when it came to handling landscaping issues, but he was always quick to recommend using the local talent instead of hiring a group of yahoos from a different county or from Atlanta. To that end, Ben had managed to get a few sweet deals for maintaining the grass along the sides of the roads and, disgusting though the work was, for gathering and removing roadkill. It kept him and his crew of workers from struggling through the colder months.

“Well, I appreciate it, Ben. Just remember this is a one time offer. You get another ticket, you have to pay it. As it is I should haul your ass in on half a dozen pending bench warrants.”

“I’d have paid them.”

Carl grinned. “Liar.”

Ben lit a cigarette and then called three of his guys over. They were going to be busy. Carl waved and hopped back into his truck. There were things he had to do, like finally getting around to visiting with Andy Hunter and getting some details on what they were dealing with.

Ben waved back and by the time Carl had driven back to the main stretch of road above, the crew was already moving heavy equipment that would make short work of the damned green vines.

Remembering how the trees had shaken the other day when whatever it was out there had charged after him, Carl waited a few minutes and called in a car to supervise the procedure, just in case anything happened.

While he drove he contemplated his latest conversation with Wade. Amazingly bad news. Dead men should not, as a rule, get back up and now there were two members of the Blackbourne clan that had done just that. The notion was not pleasing. The men refused to stay dead, and the women? Well, they seemed to have their own special abilities, at least a few of them. He’d met plenty of unremarkable women in the Blackbourne family over the years, some were average, some were unattractive and some were just plain ugly—othersider ugly maybe—but there were a few exceptions and they were doozies. Siobhan was just, well, she was damned unsettling. Her daughter was almost as bad, but young enough that her best efforts were mostly wasted on Carl. He would have fallen head over heels for a girl that looked like her in his youth, but these days he didn’t much take to children or young girls who thought they were women because their bodies were developing. He liked women. The Lord knew he’d arrested enough men who couldn’t tell the difference, and normally he had to remind himself that beating their fool heads into the ground was considered at least as bad a crime as the ones he arrested them for.

And there was one other he remembered from when he was younger, she’d have been a young teenager when he was in elementary school, but he remembered her because she was so pale, so pretty and so damned mean. The name eluded him, but he wondered what the hell had ever happened to that one. She’d figured into a few of his adolescent fantasies back in the day.

He shook that thought away and reminded himself that the name Blackbourne was basically synonymous with trouble. Best to drive.

Fifteen minutes later he was at Andy’s place. Andy was outside, looking around his property with a glum expression.

“Something wrong, Andy?”

The older man pointed to the ground near the house and moved his finger in a trail that slid around the side of the house. “There’s one hundred and fifteen distinct footsteps that lead from that window in front of my living room all the way to the back of the house. They march right on up the back stairs of my porch and right up to the back door. Something is decidedly wrong, young man.”

Carl didn’t like the way this was sounding. “How do you know how many footsteps there are, Andy?”

“Because, Carl, I counted them. You can’t miss them. They’re very distinct!” Yep. Andy was pissed again.

Carl sighed and moved closer, trying not to clench his jaw, trying not to let the growing headache sink its teeth into the back of his skull. He wasn’t really having a lot of luck, but he had to try.

He forgot all about the headache when he saw the footsteps. They were all from one source he had no doubt. The prints were too uniform not to have come from only one source. The feet were long and the toes were extended, and in a few cases he could actually see where claws or seriously long toenails had cut into the dirt and grass around the house. The dead grass. Very dead. The exact shape of the feet was easy to see in the blackened grass. And as he followed the trail around the side of the house, Carl could see the same blackened marks on the wood and leading all the way up to the back door.

Curiosity won for a few moments and then the headache came back. “You’ll be wanting me to repair or replace this, won’t you?”

“Well, Carl, none of this would have happened to my house and my property if you hadn’t decided to come to me with your little problems.” He looked at Andy and saw a mischievous twinkle in the old man’s eyes. As soon as Andy caught him looking he put on his stern expression again. The old bastard was lonely and wanted an excuse to have company. Fair enough. Carl could arrange that.

“You win, Andy. As soon as this is all fixed up, I’ll be by to take care of the porch at least. Maybe I can find some grass seed and we can fix the lawn, too.”

The old professor nodded his head curtly. Before Carl could make another comment, his cell chirped sharply. The office. “It’s Carl.”

“Carl?” Danny Braeburn had gotten himself knocked around right and proper during the raid, and he was probably sore from head to toe, but he was also determined to work. So Carl put him on the desk and told him the rules about calls and radio calls. If he was getting a phone call, it was likely to be something at least moderately important. Just as Carl was about to confirm that he was, in fact, who he’d claimed to be when he answered the phone, Danny got to the point. “Adams and Perez? The ones you sent to watch over the clean up? They said they found some old caves behind all that kudzu and thought you might want to see them.”

“Anything else going on I should know about?”

“Tom Fowler, over at the planning committee for the Halloween thingy in the square called and said they’ve got their recommended parking and road block plans.”

“Every year they give me new plans. Every year I look them over and approve them and every year they’re the same old thing all over again.” Carl shook his head. “All right. I’m gonna head up and take a look at those caves. Call if you need me, Danny. And call someone in if your head hurts too much, okay? Doctor said you need rest.”

“Doctor can kiss my hairy butt.”

“That’s not covered by our HMO, I can guarantee it.” He killed the call. “You feel like taking a ride, Andy? I thought you might like to take a look at the caves we found up on Mooney’s Bluff.”

Andy sighed dramatically. “I can be persuaded. I should charge a consulting fee though.”

“How about lunch on the way back down instead?”

“That’s my usual consulting fee.”

“Fair enough.”

*      *      *

“So what did you learn about the Moon-Eyes from you phone calls?”

“Not a thing.” Andy shrugged. “What I did learn, however, is that the symbols on this little piece of jewelry are either very, very old or replicas of symbols most people haven’t seen in a few centuries.”

“Centuries?”

“Learn to pay attention, boy. I said ‘most people.’ Most people haven’t studied ancient languages and cultures that died out before Christ was born, so, no, most people haven’t seen them in a few centuries.” Andy got that smug tone again. What could you do?

Carl kept quiet for a moment as he slowed to take a particularly sharp turn in the road. When the road was back to a saner angle, he sighed. “So what do these old symbols mean?”

“Near as I can figure, which is to say near as a few experts I know can figure, you’ve got luck, keeping the dead in the grave, birth control and a little something to keep people from going crazy.”

Carl thought about Frank for a moment and wondered if moving the damned charms had brought the freak from his grave. That was a decidedly unpleasant thought. What if the only way to get rid of the fucker was to wrap that thing around his neck? But that didn’t make any sense, because Frank wanted the charms.

“Carl!” He turned to look toward Andy, who in turn was pointing out the side window at the truck rolling and bouncing down the hill toward them. Things were happening fast, but even so Carl could see that the old battered truck didn’t have a driver. Someone had pushed it from above them on the next level of the twisting road, and they’d timed it beautifully. ‘There was nowhere for Carl to go. He couldn’t stop in time to keep the truck from hitting them, so he gunned the engine, hoping to get out of the way before the truck reached them. At least this way, if they got nailed it would be in the rear of the truck. The part without people in it.

One more foot and they would have completely cleared the damned thing. Instead Carl held onto the wheel in a death grip and Andy did his best to curl into a fetal position as the old pickup nailed the truck’s bed. Both vehicles left the road and started rolling down the hillside.

The world spun and turned and bounced and jittered. Glass fragmented around them, sending sparkling showers through the air. Seatbelts snapped tight and held both Carl and Andy in place while the truck flipped and bounced and finally smashed into the ground with enough force to stop its own forward motion.

The engine died with a deep, low hiss. The world still spun a little, but at least it had slowed down from insane to only moderately dizzying.

Andy was moaning. He looked stunned, but not overly injured. Of course there was no way to know. Carl released his seatbelt and fell all of six inches into the door. The truck was resting on his side. He kicked the shattered windshield clear out of his way and moved out of the truck as best he could. No time to call for backup. No time for trying to help Andy, because if the junked out truck was aimed at them, there would doubtless be a few people to clean up the mess.

Sure enough, they came down the hill, leaning back against the harsh slope and more forcing their bodies to slow down than actually running to catch up. He tried to count, but the dust hadn’t settled yet and some of the forms looked like mere shadows past the clouds of dry dirt and powdered leaves.

Three, four...maybe as many as seven.

According to the law, Carl had to show his weapon, warn any perpetrators that he was armed and insist that they stop and prepare themselves for arrest.

Carl pulled the Glock and fired. The first of the men snapped backward, a large portion of his face removed from its usual location. The second took a shot to the knee and then a second to the stomach. The rest of them hesitated, and that was exactly what he hoped they’d do, because moving targets are harder to kill.

Two down. Then the third. The fourth tried to run, and Carl shot him in the back of his neck. The fifth dropped to his knees and raised his hands high in the air. Carl aimed for the man’s heart and got him in the guts instead. He dropped soundlessly, holding his insides in place and screaming silently, his mouth open wide and his neck straining but no noise escaping him.

The woman came at him, screaming like a mountain lion as she charged. She was thick and uneven and her blue eyes were the exact same color as her cousin Merle’s. Carl shot her in the face as he stepped to the side and she obligingly stopped that damn screaming.

He looked around for several seconds, panting and doing his best not to let his mind lie to him about what was around. There was no one else to see.

He couldn’t find his damned phone, so in the long run he wound up calling for backup on the radio. The Gut-Shot Kid tried crawling around a bit, but eventually stopped when he realized Carl had no intention of helping him.

Carl looked down at him. Bernard Blackbourne: arrested several times in the past for dealing meth. Like as not he should have been arrested the day before and had managed to clear out before that happened. Bernard started crying and Carl continued to ignore him, instead moving to the truck to check on Andy.

Andy had pulled himself from the truck by the time Carl got to him. The old man was shaken, certainly bruised and dealing with a few scratches, but he seemed very, very alert.

“Did we just get hit by a truck, Carl?”

“Yessir, we did.”

“And did you just shoot several people who were attacking us?”

“Yessir, I did.”

Carl ran his hands over his own face, making sure that all the parts were in the right spot. His lip felt fat and wet. Otherwise, he was just shaky.

“Carl? Are you okay?”

“I’m good, Andy.” He looked around the area again, checking to see if anyone at all was moving above or below them. The car should have brought Perez and her partner to him by now and he wasn’t sure if they were okay. He hoped they were. If they were hurt, however, he’d feel even less guilt than he did for blowing the hell out of several members of the Blackbourne family. Just now he wasn’t sure if that was even possible.

Bernard stopped whimpering and moving and after another minute or so, it looked like maybe he stopped breathing.

The rules said Carl should administer CPR and any first aid he could muster. He didn’t move. He’d called for paramedics. That was the best the man was getting from him.

A few moments later, the ambulance sirens started echoing up the hillside. The cop car sirens soon followed.

Nothing came from the bluff above.

Damn, he hoped they were sleeping on the job or had run off for food.

*      *      *

“Look, Decamp,” Griffin said. “What happened last night wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” said Decamp. He was limping around the hospital room, gathering the last of his belongings. Stark morning sunlight flooded the room, casting sharp, dark shadows.

“You couldn’t have known Isaiah wasn’t dead. From what Charon told me you practically gutted him.”

Decamp gave a quick nod. “I did, but I should have checked the body.”

“You were injured. Besides, three deputies and two paramedics did check. He was dead as the proverbial hammer.”

Decamp checked his .45, then slid it into his waistband and left his shirt hanging outside his pants to hide the gun. He looked at Griffin. “Yes, he was dead. At least the part of him that lives in this world was dead. But that’s what I should have thought of. Me, of all people, Griffin. Isaiah Blackbourne lives in more than one dimension at once. I suspect he retreated to the other side and healed himself there. When he was strong enough he came back to the part of his body that resides on our plane.”

Griffin said, “Can all of the othersiders do that?”

“No, just the most powerful ones.”

“How much damage would you have to do to keep that from happening?”

“Totally destroying the earth form might do it. I don’t know for sure. Hell, it’s not like there’s a manual about it or anything like hard fast rules.”

Griffin noted that Decamp wasn’t speaking or acting in his usual restrained manner, and he thought he had a pretty good idea why. Three people had died when Isaiah broke out of the morgue and Decamp was feeling responsible. Griffin had been there and he knew there was nothing he or anyone else could say. Decamp would have to work it out in his own way and in his own time.

“Where’s Charon, by the way?” Decamp said, changing the subject.

“She’s down visiting Whit,” Griffin said. “She’s gotten very fond of him.”

Decamp said, “Easy to do. He’s a good man. Anyway, let’s get going. I want to get back to my house where I might do some good. What’s your friend the Sheriff up to?”

“He’s taken some men and he’s getting the kudzu and crap cleared on Mooney’s Bluff.”

Decamp frowned. “That might not be the best idea. There are things hidden there that the Blackbournes want to stay hidden.”

“Too late now. Carl’s already at it. We figure if the bluff isn’t available for whatever the Blackbourne’s have in mind for All Hallows, they won’t be able to carry out their plan.”

“Sound thinking,” said Decamp. “But the bluff isn’t the only place of power.”

“You destroyed the Blacktop Mountain site and Fort Mountain is a state park these days. Don’t see them going there. Where else can they go?”

Decamp said. “You’re probably right.”

Griffin got the distinct impression that Decamp didn’t believe that for a second.

*      *      *

“Good of you to come and see me, sweetheart,” Whit Gramling said.

In the harsh autumn light he looked every one of his 103 years to Charon. She said, “Hey we’re comrades now, Whit. We fought monsters together. I think that makes us honorary kin.”

“Damn straight. And we sent them packing. How’s Carter doing?”

“Griffin is upstairs helping him get ready to check out.”

“Seems a bit soon, but Carter always was bullheaded. Not calm and even tempered like me.”

“Yeah, that’s you all right. I meant to ask you, after what happened out at your cabin, do you always keep a hidden shotgun handy when you’re out on your porch?”

“Not always. Just around Halloween. Like I told you, the Moon-Eyes usually give my place a wide berth, but as All Hallows gets close, you can’t be sure. So I stay ready.”

“Well it’s a good thing. You saved our lives.”

“So did you, Charon.”

“Well, maybe a little. Have the doctors said anything about when you can go home?”

“They said I had a concussion and some cracked ribs. Wanted me to stay another day or so for observation.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to observe you,” Carter Decamp said from the door.

“They’re trying to figure out how I’ve lived so long. Told ’em it was pure meanness but I don’t think they believed me.”

Charon stood as Decamp and Griffin entered the room. Griffin slipped his arm around her waist and she leaned against him. She still couldn’t get used to the idea that the two of them were a couple. Not that she was complaining.

Whit raised a white eyebrow and said, “You two seem to be getting along better.”

“Shush,” said Charon.

Whit smiled. He turned to Decamp and said, “Charon says you’re blowing this joint. Sure that’s a good idea?”

“Not really, but I think the situation warrants it.”

“You figure the Moon-Eyes are still planning to make a move come tomorrow night?”

“No reason to think they’re not.”

“We’d better go,” Griffin said. “Glad you’re doing better, Whit.”

“You three watch yourselves. The Blackbournes are getting desperate I think. They’ve failed too many times in the past and that crew don’t like failing.”

“We’ll be careful,” Charon said. She knew no one else would say it.

Whit said, “One more thing, Carter. Charon told me what happened with Isaiah. Wasn’t your fault, son.”

Decamp nodded but didn’t say anything.

*      *      *

The ambulance dropped Carl and Andy off at the reception area. Technically both of them were just fine, but Carl promised that he’d have Andy checked inside because there were several minutes when the older man had blacked out and that wasn’t to be taken lightly. That said, they both entered under their own power.

It wasn’t coincidence when they ran into Wade and Charon. Carl had called in a progress report after finding his phone wedged against the dashboard. They agreed to meet at the hospital and take things from there. One look told him things were different between Wade and the girl at his side. He kept his opinions to himself. It wasn’t the right time to bring up personal matters.

Andy looked at the older man with their associates and nodded his head. “Decamp.”

The older man looked back and nodded his head. “Hunter.” He looked the professor over and Carl realized he was seeing the older man that had come to Charon’s rescue. “Doing well?”

Andy jerked a thumb at Carl. “This one thinks he can tell me what to do.”

“So listen to someone for a change of pace and get checked out.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” A moment later he passed Andy over to the care of Dr. Chalmers and picked up the keys he’d had McPherson drop off when the man came by to do follow up questions on the disappearance of Isaiah Blackbourne’s body. Disappearance, like they didn’t already know the facts. They were still contemplating exactly how to discuss the entire affair with the general public. For now it was a disappearance.

After he’d gathered the keys to his squad car, he was ready to go. Before then, however, the group gathered together for a quick discussion.

“Decamp here thinks clearing Mooney’s Bluff might be a mistake, Carl.”

Carl looked toward the older man and nodded his head. “Well, the Blackbournes surely didn’t appreciate it. I thought at first that they were retaliating for the raid, but I don’t think so. I think they were up there and waiting to defend the area.” He stared out at the parking lot for a moment. “It could have been a lot worse. At first I thought the bastards had taken out a couple of my deputies, but it turned out they were off getting lunch for themselves and the guys actually clearing the bluffs.”

“Have the bluffs been cleared?” Decamp’s voice was calm, but it was obvious the man was stressed and likely he was still in pain. He was also looking a bit on the haunted side. Griffin had already explained that part.

“Oh yes. Stripped bare of weeds and vines. And I’ll have the roads up to the bluff monitored by squad cars tonight and all of tomorrow.” Halloween was upon them. The next night was when everything was supposed to go down.

“There are other places where they could possibly perform their rituals.”

Carl nodded. “You got a list? Because all we’ve got for certain is that the bluffs are a place where the Moon-Eyes used to hang around. I was going to take Andy in there to see if he could figure anything out, but that didn’t work the way I’d planned.” He had the sore muscles to remind him.

“I’ll see if I can come up with anything.”

Carl nodded his head again, exhaustion sneaking in to bite at his thoughts.

“Wade, I think you and I need to be up there tomorrow night. I’ll have deputies all over the bluff after midnight tonight. I don’t know if this ritual is supposed to happen in the early morning hours or later tomorrow night, but technically Halloween starts pretty soon.”

“You’re safe for a few more hours, if history repeats itself.” Decamp spoke up again. “It was well after sunset on All Hallow’s Eve when I dealt with the problem before.”

“Good. Because I could use a little chance to rest, a chance to talk to my people and prepare them, and we could all use a chance to gather up whatever artillery we can, because I don’t think these folks are playing around anymore.” He shook his head. “They lobbed a damn truck at me.”

Charon looked at him without saying a word. He could see she wanted to say something, but held herself back. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know her well enough and maybe that was why she kept her peace. Whatever the case, he hoped it wasn’t something he’d said or done himself. He liked the woman and thought she was good for Wade. At least that was his first impression.

Wade nodded his head. “We can work out the details soon. You look like hell.”

“Thanks, I’m feeling it.”

“So go get rested up. We’ll get Decamp here back to his place and he can check his notes. Then we’ll take care of what has to be done.”

“Just be careful. The Blackbournes are seeming a bit on the seriously pissed off side.”

“Good. That means we’ve made them nervous. Nervous people make mistakes.”

Carl nodded. “They also tend to get trigger happy.”

Two minutes later he was alone. Another minute after that he was on the road and heading for home. The office would wait a bit longer. It had to. They could call him if they needed to, but his head was throbbing and his muscles were wracked with tension and if he didn’t get a little rest he’d be useless. It hadn’t always been that way. Maybe he was feeling depressed or maybe he was just feeling beat to hell, but it seemed bouncing back from this sort of crap had been easier when he was younger. Then again, Whit Gramling seemed as spry as could be and Carl was feeling hobbled, so maybe it was just him after all.

*      *      *

Carl lied.

He drove back up to the bluff, because sometimes curiosity is the worst type of seductress. Just ask any cat.

When he arrived the work had progressed very well, much to the annoyance of Neal Crawford, who liked having the kudzu growing up the side of the sharp incline. The man had come out and raged at the workers right up until the time that Perez explained the facts of life to him regarding who, exactly, owned the land. After that he kept his peace.

Carl made himself a promise that he’d try to smooth things over with the older man, but not just yet. He had bigger targets to take care of.

He was once again thankful for living in an era with decent batteries and decent flashlights when he pulled his hefty halogen flash from the squad car and walked to the mouth of the cave. Perez offered to come with him, but instead he suggested she might want to keep an eye on the road. No cars were to come anywhere near the caves or the access trail—he couldn’t really call it a road—that led to them until Halloween was over. It probably wouldn’t deter the Blackbournes, but it might at least slow them down.

There were multiple cave entrances into the side of the hill. Three of them were very obviously failed attempts to find a gold strike. None of those three went very deep into the side of the hill. The one that did was fifteen feet off the ground, because that wasn’t the least bit inconvenient, really. No more than, say, trying to intimidate Frank Blackbourne with a peashooter.

The climb was made easier by the fact that the guys working on clearing the area had a cherry picker and were willing to give him a boost.

Once inside the cave, Carl immediately wished he’d taken Perez up on her offer. The cave was not wide at the entrance, but it ran down a good ways and he moved carefully through the narrow passage, shaking his head and cursing himself as a fool with every step. Well lit or not, the damned thing was creepy. The ground was smoothed from who knew how many years of being tread on, and the walls in spots were almost as smooth. But after slipping some fifteen feet into the place it opened up substantially. The area was wide and deep and the walls were covered with a thick green moss that obscured most of the markings that had been carved into them. There were pictograms scraped into the surfaces, and the tales they told were lost by and large but there were enough images left to unsettle.

He pulled his smart phone out and took a few images, silently cursing the need to use his flashlight because the damned phone wasn’t quite new enough to come with a flash.

At the very center of the round room was a deep tunnel that ran straight down.

“Not a chance in hell. Thanks though.”

Carl left.

Enough was enough. He didn’t plan on spelunking his way down into whatever sort of place the Moon-Eyes might have down there. He wasn’t quite feeling suicidal.

Four minutes after he entered the cave he left again with the hairs on his neck and arms standing at full attention.

Two minutes after he left, the sound of rustling leaves whispered its way out of the hole in the ground.

*      *      *

Frank Blackbourne watched the men at the caves with surprising indifference. He had no concern over them. They could not hurt him. For the moment he was sated, his hunger faded down to a dull ache and his thoughts surprisingly calm.

He saw the sheriff and knew that they would be talking soon. The man either had his Meemaw’s charms or he knew where they were. But not here, and not now; he wanted to have time to show the man how little he liked him.

Besides, he could sense the change in the sky, the stars. The Way would be opening soon and then he would have all the power he would ever need.

Frank was an accident and he knew it. His thoughts were seldom complex since he came back from the grave, but he understood that he wasn’t supposed to exist. There was one other who demanded most of the energies that were generated by sacrifice. That one would be hunting for him. The name escaped him. He could sense the thing, but not the name. They were connected, of course. Once they had been close. They were family, after all.

No. Frank shook his head. He had new connections. He had new family who promised to help him if he would just do what was necessary.

So he would help. He would get what he needed to give Meemaw back her peace, and he would decide for himself what was important beyond that. The one who used to tell him what to do wasn’t going to have that sort of influence over him again.

Of course, he was avoiding seeing that one again, just in case.

She could be so very persuasive.

*      *      *

The Square was looking about as ready as it ever would. The vendors’ carts were all in place, the port-a-johns were situated—hopefully downwind after that incident a few years back—and the lights and electricity were all where they needed to be. The only thing missing was the crowds and they’d show up soon enough.

Jolene sat on her favorite swing and kicked her legs casually, swaying back and forth at a leisurely pace. Several of the local boys and men were looking and she enjoyed that fact, but currently she was on the prowl for more important fish.

There would be time to play later.

For now there was work to do.

Bodey Harper came her way casting a nervous eye around for any witnesses. He carried a small box, his arm straining under the weight.

Jolene smiled for him, that smile that she knew would make him both more nervous and excited.

“Hey, Mister Bodey.” Her voice was a light, breezy thing, and he looked her way and smoldered.

“What’re you doing here, Jolene?”

“Waiting for you.” She smiled.

“You shouldn’t be here. What if someone sees you?” Lordy, he looked so guilty and they hadn’t even done anything. It was the thought that they might do something together that had him acting the fool. He was a married man and with two boys only a few years younger than her, but as she’d learned a long time ago, men like Bodey wanted more than they had, no matter how much they already had.

“Mister Bodey, I’m here almost every day.” She looked around to make sure no one else was anywhere around—far more casually than the nervous wreck in front of her—and smiled. “Besides, how else am I gonna see you?”

Bodey Harper was a well off man. His family owned the drugstore, the hardware store and a couple of other little businesses in Wellman. He was not in charge of those businesses, but he would be one day. It was best to get to know him well and to keep him ready for bigger and better things. As it stood currently, her mother was already well known to a couple of the Harper men. She just hadn’t bothered with Bodey.

She let her fingers brush over his arm in a light caress and watched the man get flustered.

“I just wanted to see if you got those things I ordered in, Mister Bodey.” She smiled brightly.

“I did.” He nodded and set the box down. “They’re in there.”

“Ya’ll are too sweet, Mister Bodey.”

He blushed to the roots of his thinning hair and pulled his pants back up his waist. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he was definitely stocky and he tended to wear his pants low on his hips. That way he could pretend his waist was a few sizes smaller and could hope that his belly didn’t show too much. It did, but she wasn’t about to disillusion him.

“Will you be here tomorrow, Jolene?”

She smiled at him, and nodded slowly.

“I wouldn’t miss it, Mister Bodey. Will you be here, too?”

“Oh. Oh yes.”

“You gonna be in a costume?”

“Um. Yes I am.” He stuttered when he was nervous.

“Well, maybe I’ll just have to see if I can unmask you.” She looked a promise at him and he blushed again before turning back toward the hardware store he’d emerged from.

“I’ll see you then, Jolene.”

“Thanks again, Mister Bodey.” She smiled as he left and then slipped from her swing and picked up the box and inspected the contents.

500 nails, each ten inches in length. That should be plenty and to spare.

Jolene smiled as she took her package with her.

Mother would be pleased.

*      *      *

“Whew,” said Carter Decamp as he dropped into his desk chair.

“How’s the leg?” said Griffin. Decamp had barely managed to limp up the stairs and into his house.

“Hurts like hell to tell you the truth,” said Decamp.

“Can we get you anything?” said Charon.

“Thanks my dear, but no. They gave me plenty of painkillers when I left the hospital. I’ll take some in a bit, but I want my head clear for the moment. Pain is excellent for that.”

The man had a point. Griffin again found himself wondering about Carter Decamp. What was the deal with this guy? He had all these weapons and he seemed to know how to use them. And though Griffin hadn’t said anything at the time, he had noticed while Decamp was getting dressed at the hospital that the man had a lot of scars. Maybe as many as Griffin had himself, and that was saying something.

Decamp leaned back on his chair and looked around his study. “There is something you can do for me, Charon. Would you mind gathering a few books? At the moment I’m loathe to get out of this chair.”

“Not at all. I’ve been dying to look over your collection.”

“Excellent. Would you get Spence’s Encyclopedia of Occultism please, from the big shelf there near the door, and Glanvill’s Saducimus Triumphatus should be there too. Oh, and Wonders of the Invisible World. That should be on the shelf behind Griffin.”

“That’s the Cotton Mather book?” said Charon.

“It is.”

“Isn’t that mostly about witches?”

“Yes, but there’s a passage in there about ground dwelling imps I wanted a look at.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Charon said. “Carter, you have a copy of Malleus Maleficarum. Is this an actual 1487 edition?”

“Yes, it was a gift from my friend Adam. I need one more volume, please. That big book with the blue binding on the shelf under the window.”

Charon retrieved the book. “This looks like a journal.”

“A bound manuscript. A book on demons written by a doctor named Trowbridge. He later decided it was best left unpublished. Anyway, this should do me for now.”

“Why the sudden interest in demons and witches?” Charon asked.

“Not sudden,” Decamp said. “All of this is connected. It looks like the Moon-Eyes are trying to open the path again, but there’s a different wrinkle this time. You and your friend Carl were right about the places of power. The othersiders have to have one, be they Blackbourne or the old pale ones. They can’t open the path without a place to focus their power. And yet, we know of all the main places where the Moon-Eyed people have been seen for the last few centuries. The bluff near Wellman would seem the only viable spot near here, but the Blackbournes seemed to only be offering token resistance to the authorities’ attempts to close it off.”

“They dropped a truck on Carl,” Griffin said. “Hardly token.”

Decamp gave a short laugh. “All the things you’ve seen, Griffin. The pale ones. The thing in your door. Isaiah Blackbourne returning from the dead. Those are nothing compared to the power these beings can bring to bear if they want. No, something is different this time. There’s something we’re missing. I’ve got to read through the old legends and see if I can figure out what it is. No point in you two hanging around. I’ve got hours of reading to do.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Charon asked.

Decamp looked up from his books. “Not to belabor a point, but here in my home I’m much safer than you two will be out there.”

“Now that you mention it,” Griffin said. “Maybe you should stay here tomorrow, Charon. I’m going up on the bluff with Carl tomorrow night, and I’d feel a lot better knowing you were safe. I know you can take care of yourself, but with Isaiah loose, this is probably the one place he can’t get in.”

“Griffin’s right,” Decamp said. “Much as I’d like to go to the bluff myself, my leg has sidelined me. It might be best if you stayed here too, Charon. I’ve got plenty of room.”

“I’m not crazy enough to insist I go with you guys,” Charon said. “An action hero I’m not. But I hate to impose, Carter.”

Decamp grinned. “Don’t be silly. You can help me with my research here. You’re certainly knowledgeable enough.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“How are you at making coffee?”

“Let’s go with passable.”

“We’ll start there then,” said Decamp.

*      *      *

Arcudi and Dillon stared at the wall of caves and sighed. So far their shift had been about as exciting as watching cement dry and about as productive. Dale Arcudi was not exactly into the whole notion of high adventure, but a little something to change the pace would be nice. They’d spent most of the late night and a good portion of the early morning trying to keep themselves from going stir crazy and if he had to hear one more of Nick Dillon’s tales of wanton women he was very likely going to take up Russian Roulette as a new hobby. Seeing as he carried a pistol and not a revolver, it would be a very short time playing the game.

Nick stretched and sighed and walked a circuit around the squad car. Here it came. “I ever tell you about the time Brenda McMillian and me were gonna go camping up this way?”

“If this story involved you and Brenda bumping uglies you can just stop now.” Dale shook his head. “I know Brenda and I dated her sister and I’m betting you never once got your hand up her skirt.”

Nick sniffed. “As a matter of fact, she was wearing hiking shorts that day.”

“You assholes need to shut up! I’m trying to sleep. It’s a big night and I need to rest.” No cars had come up the road. No motorcycles, no nothing. The only people around for at least a quarter mile should have been the Crawford man and his maid and neither of them sounded quite that crass. Dale put his hand on the butt of his pistol and turned to face the source of the rude voice, doing his best to hide the fact that he was unsettled by the unexpected words.

He stared Frank Blackbourne square in the chest. He had never seen Frank Bradbourne, but the man matched the description the sheriff had put out. The man was huge, maybe even bigger than Carl Price had said he was and while he didn’t normally work closely with the sheriff, he didn’t seem the type to exaggerate. Six-nine, six-ten even. And broad as a barn.

Arcudi called over his shoulder. “Back up. Now.” He wasn’t telling his partner to back away; he was telling him to call for back up while he distracted the extremely unpleasant man in front of them.

“On it.” Nick broke the rules. The sheriff preferred phone calls but there were always exceptions. Frank Blackbourne was supposed to be considered an exception.

While Dillon made the report Arcudi held out a hand. “You need to stop right there. This area is currently off limits.”

“Ain’t off limits. I’m here ain’t I?” The man’s skin looked angry and bruised, as if he’d been beat senseless a few times. The expression on his face said that if he had been knocked around, all it did was annoy him. That wasn’t exactly a comforting notion.

“Stand down, mister!”

“I said y’all need to shut up and I meant it!” The bruiser took another step forward and Dale drew his weapon. No way in hell was he letting the man grab him. He’d seen the damage done at the offices.

“One more step and I’ll shoot you in your ugly damned face.”

Frank Blackbourne lunged forward and swatted at him. Dale ducked and slipped to the side. He was not the biggest man in the department, but he was very fast and he was good at dealing with unruly types. Despite his threats, Dale also believed in using non-lethal force. You couldn’t take back a kill shot.

When Blackbourne’s arm was right around where Dale had been a second before, he stepped in closer and drove his fist into the man’s stomach. Dale’s fist pounded into Blackbourne’s solar plexus and the brute grunted. Good, that was good. That should take the wind out of his sails.

Apparently no one explained the rules to Blackbourne. He moved forward and rammed into Dale with his considerable mass. Arcudi was lifted off the ground and hurled a good fifteen feet before he bounced across the asphalt. He wasn’t hurt nearly as much as he was shocked by the sheer strength of his opponent.

Nick wasn’t as shocked. Nick was also, despite being the junior member of the team, a good deal larger. Nick played football the way some kids played video games, which is to say often and very well. He moved toward Frank Blackbourne and came in low, catching the man at knee level and staggering him. Blackbourne stumbled a bit, but he did not fall. Instead he brought his knee up into Nick’s face and roared incoherently, his face reddening and his eyes rolling wildly. His knee caught Nick dead on.

Nick’s face shattered in the impact. That was the only way to put it. Nick’s head snapped back and much as Dale wished it were an illusion, the shape of Nick’s familiar features was completely wrong as he rolled away from the impact. Nick dropped to the ground and twitched uncontrollably. And Dale?

Dale Arcudi drew his Glock and fired again and again. Each bullet hit his target, and Frank Blackbourne stared bloody murder at Dale with each impact. What he should have done was he should have fallen on his ass and bled out. He maybe should have even screamed a time or two and possibly let out a few rude bodily noises—like the ones that were coming from Nick, but best not to think about that—what he should not have ever done, or even seriously considered, was walking into the bullets and snarling.

Wounds opened in Blackbourne’s chest and leg and face, each spot where a bullet hit clear to see. The man moved into the impacts and grew, swelling unevenly as he staggered forward. His left leg exploded, the leg of the jeans he was sporting split with a loud bark and revealed skin that was pale and mottled with darker colors, hairy enough to look like it belonged on an animal and continuing to swell and bloat even as Frank Blackbourne stepped forward again. The old boot on his foot blew out. And then the man’s stomach expanded. It should have maybe looked comical, because his stomach sort of slopped over the side of the pants that were now far too snug, but the skin that came out was wrong. It was wrinkled and gray and looked almost like an elephant’s hide. Only with other things buried in the mass. There were eyes looking from that fold of flesh, and a dark, angry slash of a wound that was filled with uneven teeth and gums that were almost black. The tongue that lapped out for a moment was too much and Dale pulled the trigger a few more times, but he didn’t bother to aim. He as too busy looking at the mouth of the thing coming his way.

Damned if it wasn’t talking.

“You need to shut yer hole, boy. Youuu need to learn how to listen when I’m speaking to you before I start losing my temper. You’re making me feel a mite like whooping yer ass!”

“You fucking kidding me?” he was speaking. He hadn’t meant to, but the words came out.

Sirens. They were coming up the road at a hard pace, the lights and sirens screaming and that was good because Frank looked away from him for a moment and Dale remembered that he had extra clips.

His hands were shaky and his left eye was twitching, but he did it. He ejected the spent clip and fumbled the new on in place while the thing that had been Frank Blackbourne looked toward the road up above.

He was getting bigger. Not taller really so much as broader and messier. The rest of him was swelling and the discoloration was continuing. Frank’s chest had expanded and the rest of the—did he dare call it a face—on the man’s torso was revealed. A collection of eyes that looked malformed and watery, that slash of a mouth that was too damned big. By all rights whatever internal organs Frank had should have been spilling from inside of his body in a wave. Instead that damned hole was still jabbering away, going on and on about the noisy car and the need to sleep before tonight.

Dale aimed at the eyes on the warped face and shot four times. Four holes, two of them actually taking out eyes, and just like that, he had Blackbourne’s undivided attention. Black blood and some sort of thick yellow substance spilled from the blown out eye sockets. Blackbourne’s real face, the one above his thickening shoulders, turned to look at Dale and he roared again, even as his entire face swelled and reddened.

The hands that reached for him looked as big around as car tires. They also had thick fingers with rough nails that caught Arcudi’s arms and held them easily.

Dale kicked out with all he could manage. It wasn’t strategy; it was panic. He hauled his feet back and up and smashed them into the vile face on the nightmare’s stomach, screaming like a teakettle the entire time, because, damn he was scared. One foot up, the other down, repeat as necessary and wish to hell that he was getting anywhere at all.

The feet slammed into flesh that felt hard and looked flabby and scabrous and smelled like something had died in there and Dale took in a deep breath so he could scream some more.

And then he tried pulling back his left leg only to find that it ended just below the knee. That fast the thing he was kicking bit down and tore away his leg. The pain was beyond massive and Dale’s mind decided the best way to handle the sudden change was to shut down.

That was a mercy.

*      *      *

The second squad car pulled up just exactly at the same time that Frank Blackbourne physically ripped Dale Arcudi in half. Kyle Hudson, in the passenger’s seat, watched it happened and let loose with a scream worthy of the very best voice actors in Hollywood. If they’d lived through the situation, it’s even possible that his partner, Alan Willingham, might have told people that for one moment there Kyle drowned out the sound of the sirens and that would have been the truth.

Instead Frank decided he’d had enough of the noises and climbed the semi-sheer face of the stone wall that held the caves and attacked the noisy vehicle. Hudson and Willingham were both screaming when Blackbourne came over the side of the cliff’s surface and grabbed the car. He braced himself with both legs and lifted the car over his head before he hurled it over the side.

The car’s sirens lasted a few moments longer than the men’s screams.

*      *      *

Deputy Bradley Reid was reasonably sure the hole hadn’t been there when he had passed the same spot a mere fifteen minutes earlier. Couldn’t have been, really, because it was actually in the middle of the old dirt path that the county called Ruskin Road. Not that it was much of a road. Sheriff Price had wanted every possible route that led up to the top on Mooney’s Bluff covered, and as a result Reid’s Captain had assigned him to watch this overblown cow path.

And now there was the hole. It was maybe three feet in diameter and there was a big ring of dirt thrown up around it. What the hell could have made a hole that size in the time it had taken Reid to walk down to his cruiser and back? Perhaps, Reid thought, I should call for backup. Oh yeah, that would go over big time. Need someone to come down and help you watch that hole, Bradley? Maybe keep it covered while you have a look? He would never live that one down. The other deputies would be making hole jokes for years and there were a lot of possibilities for jokes with the word hole in them.

Bradley sighed and unhooked his flashlight from his belt as he walked toward the hole. It wasn’t long until dark and the shadows were already deep on this side of the bluff. Reid examined the ground around the pit as he approached. No signs of footprints or other markings. What did that mean? No one could have dug a hole like that without leaving a trace. Maybe it was some sort of natural phenomena. A sinkhole of some sort. If the ground had collapsed, that would explain how the hole had appeared so quickly. But what about the ring of dirt? It looked almost as if the hole had been dug from below. Giant gophers maybe? Yeah. Right.

Reid stepped up to the edge of the hole and shone his light down into the darkness. Damn, the thing was deep. It looked like it might branch off to one side too. A tunnel? Was whoever they were supposed to be keeping off the bluff trying to dig their way in? As Reid was speculating, a bone white face appeared out of the tunnel and looked up at him. Reid was so startled that he lost his footing trying to scramble away and fell at the lip of the hole.

He landed on his back and immediately flipped over, trying to get to his feet. Something caught hold of his ankle and Reid uttered an involuntary shriek. His brief glimpse of the white face had shown him something that he had no desire to get a closer look at, but still he twisted, staring wide eyed toward his feet. The thing he had seen had its upper torso out of the hole and was gripping Reid’s foot with powerful fingers that ended in claws. It was looking at Reid with two wide, round eyes, which seemed to glow with an unwholesome inner light. Reid shrieked a second time and the thing smiled at him, opening its mouth far too wide and showing far too many sharp yellow teeth.

As Reid fumbled with the flap on his holster a second of the creatures lifted its upper body out of the hole and grasped Reid’s other leg. Together the two pale things began dragging Reid into the hole. Reid was screaming nonstop now, still trying to get his gun clear. One of the two creatures opened its crescent moon mouth wide and bit down on Reid’s calf, tearing a huge bloody chunk of flesh and muscle away. Reid felt bile coming up, burning a throat already raw from screaming.

With a few more quick jerks, the white skinned horrors pulled Reid over the edge of the hole, biting and clawing at him as he fell. After that, Reid’s screams were muffled and short lived.

*      *      *

Late afternoon on October 31st and Griffin was alone. Charon had left a little earlier for Carter Decamp’s place. Griffin was surprised by how empty his house felt without her. Not the same sort of emptiness the place had had before though. Now it was an expectant emptiness, because she would be back. Griffin hoped he was doing the right thing. He still had concerns, but then, who ever had guarantees where love was concerned? Was he in love? It had been so long since he’d felt that particular emotion he wasn’t completely sure. He thought he was. That would do for now.

Anyway, enough of those sorts of thoughts. Time to clamp down on all emotions except one. Anger. Time to think about Jerry Wallace and the other victims of the othersiders. What Griffin needed now was a cold rage. Not the sort of anger that made people reckless, but the kind that gave them a singleness of purpose. Given his nature, it didn’t take much to achieve that.

Griffin left the living room and went downstairs to the basement. Here he crossed to the far corner where pegboards had once held his tools and lawn care equipment. Some of it was still there, but he had taken what he wanted to the apartment and given much of it away when he had left the house. He hadn’t thought he would be coming back. Not to stay. But he still used the place for storage of certain things.

Griffin reached behind the pegboard and turned a hidden latch. The pegboard swung away, revealing a recess set into the wall. Here Griffin kept a few weapons that were too big or too dangerous for an apartment. He lifted out a Mossberg semi-auto shotgun, and then stood for a minute, looking at the weapons rack. Did he want a claymore? No. He decided on a couple of fragmentation grenades. Hell, Decamp had made good use of one. For a moment he considered an Uzi, but decided against it. He tended to stay away from machine guns for the most part. They weren’t much use in the kind of covert operations he generally took part in. If he needed that kind of firepower it meant that he had done something wrong to begin with.

Griffin put the shotgun and the grenades into a big canvas bag and threw in a Gerber hunting knife. He would add the .357 and a bunch of ammo and shotgun shells when he got upstairs. That reminded him that he needed to call Carl and tell him to bring something that would chamber .38 rounds. Decamp had provided plenty of the special bullets. For a moment, Griffin wondered where Decamp was getting that much ammo. Then he decided it was better not to know. Everybody had secrets. Lord knew he had enough of his own.

*      *      *

Carl pulled up at Wade’s place around the same time everything started going to hell. The report about Frank Blackbourne made the radio even as Wade was heading for the car.

“We have to go! Shit just hit the fan.”

Wade didn’t question. Instead he nodded and held out a very large canvas bag. “Pop the trunk.”

Carl nodded and felt the weight of the vehicle shift when Wade set down his package. The truck was riding a bit lower right now. Between the two of them they had enough ordnance to level half of Wellman.

Wade climbed in on the passenger’s side a moment later, looking as awkward about being on that side of the car as Carl usually felt when someone else was driving. This was easier, frankly. They needed to talk and they needed to decide what the hell they were going to do when they got where they were going. Assuming Frank was still there and kicking, they would need a plan. Assuming that he was gone—far more likely as they were a ways off—they needed to decide how they were handling the whole situation. There was some doubt that the caves were the right place to be, but after having been inside the caves, Carl remained uncertain. It sure as hell felt like there was still something in there, down in that damned well at the center of the cave.

The sirens went on and the flashers, too. The radio was chattering constantly, letting him know that the situation wasn’t looking great at Mooney’s Bluff.

*      *      *

The busses pulled into the parking lot of the diner amid the hiss of air brakes and the rumble of diesel engines.

From across the square—half hidden by the decorations and the growing crowd of people—Jolene looked at them and smiled.

“Oh, does it get better than that? Seriously?” She looked at her cousin Lorne and smiled.

Lorne didn’t smile back. He seldom smiled and when he did, most wise people ran for the hills.

“I thought there was only one.”

“Me too, but isn’t this even better?” She frowned.

“Be better if I had someone else to drive the second bus.”

“You always look at the negative, don’t you?”

“Busses don’t drive themselves, child. And half the family is locked away.”

Jolene pulled out her cell phone and looked at the time. “Not for much longer.”

Lorne shook his head. “Let me see if Parson is available.” Without asking he took Jolene’s phone and dialed. She didn’t argue with him. She just wasn’t that foolish.

“You take care of that.” She smiled and stood up. “I’ll go say hello to Vince.” When she walked the sway in her hips was more pronounced than usual. Not exaggerated so much as more obvious. She was on the prowl.

Vince Cleburne stood outside of his bus as his passengers disembarked, and he smiled when he saw Jolene. He always smiled when he saw her. It was kind of cute. He was not at all cute, but his expression almost made up for it.

“Look at you, darlin’.” His voice was a drawl and he took his time drinking her in. Because it was Halloween, Jolene had dressed herself up as a witch, complete with pointy hat and a very short black dress. To help with her modesty there were fishnet stockings and high heeled black boots that she had liberated from her mother’s closet. Siobhan would be far too busy to notice that they were missing.

One meaty arm wrapped around her shoulders and Jolene put on her best smile. She was good at smiling. She had to be.

“You like it? I got it just for you.” She poked him in the chest with one black lacquered nail, and let that single digit trail halfway down his stomach. The man practically drooled.

“Jesus, that’s enough to make me feel a little sick.” The voice came from behind Vince and Jolene had the good sense to step back before Lorne reached forward. Lorne’s hand slid through the driver’s back like it was passing into water. Vince jerked, his mouth stretched in an expression of exquisite pain.

Lorne was especially good at murder. He was actually in town as a favor to Jolene, because she needed someone who could drive the bus, but he was very good at other things, too. His pale white hand came out of Vince’s back covered in a thick stream of red. Without a moment’s consideration, he started licking the blood away like a cat cleaning his paw.

“I was gonna play with him.” Jolene pouted and stomped her foot.

Lorne looked at her in the semi-darkness, his eyes glowing against his pale skin. “He stinks. Besides, we’re on a schedule.”

“Did you get Parson?” As soon as she realized pouting wasn’t going to get her anywhere, Jolene turned off the attempt and shook her head.

“He’s coming. He’ll be here in five minutes.”

“That gives us about ten minutes to handle the other driver.” Jolene looked toward the diner. She didn’t know the other man at all. He was probably reassigned just for the overflow.

Two busses. Her mother would be so pleased.

Maybe that would make up for the fact that she stole the boots.

Jolene spotted a couple of men she’d never seen before. They were pretty and they looked to have money. “You need me for anything else or have you got this?”

Lorne looked her way. “What? You’re not coming along?”

She gave him a look that said she’d just smelled something nasty. “No. Momma won’t let me. Says I’ll just cause trouble.”

Lorne smiled and revealed a mouthful of teeth that looked capable of chewing through bone. “You? Where would she get that notion?”

She gave him a one finger salute and headed for the strangers. They were both looking around for some trouble to get into. She knew the type very well. The good news for them was that she wanted to get into a little trouble, too.

The maybe not as good news? She was very, very good at getting into trouble.

By the time she’d introduced herself to the two men and convinced them that they had, in fact, introduced themselves to her, Lorne and Parson were climbing aboard the busses.

She was glad she got to miss Parson. He was a creepy bastard at the best of times.

*      *      *

Griffin had seen some carnage in his time. More than most people. As a result he didn’t feel queasy, as many would have, when confronted with the separated upper and lower halves of one of Carl’s deputies. He felt regret, yes, and amazement at the sheer strength of whoever had done this.

Carl was a different story. These were his men. His face, already haggard, had taken on a kind of grim determination. He knelt by a second body. This one seemed to have had his skull shattered from the front. There was little now left that resembled a human face. Carl looked up at Griffin and said, “This stops now, Wade. Whatever it takes.”

“Agreed. You figure it was Frank Blackbourne who did this?”

“Had to be. I’ve never seen anyone that strong.”

Griffin’s next remark was cut off by the arrival of two cruisers and an ambulance. A young deputy with curly brown hair approached the bodies and promptly turned and threw up in the bushes.

Carl said. “You men help the paramedics get these bodies back to town. And show some respect, damn it. These were brother officers.”

The kid who had lost his lunch looked ashamed as well as green, and he hurried to help the other officers. Griffin said, “Frank appears to be gone, but let’s be sure. He could have gone into the caves.”

“Don’t know that he’d fit,” Carl said, “And I doubt that makeshift ladder the boys rigged would hold him. Still, better have a look.”

Griffin began to attach a flashlight to the top of the Mossberg. “You got those shells I gave you loaded?”

Carl hefted his own shotgun, a Beretta gas operated semi-auto. “Yeah and the .38s are in my sidearm. What’s in them?”

“Stuff that kills monsters. At least the ones that are in our dimension.”

“Works for me.” Carl looked back at his men. He said, “No one follows us in. You get the bodies together and get out of here. And if a guy about the size of a beer truck shows up, you do not engage him. Do not. Get the hell away from him. Is that clear?

There was a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ and Carl nodded. “Good.” He snapped a flashlight onto his shotgun and disengaged the safety. “Let’s get going.”

Without another word, Griffin went up the shaky ladder. It looked like it had once belonged to the Wellman Fire Dept. He reached the top, ducked his head, and stepped into the cave mouth. Carl was right behind him. Griffin thumbed the flashlight on and held the shotgun at the ready. Beside him Carl was also in target acquisition stance. It was strangely like the days when they were cops together, and though it had been years since they had been partners, they fell into their usual positions as if they had just cleared a crack house together days ago.

The tunnel was low and just wide enough that two men could walk side by side. Griffin saw a side tunnel branching off ahead. He nodded at Carl, then shone his light down the tunnel, keeping his body clear of the opening. He thought he caught some movement way down the tunnel, but a moment later it was gone. They passed the tunnel and moved deeper into the main shaft.

“Doesn’t look like Frank’s been this way,” Griffin said.

“No,” said Carl, “But the tunnel widens out into a big chamber and he could be in there. Watch yourself. There’s a big hole in the middle of the floor.”

Griffin stepped into the wide chamber and turned his light on the floor. He said, “This looks like the hole I found inside the Blackbourne house. There’s a draft blowing up out of it, which means it leads somewhere.”

“Looks pretty deep,’ said Carl.

“Yeah, I can see bottom but it’s too far to jump. If we want to check it out, we’ll have to come back with some climbing gear.”

Carl said, “Back to the entrance then. Once we’re out, I’ll call dispatch and see if there’s been any further sign of Frank.”

As they moved back up the tunnel, Griffin said, “Can you believe we went to school with some of this family? Were they always this weird?”

“Some of them. Others were no stranger than anyone else. At least not that I could tell. The men always seemed to be more odd than the women.”

“Yeah, my uncle Paul used to go on about some Blackbourne girl he knew in school.”

Looking back, Griffin could forgive himself for becoming distracted. He and Carl had more or less cleared the tunnel on the way in. But in the casual conversation with an old friend, Griffin had forgotten the movement he thought he had seen down the side tunnel, so when 300 or so pounds of dead white flesh came hurtling out of that tunnel he was caught flatfooted. A fist the size of a gallon jug slammed into him, sending him flying. The shotgun clattered away.

Carl raised his own shotgun, but the pale one slapped the barrel upward and the charge went into the ceiling, bringing a rain of rocks and dust. The pale one locked one giant hand around Carl’s gun and ripped it away. In the light from the dropped gun, Griffin got a good look at their attacker. Unlike most of the pale folk he had seen so far, who were gaunt to the point of emaciation, this one was wide and thick, with massive shoulders and huge arms. One of those arms was about half again as long as the other.

His skull was misshapen, so that he seemed to have very little cranium above his eyes, giving him the look of a Neanderthal returned from the past. A giant, white Neanderthal with mottled skin and eyes that glowed like foxfire. Like all the others Griffin had met, he smelled like he had been dead for a couple of weeks.

Carl shoulder-rushed the pale one, gaining enough room to throw a decent punch to the thing’s jaw. The Moon-Eye staggered back and Carl hit him in the gut. The Moon-Eye grunted and backhanded Carl, knocking him off his feet. Griffin was up and he reached the two just as the pale one was trying to stomp Carl’s head. Griffin shuffled in and slammed his elbow into the thing’s head, knocking it away from Carl.

The Moon-Eye swung its longer arm, fingers extended, claw-like nails raking for Griffin’s eyes. Griffin rolled his shoulder up, taking the blow there, then he lunged in with a low, straight kick to the Moon-Eye’s knee. There was a loud, snapping sound and Griffin felt the shock run up his leg as the pale one’s massive knee popped out of joint. The thing fell, but it wasn’t done. Howling, it lurched forward, grabbing at Griffin and trying to pull him down. Just then, Carl stepped up, put his .38 against the pale one’s temple and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space.

“Freeze,” said Carl to the dead Moon-Eye, “This is the police.”

*      *      *

“You know, Wade,” Carl said. “I’m getting a little tired of being used as a punching bag.”

“We got caught off guard. We have to do better or we won’t make it through this.” He could still feel the adrenaline high from the fight and from getting a good look at the thing that had attacked them. It had been even less human looking than he had originally thought. Its longer arm seemed to have two elbow joints and its hips had been oddly wide as well. Decamp had told him that the original Moon-Eyes, the ones left from the old days, were primarily humanoid in shape. But the others he and Carl had run into seemed to be mutations of some sort. Were they closer to the actual inhabitants of the other side, whatever the hell that was?

The two men were sitting on the tailgate of Carl’s truck, still in sight of the cave. They had taken the time to make a full sweep of the side tunnel after the Moon-Eye’s attack, but it was a dead end and there were no other signs of pale folk or anyone else. Still, they had decided it best to wait outside the cave, and they had pulled the ladder away for good measure.

Griffin checked his watch. It was a little before seven in the evening. “Be dark soon.”

Carl said, “Yep and things seem to have calmed down, at least here on the bluff. I haven’t heard anyone screaming in a while, anyway.”

Griffin ignored his friend’s grim jest. “Yeah, well sundown means it’s for sure All Hallow’s Eve.”

“Thought your buddy Decamp said we probably had until the late night.”

“He did, but he did say probably. He also mentioned that something seems to be different this time with the othersider’s plans. As usual I got the feeling he knew something he wasn’t telling me”

Carl said, “Seems to be his pattern. I don’t know what else we can do. We can try and keep them from using the bluff for their ceremony, but that doesn’t guarantee they don’t have an alternate location. No word from Decamp on that, I guess?”

Griffin shook his head. “Checked my phone once we were out of the cave. No calls.”

“Well, I got close to a hundred men spread out between the Hollow and this spot. If anything gets past them they still have to get past you and me.”

“Comforting thought.”

“Isn’t it just.”

*      *      *

Crawford’s Hollow was a desolate place that day as the sun set. Not desolate in location, but desolate in feeling. The locals were still recovering from the massive number of the arrests that had taken place and while there were a good number of deserved incarcerations, a few people might have protested that they’d done little or nothing wrong—the law is sometimes gray for people, especially when they find themselves on the wrong side of it.

Those that could posted bail. In Crawford’s Hollow, where the average income was south of impoverished and slightly north of financially destitute, that wasn’t very many. By and large the people who lived in the Hollow weren’t there by choice, the sole exception being most of the Blackbournes.

Sometimes when you least expect it, the status quo changes.

Leonard Wilson sat on his front porch and listened to the 50 Songs To Give You Chills CD that he’s picked up at the Walmart down on 41, tapping his foot to old, familiar tunes that had been bastardized by a group called The New Studio Oryginals. The vocals were horrid but the beat was normally right, so he made the most of it. Leonard liked Halloween. He’d always liked Halloween and he liked a good scare. Mostly he loved seeing the tykes come up in their costumes and giving them a little something to smile about. Life in the Hollow was sort of sucky most times and there weren’t exactly any playgrounds for the kids, but they liked to come around at Halloween and he liked to give the candy and see them on their way. He was old and retired. He was allowed a few pleasures.

Seven kids came before the sun went down. He complimented them on their costumes after slipping his dentures back in, because before that they could barely understand him. They were good kids and to the last they said “thank you,” and a couple of them even called him by his name. That was more than he expected, as he tended to keep to himself.

When the first group of older kids showed up, he didn’t think anything about it first except to notice that their costumes were rather similar and decidedly creepy. They came up the long dirt path leading to his house with their ghostly white skin shining in the gathering darkness. Ghosts. Ghosts were always popular disguises, but these were impressive. They had mobile faces and thin, wispy hair that trailed down their elongated skulls. Their arms were long and their legs were bowed and they moved in a way that almost hurt his eyes, like they were both walking smoothly forward and shivering at the same time.

One of the kids opened her mouth—he could tell it was a her by the surprisingly full breasts on the costume, they were barely hidden by the long hair falling across the shoulders and down the chest—and instead of calling out “trick or treat,” a sound like dried leaves blasting in a hard wind came from her mouth.

Leonard suppressed a shiver and then smiled. “I ain’t seen whatever movie those costumes are from, but they’re downright scary.” He was properly impressed and meant the words. All three of the kids looked at him—if he’d had to guess they were around twelve to maybe fourteen years old by their height—and their eyes flared with silvery light in the darkness.

Leonard grinned again as they came closer, marveling at the tricks the costume companies came up with every year. He could still remember the first time he saw glo-sticks and how he thought they’d never top that one.

Then they moved closer, charging forward in a loping stride that let him realize how low to the ground their hips actually were.

Leonard had exactly enough time to realize that they weren’t wearing costumes before they were on him. Those long arms were incredibly strong and the fists at the ends of them beat him to unconsciousness in a matter of moments.

He had exactly enough time to wonder if this was how he was going to die before they took him down.

*      *      *

Take a left on Main Street and it becomes Scufflegrit Street and heads into the higher grounds leading to Mooney’s Bluff before it ends. Take a right and it stays Main Street a lot longer before breaking into Centennial Avenue—which in turn leads to Gatesville—Cemetery road, which leads to, surprise, the largest cemetery in Brennert County, and finally state road 221 which breaks down further into multiple unnamed dirt paths. One of those that veers hard to the right and downward, spirals lazily into the Hollow. No one on the two busses knew that the path they should have been on was on the left of the Wellman Town Square. Even if they had known they probably wouldn’t have paid much attention. The roads were already getting dark and all any of them was really interested in was getting to the casino to have a good time.

Had anyone asked Lorne Blackbourne, he might well have told them he was taking a short cut.

Had anyone even considered asking Parson—no one was quite that brave—he’d likely have simply ignored the question. And if that didn’t work, he wasn’t above breaking a few skulls.

The path into Crawford’s Hollow was a winding nightmare. Mostly the people on the busses were too damned busy trying not to get thrown from their seats to bother with any questions.

That’s okay. They wouldn’t have liked the answers.

*      *      *

Leonard woke up in a dark place, his arms held in place by hands that felt both cold and oddly feverish. He opened his eyes and looked toward a sky that made no sense, with stars that seemed as out of place as he was feeling and he let out a soft moan before he could stop himself. The white people were back, surrounding him, their skin almost iridescent in the starlight. He might have complained, but the woman who looked his way took his breath away.

Sixty-four years of age didn’t mean that Leonard didn’t get desires and urges, but a lot of the time his body did not respond as quickly as his mind did. One look at Siobhan Blackbourne had the same impact as it had the first time he’d met her, back when he was fifteen. She was just as beautiful, just as desirable now as she had been back then.

The woman smiled at him and, by God, his body woke right on up, and he felt himself get harder than he had in years. She was a gorgeous woman. She made no sense, of course, because she should have been positively decrepit, but she was gorgeous.

“Is that really you, Siobhan?”

“Of course it’s me, Leonard. I haven’t seen you in a very long time.” Her voice was the same too, soft and sultry and full of the same promises her body and her face offered. Remembering the times they’d spent together in the past, he found himself wanting that again. A hundred times over if he could. He’d always been afraid after they’d been together because, well, he’d sort of forced the issue when she’d teased him into a frenzy. He’d always half expected the police to come pounding at his door.

He looked past her for a moment and studied the unfamiliar stars. “Where are we?”

“We’re in a special place, Leonard.” Her hand moved across his chest, long fingers teasing sensually along his narrow ribcage, and he realized with a start that he was naked. He should have been shivering his fool head off in the cold, but the air was warm enough and the breeze carried a hint of salt water. He was about to protest being in his birthday suit when she hand moved lower, sliding to his—

“Oh, Lord, Siobhan. That feels good.” He could barely speak above a whisper the sensation was so unexpected.

She smiled and her hand moved and pleasure ran into his body. And a second later her other hand moved up and then down in a savage stroke. And the thick metal nail rammed though his testicles and pinned him in place with a lance of pain that left him speechless, unable to scream or to breathe.

“I always liked you, Leonard.”

Leonard had a lot of time to contemplate the ghastly things that had taken him from his home—the same things that held him in place as he thrashed and howled his pain to the uncaring stars above—and to consider how he’d wondered if they were beating him to death when they took him.

Long before Siobhan was done with him, he wished he’d been that lucky.

*      *      *

The sun had set on Wellman and on Brennert County alike. And as the last rays faded and the ghosts and ghouls came out to knock on doors and beg tithings of candy, the largest breakout in the history of Brennert County, Georgia or maybe even the entire United States took place.

Over one hundred people were arrested in the raid on Crawford’s Hollow. Remarkably few of the locals from that area could afford to post bond, but that was okay. Most of them were merely biding their time as they’d been told to.

Jeff Brady was not a member of the Blackbourne clan, though he’d hung out with a few of them in his time and had gotten himself into trouble on four separate occasions while trying desperately to get into Jolene Blackbourne’s pants. Somehow every time he tried, it ended up with him getting into a fistfight instead of past her panties. He was still trying to figure that one out. Some people claimed, not incorrectly, that Jeff didn’t think with the head between his shoulders, but the one between his legs.

Just the same, Jeff had been carrying a .22 and close to thirty small baggies of meth when the raid went down. Rather than risk the wrath of Merle Blackbourne or any of his family, the man had calmly accepted his fate. Why? Because as fine and potentially fun as Jolene was, the Blackbournes as a whole were scary mother fuckers and he didn’t much feel like getting his body cut in half or his face peeled off or any of the other shit he’d heard they’d do to anyone who crossed them.

So he was there to witness what he came to think of as the Greatest Magic Trick Ever, though to the day of his death—several years later, in an argument over Jolene Blackbourne, thank you very much—he could never figure out quite what happened. Jeff had that problem a lot in his life.

He was just finishing grossly exaggerating one of his many tales of his fighting prowess—and carefully avoiding mentioning that the fight was over Jolene because, hello, her cousins were all around him—when as a unit, the Blackbournes stood up and started walking. There were seven members of the clan with him that night, all of them over fifteen miles away from Wellman, in the small jail in Clemons, Georgia. A total of ten people were being held by the Clemons police department as a courtesy to the sheriff, who had done the same for the town on many occasions. Seven were members of the Blackbournes, which, to the surprise of anyone who actually took the time to look, was about accurate to the number of Blackbournes arrested versus non-familial arrests. There were a lot of Blackbournes in the Hollow.

Six of the Blackbournes did the impossible and simply vanished. He watched Enoch Blackbourne take four steps toward the wall and then simply vanish in a shimmering flare that hurt his eyes. Several others did the same thing apparently, because they disappeared too.

One of the Blackbournes—he had no idea what the kid’s name was—looked at the bars of his cell and then forced his way between them. It should have been impossible, of course. They were six inches apart, those bars. He had set his foot against them a dozen or more times and if there was more than six inches between them he was a rocket scientist, which even Jeff knew was simply not the case. The man—who was as thick around the middle as Jeff, and these days Jeff was thicker at the waist than he liked to think about—pushed at the bars and started to ooze between them. His bones creaked, his flesh turned red and then almost purple and he pushed and grunted and slipped between the bars with a deeply unsettling popping noise. Jeff watched the whole thing, staring with his mouth hanging open and his eyes damned near bugging from his head.

And the nameless Blackbourne turned back and looked at him for a moment, smiling as his malformed face slowly went back to where it was supposed to be. The man never spoke a word, but he grinned with a mouth full of teeth that seemed too large and too sharp for his face, and his eyes when he stared were an unsettling shade of blue and had too many pupils.

Jeff felt a powerful need to piss and to puke both. Finally he decided to close his eyes until the feeling went away. Denny Thornton in the next cell over was not as calm. He let out several loud shrieks as he watched the man pop through the bars and then head for the locked door.

The security door opened when a couple of uniforms decided to see what all the noise was about. Jeff kept his eyes tightly closed despite the screams from the cops and from Thornton alike.

He didn’t even open them when the popping noises started and the blood spattered through the cell’s bars and stippled his face.

He kept his eyes tightly closed for close to an hour after the noises had stopped, too.

Because sometimes you just don’t want to see what’s happening around you. Sometimes it’s just not the smartest thing you can do.

*      *      *

The first sacrifice done, Siobhan licked a trail of arterial blood from her finger and smiled. So many years spent behaving, waiting for the right time. So many times when she’d been thwarted. And now, finally, her time had come.

The air crackled with power. She felt it growing and her arousal grew with it.

Siobhan sighed and the world sighed with her. She breathed out and the world did as well. This was her world now. Finally.

*      *      *

Mooney’s Bluff was surrounded by cops. It was just that simple.

Frank Blackbourne walked carefully, not because he had anything to fear from the sheriff of his people, but simply because, for a moment, he felt at peace. He felt lucid.

His mind was his, if only for a brief shining moment in time.

He hadn’t always been broken. He knew that. When he was a little boy his Meemaw had been alive and she’d sat him on her lap and sung songs to him that soothed his troubled mind and stopped the fires in his head and body from consuming him.

And then the bad things had happened. His Auntie had done bad things in her time. Very bad things. She had done what her heart told her had to be done and he understood that, because his heart sometimes sang the same songs to him. He just hadn’t listened as much when Meemaw was alive. And later when he did listen, he got himself hurt again and again. That was okay. His Auntie always made him better when that happened.

He stopped walking and thought about that for a moment. There were memories, but they were broken, disjointed things. They were images that made almost no sense to him. Auntie holding him, telling him she loved him. Auntie tending to him when he was hurt. But then everything changed. Auntie came of Age. She grew so powerful, so vast, that he was like a little bug and sometime she forgot he was there.

That was hurtful. Auntie was hurtful. Thinking about her now made him gnash his teeth and brought the pain back; a searing, screaming mental anguish. That was why he’d let himself be dead for so long. He knew that. He’d stayed in the grave because Auntie was hurtful. She didn’t—

No.

He wouldn’t think about her.

But his other voice was already rumbling, already starting to blather. The pain started again, cutting through his mind—his minds—and he shook his head and clenched his fists and stomped hard to make everything go away.

And then the first of the sacrifices started.

And Frank smiled.

Auntie thought she was the only one who understood the old ways. The only one who really got anything from the rituals.

Frank knew better.

Frank knew why Meemaw had always sung to him.

Frank’s smile grew even bolder.

“Auntie. We’re gonna have us a real good time, you hear me?” He stayed mostly quiet as he moved away from Mooney’s Bluff. “We’re gonna have us a fine time, indeed.”

His other mind agreed. “A mighty fine time. Gonna have a reg’lar reuuuunionnn.”

Frank felt his blood soar and boil within his body as the power bathed him.

Finally, oh, finally.

It was about damned time.

*      *      *

Lights were coming up in Crawford’s Hollow as the sun dropped behind the horizon. Some were electric and some were propane and some were plain old fires in ancient hearths. Griffin could smell the wood smoke from his vantage point on Mooney’s Bluff.

A few feet away, Carl was talking to his dispatcher. “Yeah well who let that idiot patrol that area alone? Captain Simms, eh? I’ll have a few things to say to him. Send another car to see what’s become of him. Okay. Anything else going on?”

Griffin noticed a sudden change in Carl’s posture. He seemed to have gone rigid and he was gritting his teeth. He said. “Wait, wait, did you say two busses? When did that happen? Well get some people out there to find them, God damn it. Call me the second you know anything, and I mean anything!” He ended the call. “Shit! Jesus H. Christ on a fucking bicycle.”

Griffin said, “What is it?”

“Two casino buses didn’t make their regular checkpoints. Both were reported leaving the diner where they pick up suckers for the casinos but now both buses are overdue.”

Griffin started to say that buses run late sometimes, and then it hit him. “Two busloads of passengers.”

“Exactly,” said Carl. “We’ve been trying to figure out where the Blackbournes were going to get the victims for their mass sacrifice, and all along they were planning to just snatch them up at the last minute.”

“Shit,” said Griffin.

Carl said, “They’re not coming here or we’d have already seen them. So that means this place is a wash for the ceremony. We’ve been wasting our time up here while the Blackbournes have been ahead of us at every step.”

Griffin pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Decamp.” He punched the number and Decamp picked up on the second ring. Without preamble, Griffin told Decamp about the buses and their probable purpose.

“It’s got to be the house,” Decamp said.

Griffin said, “What?”

“The old Blackbourne house. That’s why they’ve opened the interior into other dimensions. It has to be. Somehow they’ve found a workable place of power inside the house.”

“How is that possible?”

“You looked out a window while you were inside, Griffin. What did you see?”

“What looked like the moors in England.”

“That means that the house isn’t just built into other dimensions, it can function as a door into other places.”

“Could they reach the other side from there?”

“No, not without the ceremony, but they could use it for...” Decamp trailed off.

Griffin said, “What? What is it?”

“Damn, I should have thought of this,” said Decamp. “I’ll call you back. I need to check something.”

“No! Decamp, don’t hang up you son of a bitch.”

But he already had. Griffin resisted the sudden urge to throw his phone as far as he could. He turned to Carl but the sheriff was talking on his own phone. When he finished his call he said, “That was dispatch again.”

“Any sign of the busses?”

“Not yet, but something else has happened. Calls have started coming in from jails all over the county. Over half of the Blackbournes we arrested have escaped.”

“How the hell did they manage that?”

“Given that most of the cells weren’t ever unlocked, I’m guessing a lot of those boys weren’t as human as we thought. What did Decamp say?”

“Well, before he hung up on me he said that somehow the Blackbournes must have established a place of power inside the old family home.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“No, Decamp figures the place of power is in some other dimension within the house. He hung up before I could ask any questions. I got the idea he had thought of something worse that might happen and wanted to look into it.”

“I would say how can it get any worse, but I know better,” said Carl. “We’d better go for the Hollow and see if we can reach the Blackbourne place before the busses do. Merle and his crew couldn’t have planned things better. My men are spread all over the bluff and no one is watching the Hollow.”

The two men hurried to Carl’s vehicle and Carl hit the blue lights and went flying down the steep road that led away from the bluff. Running Code, the police called it when they drove with the lights and siren. Griffin had almost forgotten what that was like. He glanced to one side and saw an old cabin by the side of the road. A big, grinning Jack O’Lantern sat on the cabin’s front porch. Happy fucking Halloween, Griffin thought.

*      *      *

“Idiot!” Carter Decamp said, hurrying as fast as his limp would allow across his study. “I’m an idiot.”

“What’s wrong, Carter? Was that Griffin on the phone?”

“It was. Things have gotten worse.”

“Was he all right?”

“For the moment. But I’ve just realized something and if I’m right it could mean that we’re all in more trouble than I thought.”

“There’s something worse than the Moon-Eyes opening a path to the other side?”

“Oh, that’s still the issue, but originally I thought they were just trying to open a permanent gap through which they might allow more of their brethren to enter so they could gain power here on Earth. Or at the most, I thought they might be trying to summon something more powerful. A more ancient and inhuman member of the old race, what we might term a demon.”

“But now you think different?”

Decamp had stopped in front of one of the bookshelves and was scanning the volumes. He said, “They wouldn’t need the extra-dimensional environment they’ve created for that. Like I said, there are other places of power on Earth.” He snatched down an ancient—looking tome and began flipping through it. “As we discussed before, almost all cultures have legends of old folk who dwell Underground. The Blackbournes could have gone to New England or to Scotland or the Great Plains here in the states. Pale ones once lived there too.”

“Okay, so maybe they just wanted something close to home.”

“No, and that’s why I’m an idiot. They never planned to use the bluff. If they wanted to go there they could have killed everyone in their path and just forced their way to the caves or wherever they wanted. Ah! Here!”

He put the book down and pointed to a very stylized illustration that looked to Charon to be a Native American rendition of some gigantic creature looming over a mountain. Something like lightning bolts or lines of power radiated out from the figure. As stylized as the drawing was, almost cartoonish, Charon still found there was something repellant about it.

“What is it, Carter?”

“Something old and dark and steeped in blood.” Decamp said.

*      *      *

The Wellman town square was alive, filled with a powerful sense of excitement that seemed almost infectious. The band was playing a selection of Halloween related songs—“Monster Mash,” “I Ain’t Superstitious,” “I Put A Spell On You,” and a dozen others. Currently it was “Eye of the Zombie”—and the people were having fun. More fun that usual, it seemed, but that might have been the nearly perfect weather, or the fact that, for the first time in what seemed like forever, the band didn’t suck. In any event, there were a lot of people having fun, and chief among them was Jolene Blackbourne.

She could have told people what was making them so energetic, so happy, but she didn’t want to spoil their fun. She was enjoying herself—her two new boy toys were already doing everything they could to win her affections and she guessed they were less than ten minutes away from starting to swing at each other.

Somewhere down in the Hollow she felt the markings carved into another screaming sacrifice. All of them could feel it to one degree or another, but few of them got quite the same rush as she did. It was her connection to her mother, and to Frank that did it.

Once upon a time, oh, so very long ago, Frank had died. And in his death throes, he had gifted her with a little something of himself.

Beau Rider—stud muffin number one—put an arm around her waist and she leaned into him, watching as Derek Calhoun—stud muffin number two—bought her a caramel apple. In a few moments he would look back, see what Beau was doing, and the fireworks would likely start. The very notion made her all warm and fuzzy feeling.

What few people understood was that the Blackbournes had connections to each other that went beyond the physical and slid straight into the metaphysical. It was both their blessing and their curse.

Take, for instance, the direct lineage of Jolene herself. Really, when she got down to contemplating such things, that was the most important part of the equation. She understood the connections better than most. She had a certain…empathy for the blood relations that most of her kin seemed to not have.

Once upon a time, her mother was born to one Abigail Elizabeth Crawford. Abigail was a woman of striking beauty by all the stories, but she was also a mite bit on the flighty side. Funny how people forgive that sort of thing when a woman has the right sort of looks. Sometimes it worked for men folk—her cousin Micah, for example, tended to make women melt like butter when he smiled at them—but for women, in Jolene’s experience, the right smile, the right expression and the right body would open an amazing number of doors and forgive tremendous sins. In her defense, her mother was her number one role model.

Beau leaned in closer and she felt his warm breath blowing across her neck her pulse surged, and she shifted just a bit, letting him have slightly better access. Her hair half covered his face as his mouth sought to kiss her flesh.

Derek was still in line and he was distracted by a couple of girls dressed in clown outfits and wearing little enough clothing to almost guarantee hypothermia if they didn’t keep moving. The good news for her plans was they were moving a lot and the best parts jiggled enough to keep Derek distracted, but not too distracted.

As the story went with the family, it was Abigail and her sister Angeline who wound up wandering in the hills above Wellman, wandering around on Mooney’s Bluff, actually, where the family had a nice little mansion to call home.

The two had wandered the woods many times, always careful to get back home before they could get themselves in trouble with the Moon-Eyes, because back in those days most people still acknowledged that the white-skinned critters were still roaming after dark.

And then one day, well, one night, the two failed to reappear. The family went a little crazy looking for them, spent the night with their torches and dogs and guns calling for the girls and not finding them. Not until the next morning, when Angeline came wandering out of the woods, disheveled and half frozen from the cold October night she’d spent in the woods. She had no idea where her sister had gone, of course, and being as she was merely a young girl she was not expected to be strong enough to assist in any real way.

Abigail was not found that following day. Nor for several days afterward. The weather turned sour and slowed down the attempts to find her. Just for kicks, Jolene had actually looked up the information about the odd incidents that happened in Wellman at that time. The information was there for anyone who wanted to look, and some of it could even be found online on a couple of sites that specialized in the strange and allegedly incredible. For seven days the weather was perfect in Wellman and in Brennert County. For seven nights the weather was perfect in Brennert, but not in the town of Wellman or up in the hills above the town. It wasn’t just rain, either, oh, to be sure there was a great deal of rain, as well as some nearly catastrophic thunderstorms and enough lightning to burn away half the trees in Crawford’s Hollow. But it was the other things that caught her attention and made her chuckle. Other things, like the claims that the ground along the bluff oozed blood in different spots, or the claims that literally thousands of small, black frogs fell from the sky and covered Wellman’s streets. The frogs allegedly ate flesh, had too many legs and were blind. The one sketch she saw claimed that they had no eyes at all, merely bulging flesh where the eyes should have been. The frogs apparently melted into goo at the first light of the morning. Not a one of them was ever photographed or captured in a jar. There were other things, naturally, odd, screaming noises, thunder that roared down from the bluffs and echoed over all of Wellman and a dozen others. Nothing that could be verified of course.

And then, a week after Abigail disappeared, she wandered into Wellman proper, naked as the day she was born and covered with welts, odd markings and half painted over in a black mud that looked like nothing that was local.

Not too surprisingly, Abigail was never quite right after that. The doctors confirmed first that she had been raped, and later that she was pregnant. And who do you suppose took care of her after that? If you’d guess her family, you’d be wrong. No, Abigail had a suitor the entire time she was of an age where courtship could happen, a man who was several years older than her who took her as his wife, despite her pregnancy. That man was Virgil Blackbourne, who seemed to care not at all if she was pregnant, so long as she would be with him.

They were wed, and later Abigail gave birth to a beautiful young daughter named Siobhan.

That had been a hundred and fifty-seven years ago.

Jolene smiled at that thought. If anyone knew how old her momma was, they’d shit themselves.

Beau got a little more insistent and Jolene let him, but she kept her eyes on Derek. Derek was almost done scoping out Bouncy and Jiggles the clown girls. He ordered the apple and pulled his wallet. Almost time.

Now, the thing about Siobhan and Abigail was this: Abigail was the mother, yes, but she was also a mental case. She never quite recovered from her week in the woods—well, actually, her week in the lair of the Moon-Eyes. She spent a lot of time singing nonsense songs to herself and as little time as she could actually dealing with her daughter. That task fell to Virgil Crawford, who loved the girl as his own flesh. He raised her, cared for her, and schooled her in the ways of her other family, the pale people who feared even the faint light of the moon.

And while that was all happening and everyone was all happy and cheerful like, Angeline quietly had her own child. Seemed she hadn’t quite gotten away unmolested either, but she was kept away from the public eye. Angeline was never as pretty as her sister, and she was young enough that the rape would have been considered scandalous. So they hid her pregnancy and hid her away, a dirty little secret.

And when she gave birth, who do you suppose took that child and raised that homely little girl as his very own daughter?

No one.

But in due time Angeline’s girl grew old enough to have a child of her own and that child was Frank. The Crawfords didn’t want anything to do with Frank. In exchange for taking the shamefully homely boy off their hands, the Crawfords offered the Blackbournes a permanent right to dwell in the Hollow. As they were already squatting there, it seemed a perfect solution.

Jolene felt Beau suck at the flesh of her neck like he was a vampire. She supposed he was trying for sexy and maybe it even worked a little, but what worked even better was when Derek turned around with her caramel apple in one hand and a big old Coke in his other hand, along with two beers in little plastic cups. The Coke was for her. The boys were supposed to drink the beers.

As soon as Derek’s eyes started to track for her in the crowd, she pushed Beau hard and watched the college boy stagger away from her. “I said no!” She made sure to put the right edge of panic in her voice, because the best way to make sure that Derek did his part was to insinuate that Beau, who probably played a bit rough with his dates if she was reading him right, was trying to force matters. Just in case the point wasn’t made by that simple motion, Jolene made her eyes wide and put on her best frightened face as she covered her breasts with her arms and shook her head. Oh, that edge of betrayal on Beau’s face. And that little touch of anger, because he thought for sure he was going to get a chance to get rough all over her ass.

She looked to the crowd and spotted Derek already charging, the apple falling from his left hand, the tray of drinks from his right, his face already reddening, his eyes bulging. This was what he had feared, of course, that the girl who kept looking at him with a promise in her eyes might get stolen by Beau, the womanizer. But to make it worse, Beau had tried to force it.

Frank was a sickly boy when he was born, but his aunt took care of him. When he fell sick at the age of four, Siobhan ran away with him. She was all of twelve at the time. She hid in the woods and cared for him for several days. And when she brought him back, Frank was much healthier, even if his skin had taken on an odd hue. After that the two of them were often inseparable. Frank tended to protect his aunt, tended to do whatever she asked, really. There was only one exception, one person who could call the boy to her side and have him respond immediately and that was his grandmother, his Meemaw, Abigail, who would sing to the boy every night and would tell him stories and keep him from getting into trouble.

Right up until the time she died. After that, Frank answered only to Siobhan until he died.

The thing was, no one really knew that outside of the family. Most people thought Frank was a younger man, just as most people had trouble believing Siobhan was old enough to be Jolene’s momma.

The Blackbournes were a well-preserved people.

Jolene stepped back and shook her head. “No means no!” her voice cracked and broke into a small sob as Derek charged. And then she stepped back a second time, watching the expression on Beau’s face. He couldn’t believe this. He’d been ready to make a move, had fully expected that she would be in the back of his little car or his SUV or wherever else he could find to give her a little poke and maybe slap her around a bit and instead she was backing away and calling attention to him, enough attention to cause embarrassment. She read all of that on his face as he started to look around, trying to see if her calls had caught the attention of the cops.

Not that he should have worried. Jolene knew good and damned well that there weren’t any cops here. The sheriff had done his job and sent everyone up to Mooney’s Bluff.

Beau had exactly enough time to see Derek, to do the mental math and realize that he was about to get fucked up by his best friend, enough time to know that he couldn’t get the hell out of the bigger boy’s way before he got slammed by the collegiate wide receiver nicknamed “Freight train.”

He had enough time to know he’d been set up before Derek rammed into him and broke his jaw with a right hook.

Jolene stepped back again, her eyes alight with pleasure. Beau tried to say something, to defend himself, but the first blow had already left him sluggish. The second blow knocked him into a complete stupor. Testosterone boiled through Derek in a thick enough stew that she could practically smell it coming off him like cologne.

She suppressed the desire to lick her lips.

The night was just getting interesting.

Derek hit his best buddy one more time and stood up, panting. It was surprising how much effort went into beating a man down.

Jolene ran to him and he put a protective arm around her, looking down at Beau and maybe wondering if their friendship could possibly survive this. Looking at the bloodied pulp of Beau’s lower mouth, his busted nose and the swelling along the left side of his once-pretty face, Jolene had her doubts.

That was okay. She’d make Derek feel a little better, if only for a while. To the victor, the spoils.

That was something her family was about to learn the hard way.

Her mother always said that some plans required careful nurturing. Jolene agreed completely. What her mother didn’t understand was that Jolene already knew all about that philosophy. She’d been living it for most of her life.

She’d been practicing for years and years and honing her skills.

Just for tonight.

*      *      *

The body spasmed one final time and the woman on the altar bleated out her last breath as she died. The power from the sacrifice spilled into Siobhan and all of those present, and from them flowed through the ground, through the very stones on which they stood, and then into the atmosphere.

And from there, into the universe, the multiverse, calling to the One, the purpose for which Siobhan had been born. She was a fertile, passionate woman, a reflection of the One she called forth, the One who had been waiting patiently for this moment for untold eons.

Around her they gathered, the pale ones, the malformed, the almost human, the nightmarish. They called their words of power, chanted their requests, begged to be noticed and pled to adore the One, the Great Mother, The Great Father, the Great.

Some called the One female, others male. Siobhan knew better. The One was beyond gender, beyond comprehension by most.

The One was coming.

She called silently and pulled the next sacrifice forward. Keith Jamers had wanted her for as long as she had known him. Now he begged her as he had before, only this time he wanted to escape her, not have her.

Too late, of course. Far too late.

Her fingers peeled his flesh easily, carving the proper markings into him as he was held in place by her children. She had so many children and the time had come for them to meet the One, mother, father, creator, the very reason she existed. The One. The All.

Many people had studied volumes of lore, had learned spoken commands through generations in order to do what came naturally to her. She did not need to study. The exact markings, the exact order needed for each sacrifice—which was as complex an equation as the mathematical sum of the cosmos—was written across her mind and soul. A marking, a word, a gesture, a nail in the right place. All of that changed now, was altered by the needs of the One.

Still, she enjoyed listening to Jamers scream as the first nail ruptured his left eye. Oh, how he shivered and tried to thrash. The muscles of creatures strong enough to wrestle a mountain gorilla still had to strain to keep him still as the pain lanced through him. He was even worse when she impaled his scrotum and then his right eye.

The air shifted around her, around the children that surrounded her. And she felt her body moving, shifting through the dimensions, trying to coalesce at last in one dimension. She smiled at the thought of what Jamers would have thought if he could have seen her in all her glory.

No time for that. Jamers shuddered and died and actually orgasmed as he passed. The little pervert must have liked the pain.

Irrelevant.

She gestured and two of her children rolled the man’s body aside. All around her the Moon-Eyes hummed and whistled their wind song to the One. And two of her children hauled a grossly overweight man onto the slab in front of her. The man screamed when he saw her, when he comprehended all that she was, and she smiled, his noises another part of the song of summoning.

Her bloodied fingernail carved into his round, frightened face, peeling a trench in the shape of a sigil that had not been seen on the planet Earth in a thousand years or more. He would have been honored if he’d understood, but he was not capable of comprehending the glory coming forth upon the field of sacrifice.

The One would be there soon.

They would be together at last, as they were meant to be.

The power pulsed through her and from her to her children, and from her children to the Heavens that would soon be rent asunder and offer themselves as womb to unspeakable powers.

Hallelujah. Amen.

*      *      *

“On the day we met I told you that some of the things waiting on the other side had powers almost beyond imagining,” Decamp said. “This drawing represents something that the beings we’ve encountered would have considered a god.”

Charon turned the book and looked at the drawing more closely. “I can’t really tell what it’s supposed to be.”

“Just a symbol really. Something to represent that which can’t be described. It’s not a specific entity. The drawing stands for any of the great old ones. The ones who wait on the other side in the outer dark.”

Charon said, “Whit said something about the walkers between shadows. That they waited and they watched.”

“Did he? He was ahead of me then. When I came up against the Moon-Eyes in 1986, their goal was to bring more of their race from the other side to here. I suppose they were trying to establish a beachhead from where they could go on to reclaim the Earth. I foolishly assumed that was still their plan and I didn’t consider another, more frightening possibility.”

Charon said, “So you believe that the Moon-Eyes are trying to bring one of their gods to our world? Is that possible?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so before,” Decamp said. “I told you how the natural laws of this dimension make it extremely difficult for anything from another reality to cross over, and that would apply especially to something with a nature as unstable as a god. In legends they were usually only able to manifest themselves as avatars even when the conditions of our world were more favorable to them. They would appear as glowing spheres or pillars of flame or some such. Still, at one time they did physically inhabit this world, but in those days the old ones dictated the physical laws of this universe.”

“Wait, are you saying they could alter the laws of physics?”

“They could, and part of the thing that cast them out was the changing of those laws to what we know today as reality.”

“So theoretically these old gods couldn’t exist in our conception of space time.”

“Precisely. However, if someone created a sort of halfway house, a place where the physics of our universe didn’t apply...”

“Oh my God, Carter! The Blackbourne house.”

“Yes. All of this time the Blackbournes and their allies have been paving the way for the return of one of their gods.”

“If they succeed can we fight something like that?”

“We would have no hope at all. Fully manifested, such an entity could destroy us with a thought. Worse than that. Once it’s here, it can change things back to the way they were and bring its fellow old ones back as well.”

“And what will that make us?”

Decamp shrugged. “Slaves. Food. Superfluous.”

“You have to tell Griffin.”

“I know. I needed to get my thoughts together once the realization hit me. I’ll call him now.”

*      *      *

The twin buses were parked at odd angles in front of the Blackbourne house. Griffin could see them clearly though his binoculars. The doors were open and the interior lights were slowly dimming as the batteries died. No one was worried about a return trip.

Griffin had just barely convinced Carl not to go barreling into the front yard with sirens howling. The cruiser was parked on a low ridge that gave a clear view of the house and Griffin was watching the house and listening to Carter Decamp talk about the end of the world.

When Decamp ran out of steam, Griffin said, “We’ll do everything we can, Decamp. Put Charon on, would you?”

The sound of Charon’s voice was like oxygen to a drowning man. She said, “Hey, wild man. Guess you’re going into the house.”

“Looks that way.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much point in my telling you to be careful.”

“Not much.”

“I guess you’d better tell me that you love me then.”

“I was sort of hoping for a better time.”

“That doesn’t look too likely at this point.”

“No it doesn’t. I love you, Charon.”

“I love you, Wade. Come back and I’ll show you how much.”

“I’ll do my best. Stay safe.”

He turned off the cell and took just a moment to look up at the cold night sky. Then he walked over to where Carl was keeping an eye on the house. Griffin said, “You remember how we were wondering how things could get any worse?”

Carl said, “You’re about to tell me, aren’t you?”

Griffin gave Carl the short version of what Decamp had told him. When he was done, Carl said. “I’m a small town sheriff, Wade. How the hell did I get stuck with this?”

“No idea, man.”

“If we were smart we’d call the FBI or the army,” said Carl.

“And by the time they got here, the sacrifices would be complete and it would all be over. Decamp says we have to stop the Moon-Eyes from finishing the ceremony. It’s the only way to keep them from summoning their god.”

“Down to me and you then. Just like old times. We going to sneak in like you did before?”

“Nope. No time for that.”

“We’re just going to walk up to the front door, kick it in and go in shooting?”

“That was my thought, yes.”

“I knew I liked you.”

“Let’s get our stuff together.”

They walked back to the cruiser and Carl popped the trunk. Griffin pulled out his canvas bag. He put on his web belt, which held the knife, the .357 and his speed-loaders, and he transferred the two frag grenades and a couple of other items to his smaller carry bag. When he pulled the shotgun out he saw something gleam at the bottom of the bag. Decamp’s sword. What the hell. He took out the scabbard and slung the sword in its baldric across his shoulder.

Carl was similarly bristling with weapons by the time they shut the trunk and got back into the front of the cruiser. Griffin said, “If Jerry Wallace were here, this really would be like old times.”

“He’s here,” Carl said, slapping his fist on his chest over his heart.

Griffin nodded. “He is.”

Carl said, “Lights and siren?”

“Hell yeah.”

*      *      *

Carl brought the cruiser to a sliding halt beside one of the buses. He and Griffin got out of the car and crossed the yard at a brisk walk. Griffin didn’t see anyone in the yard or on the porch. Guess everyone is at the party, he thought. True to his word, Carl walked up the steps, and without slowing, raised one booted foot and kicked the front door in.

Griffin went in behind him, shotgun at the ready, and promptly had to lean against a wall and throw up. Griffin spit and looked around trying to get a handle on what was making his guts churn. There was something wrong with the hallway. The floor and walls didn’t line up somehow, like they were leaning in different directions. Ahead of him, Griffin could see Carl staggering along, one shoulder brushing the wall and his body thrust forward as if he were trudging up a hill, though they were on level ground.

A second later, the world snapped back into place and they were in a boring, unfinished sheet rock hallway. Griffin looked behind him and the broken door looked just as it should.

Carl said, “What the hell just happened?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say we walked between a couple of misaligned dimensions.”

“Makes about as much sense as any of this,” Carl said. “Any idea where we’re going?”

“None. When I was in here before, different rooms seemed to lead to different dimensions, so I guess we check every room until we find the one where the ceremony is happening. There was a big ballroom that might fit the bill, but I’ve no idea how to get back to it.”

At that moment two grinning pale ones rounded a corner. They looked to Griffin like two members of the group that had pursued him on his first trip into the house. Carl raised his shotgun and shot them both at point blank range. Dark blood spattered the dirty white walls.

“Guess they’ll know we’re coming now,” said Carl.

“Maybe not. The different rooms I was in seemed pretty much self-contained. Like once you were inside, you were cut off from the other dimensions.”

“Well, here’s a door. Let’s see what’s inside.” Carl grabbed an old-fashioned brass doorknob and turned it. Griffin looked over his shoulder as Carl swung the door inward. A parlor, with overstuffed chairs and Victorian style furniture that gleamed as if recently polished. If not for the human heads mounted on plaques on the walls, like the work of some mad taxidermist, it would have seemed a very normal room. Carl shut the door.

“Jesus,” Carl said.

Griffin leaned on a wall trying to get his bearings. He had come into the house from the rear on his last visit and never reached the front part. Not that front and back had any real meaning in this madhouse. Still, if they continued down the corridor they might eventually reach the ballroom he had seen before. Or that bedroom that led to the moors. Plenty of room for a big party out there.

Another door loomed on the right and Griffin opened this one. Nothing inside but blackness. Griffin fished a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it through the doorway. After ten seconds or so he heard a distant splash. He reminded himself not to go blundering into any more rooms without making sure there was a floor first.

Carl snatched open another door and said, “Uh oh.”

Griffin looked past him. There were five men sitting around a small, filthy room. Griffin got the idea that this room might actually have been part of the original house. The men were obviously Blackbournes, though of the more human variety, which probably explained why they weren’t at the ceremony. They were apparently enjoying some of the crystal meth that the family made so well. Various drug paraphernalia was scattered about on the floor. Unfortunately there were also several guns at hand. The men began to scramble for weapons and Carl began to fire.

*      *      *

Technically there was absolutely nothing right about blowing the hell out of five men without giving a little warning first. It went against every programmed instinct that Carl had learned and forced his people to learn. The reality, however, was that they intended to kill him, Wade and whatever both of the men held dear with their plans. Or at least they would have planned to if they’d been completely sober.

Instead they scrambled for their weapons on the ground, spitting obscenities and getting in each others’ way. That was okay with Carl. He took full advantage.

Someday, when all of this insanity was over and he’d spent some time in jail for the laws he was breaking, he might seek some therapy to make up for the shit he was doing. For the moment, he shot Lucius Blackbourne in the face and a spectacularly greasy looking man in the side of the neck as the man lunged for a shotgun. The advantage of shotguns was you really didn’t need to aim. Point in the general direction, pull the trigger and watch whatever was in front of the barrel turn into blood and pulp. He preferred to save that advantage for himself and Wade. The other three men might have actually reached their weapons and done some damage, but Wade leaned over Carl’s shoulder and pulled the trigger on his shotgun. Carl was already ducking, because as soon as Wade moved he knew what was coming. The explosion from the weapon was still incredibly loud. Neither of the men were getting out of this without that special ringing in the ears that said you’d been firing heavy artillery or attending a death metal concert.

Wade stepped back and covered the hallway, his face set in hard lines. There were very few men who could look that deadly serious and just plain scary without trying.

“Well, we need to get where we’re going, because I figure anyone not at that ceremony’s gonna come tear us new assholes in about forty seconds.”

Wade didn’t argue with him. Carl took the lead again, not because he was braver or because he was the sheriff but simply because Wade was taller and could maneuver a shot over his head or next to it a damned good bit easier. They’d worked that way in the past and they worked that way now. Years since they’d been partnered up and they automatically fell into old routines. There were a few new dangers—you know, ancient gods trying to eat the universe or at least all the people—but a lot of the threats were the same, like the meth-heads they left behind them, either dead or dying.

Carl looked at the carpeted uneven floor and smiled. Somebody figured out they were in trouble and decided to leave a clue or fifty. In this case, a trail of M&Ms was scattered on the ground with remarkably even spacing. Some of them had been mashed into the ground, a few were knocked around, but it was basically a Hansel and Gretel moment.

“Will you look at that….”

Carl pointed to the trail and watched Wade flash the tiniest smile of satisfaction.

Sometimes, just now and then, you got to catch a break.

That, or it was a trap. Either way, Carl started following.

*      *      *

Another one died, released a splash of blood and spilled life across the cosmos. The energies echoed across his Auntie Siobhan and from her splashed outward. Some of the others, they got their little taste of that power, and they feasted on it, like starving puppies.

Frank got more of it. He burned with it, and he wallowed in it.

The memories crashed around him again. The first time Auntie had played with him, sung her little songs to him and cut his body with her nails, her teeth, other things that couldn’t even really be seen. She was playing, of course learning about what she was and what she was becoming, and he was the dolly she played with most often.

The first time he died it had been Auntie’s fault. She’d felt bad, of course, and run to Meemaw and told her what had happened and Meemaw shook her head and smiled, that odd, idiot smile of hers, so beautiful and lonely and broken, and she’d taken his body in her hands and started singing old songs that she’d learned from the white people in her time, when she wandered the woods at night and they talked to her, before they made her their door to other places. She’d sung and prayed to the One and Frank had been given back to her, back to Auntie, a doll that was stronger, changed and made better.

And Frank had grown, oh, how he had grown.

And Frank had become Two instead of One.

Frank’s Other was chatting up a storm now, calling all kinds of dirty words and making promises about what he’d do to Auntie when he finally got his hands on her. Hands, and other parts. Frank didn’t like to think about that, Auntie was beautiful, of course, and he understood the notions, but that wasn’t the way he was supposed to think about his kin.

“She ain’t your kin, boooay! She’s yer bride! She’s gonna scream and sire us some puppies!” The voice belched excitedly from his side and despite what he believed was right and wrong, his Other seemed to have taken control of some of his parts, because he had a raging erection and dark thoughts were boiling through both of his minds. Blood and sex and violence and other things all sang inside his heart and body. And Frank ran faster, breathing like a great bellows, his body swelling, taking on more mass from that place where his mind went whenever he died—“Not dead! Sleeping! Dreaming! Waiting for naaaoow!” his Other screamed as they ran—and as he moved, Frank shrugged aside one of the burdensome trees that stood in his way, knocking the pine tree from the ground with an explosive bark. The tree, which had grown in the same spot for over fifty years, sailed through the air and smashed two other trees sideways as it landed.

The ground shook when the tree landed. No one noticed. There was no one nearby and even if there had been, they’d have been far too busy wondering about the way the ground shook as Frank stormed past.

*      *      *

Wade and Carl followed the trail carefully, both of them moving with smooth strides that looked unconsciously graceful. It had nothing to do with an attempt to be quiet; that was already a thing of the past. It was about not tripping over themselves. They moved on the balls of their feet and tread carefully because they couldn’t afford to screw up.

Just to make that point clear, Wade dropped back two paces and drove the blade of his knife deep into the throat of a pale-skinned, lumpy thing that tried to creep up on them from behind. Carl never even heard the thing coming, but partly he could accept that. He knew Wade had his back.

The stench of the thing was as vile as anything he could remember. Wade wiped the blood off on the wall and caught back up as soon as he was sure nothing else was coming out of the door they’d passed.

And then both of them stopped as another wave of unreality came rippling up the hallway. There was simply no way to adjust to the feeling as far as Carl could figure. His vision distorted—how else was it possible to explain the way his mind ached when he looked down the hallway when the angles shifted and no longer made any sense? It was like looking at one of those damned eye-straining optical illusions that seemed to move when there was no actual motion; only the entire world went that way all at once—his hearing went crazy, ears popping like he was on an airplane that was descending at high speed—and his stomach did back flips that would have had him vomiting his guts out if there was anything at all in him to disgorge.

But this time was different. Instead of simply snapping back to the way the world should work—or at least feel—Carl could feel himself slowly adjusting to the change.

“What the hell was that?” Wade’s voice sounded distant, but when he looked, his friend was in the same spot as before.

The difference was that the area behind Wade had changed. The hallway they’d been in was warped and staying that way. Even as he realized that it came to him that the area in front of him was likely the same. He was afraid to move too quickly in case it caused another bout of vertigo.

Wade’s eyes grew wide and his friend was bringing up the shotgun an instant later. “Drop!”

Carl didn’t waste any time listening. He dropped. Despite his fear of nausea, he also took the time to look over his shoulder as he fell, and regretted it instantly. Not because of the sudden dizziness he’d feared, but because the rules of sanity insisted on stretching to the breaking point again.

Wade’s friend Decamp had warned them about the differences in dimensions and he was starting to understand the gravity of the comments. There was something coming through the wall behind him. Not through a door, not bursting through the solid barrier of the wall, but literally ghosting through the faded wallpaper. And that something had no right to exist in the universe as far as Carl was concerned.

Partially it looked like Terrell Blackbourne, a four-time loser who should have been in lockup in Dandridge Federal Penitentiary in Savannah, Georgia at that exact moment, serving his twenty-seven year term for trafficking in meth, kidnapping and attempted murder. Partially, because while it had the face of Terrell Blackbourne—in all his buck toothed glory—that face was fused to a body that made absolutely no sense. It was grossly disproportionate. There were too many limbs and a lot of those limbs didn’t belong on a human being, not even one as flat out homely as Terrell.

The thing looked at Carl with recognition and grinned. “Lookit here. Carl Price.” Whatever it was going to say at that moment was lost behind the sound of a load of buckshot blowing all hell out of its face.

If Carl had jumped any harder at that precise moment, it’s possible he could have reached escape velocity. The leap was purely instinctive, brought on by the sheer mental repulsion of what he was looking at, and it was a blessing, because while the thing’s face had his undivided attention, the bloated body had been reaching for him, slithering thin tendrils across the ground that had been reaching up to tear into him. Each of the whipping cilia ended in a wickedly hooked barb. Wade unloaded three more rounds into the thing, picking his targets and pulling the trigger with terrifying efficiency. The look on his face said he was as repulsed as Carl felt.

The Terrell-Thing—what was left of it—flopped back against the wall and sloughed down to the ground.

Carl pulled the .38 with the special rounds and looked around the area. Sure enough, there were more of the damned things coming and they were stretching through the walls same as the Terrell-Thing had.

He needed to know if the bullets were as special as Decamp claimed. He needed to know now, because there were four holes the size of footballs in the goddamned thing that Wade had blown the hell out of, and those four holes were getting smaller and the face was almost reformed and looking a mite pissed off.

Those bullets didn’t do the job, Carl figured they were dead men.

*      *      *

The sky shuddered above them, and Siobhan moaned her pleasure into the universe.

Another body. The last of the locals. She looked to the west, and smiled as she saw her children coming toward her. Lorne led the way, his pale face smiling back, thrilled to see her in her full glory. The worlds were starting to fuse and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she could feel all of herself in one place. It was an exhilarating sensation.

Behind him the sacrifices that Jolene had promised were being herded by the Muhneyht—the pale folk that some people referred to as Moon-Eyes. The sacrifices were mostly too busy looking at the pale creatures around them to notice her at first, but one of them looked toward her and slowly absorbed her magnificence.

And upon recognizing her for what she was, that fool screamed, as if there were any chance at all that fear or panic would change what was about to happen.

Oh, he tried to run, he turned and he pushed against the tide of others that were being forced toward her, and when a few others looked up and started to panic they tried to get away too, but the Muhneyht were not easily swayed. This was what they had hoped for, prayed for, planned for. Nothing would stop this.

The pale forms pounded their pray into a stupor and carried them forward, eager to see her in all her glory, a pale example of the One, true, but still a spectacular sight to behold.

They called to her and she answered with one of her mouths, unable to resist offering her thanks to them even as she carved the sacred symbols into flesh and uttered the words that had to be spoken and drove nails into the eyes of the meat offering its life to the One.

Far above her, oh, still so far away, but so much closer than ever before, the One sang a long, ululating note that pealed across the skies and brought with it a flare of colors that could not be seen by human eyes.

The Muhneyht responded with a glee that was nearly angelic.

Siobhan cried out in pleasure.

The humans shrieked.

Siobhan’s children shivered in delight.

And the One came closer, closer still.

Siobhan grabbed the next sacrifice. The woman stared at the skies with uncomprehending eyes.

Siobhan did her the courtesy of blinding her before her inability to see offended the One any further.

*      *      *

Frank roared, his body swelling even more, and charged at the house where Auntie was hiding behind walls and doors and twists into other worlds. She thought to hide away the gifts that he had coming to him. She thought to deprive him of what was his. That would not be allowed.

The squad car stank of the sheriff. He stomped on it, flattened it into the ground with his foot, and continued toward the house as the siren was silenced and the engine collapsed. Gas fumes leaked into the air and he ignored them. The buses were between him and his goal. Frank swatted them aside, ignoring the way the metal groaned, the glass exploded and the vehicles tumbled away from him as if they, too, found him repugnant.

The air around the Blackbourne house shimmered and vibrated. Most would have failed to see it, but he was not like most. He had been blessed by his Auntie, cursed by his Auntie. And now he would return the favor. He would bless her. He would curse her.

He would own her and he would destroy her.

And he would be with the One as he was supposed to be with the One.

The Other inside of him roared, and Frank liked the sound so much that he joined in.

The house seemed so much larger than he remembered.

That was okay, he was bigger too.

Frank charged, knowing that he would never fit through the door.

That was okay. He would make his own doorways.

And then he would find his Auntie.

And the sheriff, who was still hiding Meemaw’s charms from him.

And he would kill anything at all that got in his way.

*      *      *

“I have to tell you, Whit,” Isaiah Blackbourne said. “This is a truly sorry selection of magazines. Field and Stream? Georgia Backroads? Not a skin mag in the stack.”

Isaiah was seated in the single visitor chair in Whit Gramling’s hospital room. He glanced over at the old man to see if he had managed to invoke any trace of fear or panic. The geezer was still staring at him with that damnable level gaze. Even tearing out the throat of the duty nurse who had come in when Gramling had pressed the ‘call’ button didn’t seemed to have freaked the old man out.

Isaiah paused for a moment to enjoy the feeling of gradually building power that he was getting as a result of the ceremony going on right now in the old family place. Ah, dear mother was working away. Toiling in the fields of the Lord as it were. But not the Lord generally associated with that statement.

“So, Whit,” Isaiah said, finally. “Nothing to say? No threats or curses? You used to have a lot more venom back in the day, I can tell you.”

Gramling said, “What’s there to say, you pasty faced bastard? You’re here to kill me, so get it over with. I’m too old to care much.”

So that was it. The old man wasn’t afraid to die. Hell, maybe he’d even welcome it. Couldn’t have that. Oh no.

“I hear you, Whit old pal. I hear you. I mean compared to me, you’re a spring chicken. I was my mother’s first born so I passed the century mark a long time ago. But it’s different for you humans, isn’t it? Age brings pain and loss and suffering. Maybe you’re thinking I’d be doing you a favor by offing you.”

Isaiah warped through the closest dimension so that he was standing over Gramling with his face right down next to the old man’s, and from Gramling’s viewpoint it would seem that he had appeared there instantaneously.

“Well make no mistake, old man. I’m going to kill you. I’m evening up some old scores tonight. That’s why I’m not at the ceremony.” He saw Gramling’s eyes widen. Oh yeah. That got his attention. “That’s right. It’s happening right now. There’s going to be a lot of changes made, as the old song goes. Your world is going to become my world, the way it was in the days of my ancestors.”

“You’ve tried before,” Gramling said. “Tried and failed.”

Isaiah smiled. “You’re right about that one, old son. Things are different this time though. We’re bringing in some folks from the old country to help out. Even a special guest star.” He leaned close to Whit’s ear and whispered a name.

“Oh but don’t worry,” Isaiah went on. “You’ll be dead before all that happens. I’m not even going to kill you slowly as I’d planned. I don’t need to torture you, Whit. I just need to tell you a few things. Like the names and addresses of your children and grandchildren.”

“You fucking cocksucker!” Gramling said, struggling to rise.

“Now there’s my old Whit. Yep, yep. Going to visit the whole family after the path is open. Not only them but your old pal Decamp. Now that one is going to take a long time to die. He’s safe now, huddling in his house with that tasty little Goth chick, but as soon as the ceremony is complete, his wards and spells won’t do him a damn bit of good.”

Gramling was sitting up in bed now, his gnarled old hands twisting the bed sheet. His eyes glaring with hate and yes, finally, with fear.

“Well, old buddy. This has been a great visit. I’d say we’ll have to do it again, but you know, we won’t. Any final curses or threats before I end your worthless existence?”

“Please,” Gramling said. “Please don’t hurt my family.”

Ah, begging. This was a good day. “It will take them forever to die, Whit. And I’ll probably eat the little ones when I’m done. Might even eat parts of them while they’re still screaming.”

Isaiah let Gramling scream once in frustration and rage, then he sank his clawed fingers into the old man’s throat and twisted, sending a fountain of blood spurting across the room.

“Thus passes Whitfield Jeremiah Gramling,” Isaiah said. He plucked a single flower from a vase on the bedside table and tossed it on the old man’s chest.

*      *      *

Griffin cursed as he saw the creature’s wounds begin to close. The shotgun loads had done their jobs on the more human Moon-Eyes and the garden variety pale ones, but these things were obviously othersiders. He dropped the shotgun and drew the .357. He took aim at the reforming head of the buck-toothed monstrosity that had recognized Carl and put a .38 through his newly grown skull. A ragged black hole appeared and the flesh and bone stopped repairing itself. The creature slumped to the ground and Griffin picked another target.

Carl was firing too, and within a few minutes the hallway was full of dead othersiders. Carl said, “Score one for Decamp.”

“Like I said before, the man knows his business.” Griffin grabbed several loose bullets from his gear bag and reloaded. The speed loaders were only good for an empty cylinder. “Problem is, even these bullets won’t stop the more powerful othersiders.”

“How are we going to stop them?” Carl said.

Griffin shook his head. “First we have to find the ceremony and disrupt it. Beyond that, I haven’t got a clue.”

“First things first then,” Carl said. “The trail somebody was leaving seems to have ended and these things came oozing through that wall, so this may be the spot. There’s a door over there anyway.”

Griffin dug into his gear bag and took out one of the fragmentation grenades and held it out to Carl. He said, “Not to sound overly dramatic, man, but we may reach a point where the only way to stop these things is by blowing them and us to hell. Take this, just in case.”

Carl took the grenade and looked at it. “Suicide mission, eh? Well, if it’s us or the rest of the world, I guess that’s how it plays out.”

“Just don’t be in any hurry to use it,” Griffin said. “It didn’t kill them the last time.”

“It did set them back a long time though.”

“Yeah, and if that’s the best we can do, then we’ll try for that. Personally I’d rather end those sons of bitches.”

“And the bitches too,” Carl said with an odd, crooked smile.

The two men stepped up to the door. Griffin grabbed the handle and slowly pushed the door inward. Of all the things he has seen so far, the scene that met his eyes when he looked into that room came the closest to sending Griffin’s reason and sanity running for cover. It was the ballroom. He had found it again. But this time it was filled, wall to wall, with every conceivable variation of Moon-Eye one could imagine, from something resembling a giant, pale slug, to some of the most perfect looking specimens of humanity he had ever seen. And down to the last man, woman, or abomination, they were screaming and chanting and wailing.

But that wasn’t what pushed at the edges of Griffin’s mind. No it was the great pile of mutilated corpses on one side of a massive stone altar and the crowd of wailing, begging humanity on the opposite side. Even as Griffin and Carl entered the room, a man was led to the altar, screaming for mercy. Griffin knew that this was the fate of the rest of humanity if the Moon-Eyes plan succeeded.

A woman of almost impossible beauty stood behind the altar. She seemed to be the one in charge of the Kodiak proceedings. She was surrounded by the Blackbourne clan, some of whom Griffin recognized and others he had never seen. Something hung in the air behind the altar. To Griffin it looked like a shimmering vortex of fire. That had to be the gate. How close were they to opening it fully?

Griffin said, “We’ve probably got a few seconds before somebody notices us. I say we go all out and try to reach the altar. If we can do enough damage there, maybe we can stop this thing they’re summoning from coming through.”

“Maybe we should just lob our grenades from here,” said Carl.

“It’s too far. We’d kill a lot of the crowd but we wouldn’t reach the gate.”

“Okay, but how the hell do we get through that mob?”

“There’s more than one kind of grenade,” Griffin said.

He reached into his gear bag and removed a thick blue cylinder, what the cops called a flash-bang. It would make a lot of noise and light and was generally used as a way to clear mobs of rioters. Griffin figured this crowd fit the bill. He also figured that creatures who didn’t like strong light would be particularly susceptible to the flash-bang.

“You ready?” Griffin said.

Carl said, “Throw it.”

Griffin pulled the pin and lobbed the flash-bang into the center of the crowd. He looked away for a second as the incendiary device went off. Then the Moon-Eyes went berserk. Many of them slapped hands over their eyes and screeched. Others scattered, trying to get as far from the explosion as possible.

“Go!” Griffin yelled as he lunged into the gap left by the panicking pale ones. He bulled his way toward the altar, shouldering aside any Moon-Eyes that got close. Not all of the pale folks had been sent running however and as he and Carl closed on the altar, several misshapen white forms came lurching their way.

Griffin aimed and fired, aimed and fired, just as he had done in military operations in half the third world countries on the globe. He had a speed-loader ready and as soon as his shots were fired, he snapped the cylinder open and jammed six more bullets in, letting the rubber grommet which had held them fall away. A large, and not remotely human othersider came rushing toward Griffin, bellowing as it came. It seemed to be mostly muscle, bone and teeth and it probably weighed four hundred pounds. But it had recognizable legs and Griffin put a bullet through each knee. As the thing fell he shot it in the face.

A pulpy white tentacle wrapped around his left hand. Griffin spun toward the attacker. The thing was mostly humanoid but it had tentacles where its arms should have been and its face was a mass of writhing feelers. Griffin fired into the center of the face and the thing toppled away. Something slammed into the back of Griffin’s head and he staggered, but he turned, firing as he did and seeing the bullets shear through the torso of something that looked like an oversized fetus with fangs.

The Moon-Eyes were getting over their shock and were starting to close in. Griffin glanced around but couldn’t see Carl. He fired two more shots, then snatched his second and last speed-loader and popped it in. He made each shot count, dropping a foe with each bullet. The altar was tantalizingly close. Should he go for the frag grenade? No, still not close enough to the gate.

Griffin switched the empty .357 to his left hand. It was a big heavy gun and would do well as a bludgeon. He reached over his shoulder and drew Decamp’s sword. He sliced the head from the closest pale one and smashed the face of another with the gun. The sword, edged with silver as it was, seemed to have better than normal cutting properties. Though the blade was reasonably thin, it sliced easily through bone and muscle. Maybe it really was magic.

More and more attackers were closing around him. He stabbed a Blackbourne he thought he remembered from fifth grade through an eye, and whipped the sword back and around, trying to clear some room. Something wrapped around one leg and Griffin lost his balance and fell, still swinging sword and gun, knocking out teeth and slicing through flesh as he fell. Blows rained down and Griffin did his best to protect his vitals. Sword and gun were pulled away.

“Don’t kill him!” A husky female voice said. “Bring him here to the altar.”

Griffin was jerked to his feet and strong hands and other appendages pinned his arms as he was pushed the last few feet toward the altar. He felt his gear bag, and thus his grenade, being jerked from his shoulder.

*      *      *

Carl caught a last image of Wade moving through the enemy like a tornado through a field of wheat and then he was too busy to do anything but move forward. There was no time, no chance to do anything but focus on surviving long enough to get close to Siobhan Blackbourne. She was as beautiful as ever, as enchanting, but at the moment her sexual magnetism was the farthest thing from his mind. Even if he had been feeling amorous, the image of her punching nails through a man’s eye sockets with her bare hands would have removed any possible desire.

Something came sailing through the air at him. All he could guess was that the long-legged thing had decided to leap in order to get to him all the sooner. It was female, at least he assumed it was by the breasts and the lack of obvious genitalia, but beyond that he didn’t want or need to get any closer.

One more shell. One more pull of the trigger. The shotgun boomed and the thing went flipping to the left, spun by the impact. Thing about leaping through the air like that is you don’t really have any noticeable weight when you’re up in the air. He’d caught a few idiots who thought they were street fighters that way in the past.

To the left another thing was coming. He didn’t take the time to aim so much as he pointed the pistol and fired. Of course, he was rapidly running out of bullets.

He didn’t dare let go of the shotgun. He still needed that. So he dropped the pistol when he felt the empty click. The shotgun got shoved into his belt, and he winced at the heat coming from the barrel as he reached for the machete strapped to his leg. Thing about a good blade is it never runs out of ammo as long as you have a functioning arm.

Something bit him in the side and Carl screamed. The teeth felt like they belonged on a sabre-tooth and he brought his elbow down and back and punched into a gelid mass that he guessed was an eye by the way the thing let go and howled. While it was pulling back, he followed through with the blade and took off the front of the thing’s face. It might heal, but it was going to feel that shit almost as much as he was feeling the wound in his side.

There were too damned many of them. They were everywhere and he needed to not have that many between him and his target. That left only one option as far as he was concerned. Wade had been on his left and so he pulled the pin, tossed to the right and prayed he wasn’t about to kill himself and one of his best friends.

Another thing—this one looked closer to human—came at him and he dropped low as it charged. The white flesh was hot, muscular and covered with coarse fur. It worked beautifully to shield him from the worst of the fragmentation grenade.

It’s one thing to know that an explosion is going to occur and another entirely to be there when it happens. The sound blew the hell out of Carl’s hearing and the vibrations bowled him backward. Had the Moon-Eye not been on top of him, he had little doubt he’d be dead. The thing rolled with him and most of the bones in its body felt like they’d been broken several times: the solid, muscular form felt like a hot bag of pudding as it rolled with him and the thing’s face was malformed by the impact.

No time to gag and puke and retch. Carl stood back up and was stunned by the damage that had been caused. Though he wasn’t close to the sacrificial altar a lot of what had been between him and his destination was now prone and either bleeding or dead. Some of the things might get back up, but it would take a few minutes.

That would have to be enough.

Carl moved forward and stumbled, his left leg refusing to carry him properly. That was okay. He’d hop if he had to. He maneuvered around the things on the ground, which were motionless or twitching and steaming around him.

He couldn’t hear a damned thing except the ringing in his ears.

As he moved, he reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out his special package, a hand made shotgun shell. Any decent hunter can pack a shell, and though he’d given up hunting years ago, his daddy used to take him when he was a boy. Long as he remembered the basics he didn’t figure he was going to blow himself to Hell—Already there, thanks kids!—when he pulled the trigger.

The shotgun was still in place, but pulling it free felt like he was uprooting it from his side. He didn’t look down, he didn’t dare. His luck he’d have done something significant to his internal organs.

Ahead of him Siobhan Blackbourne and the people and things around her were looking his way. He couldn’t be surprised by that; he had, after all just blown a quarter acre of their kin into shreds. And on the altar in front of her was another body that was dead or dying. And next to her, ready to go on the altar and still struggling mightily was Wade.

Not good, but at least he hadn’t killed the man.

Carl charged forward as best he could and slipped his special shell into the shotgun. He’d maybe have had doubts about this earlier, even when he was putting the damned thing together, but watching the woman with blood all over her hands and front and the wild-eyed expression on her perfect face tended to put things into perspective. He hopped across the body of one of the things on the ground—he didn’t even want to know what it had looked like before the explosion—and stumbled forward.

And as he looked back up, fully expecting the Moon-Eyes and the Blackbournes alike to be charging toward him, he saw a very large number of both recoiling, looking around for some way to escape.

On his worst day he knew they weren’t looking at him. And seeing as they were monsters, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was that had caught their attention, but now and then, you just have to know.

And once he looked, he wished desperately that he could have taken it back.

*      *      *

Siobhan felt the sky opening above her. The explosion the sheriff had caused was trivial, really. It hurt a few, killed some more, but in the end they were not significant. She had so many children and she could always have more, would have more with the One.

The burning circle expanded, and her hair whipped into a frenzy in the sudden change of pressure. Around her the Muhneyht fairly vibrated in ecstasy, their god finally returned to them. Siobhan looked up, her eyes taking in the dark magnificence of Shub Niggurath returned at last. The One was coming home to her, as she and it would be united, joined in their need to breed, to procreate, to multiply. The Black Goat with a Thousand Young, the Black Ram with a Thousand Young—the titles meant nothing, could not begin to express the power of the god that was coming for her. She could feel the god’s desire and in response, her body shifted, became more real, finally began to reveal itself for all to see.

While she was busy viewing the sire of her future children, the man she’d planned to offer up next took advantage of the moment and broke free of his guards. His face was a bloodied mask of rage. To most it might have meant something, but to Siobhan, it was little more than a flea trying to bite at her flesh.

The Muhneyht holding him were struck down, broken by the blows he used to free himself. One of his elbows shot backwards, crushing the nose and skull of the closest of her children. The man bent forward at the waist and another pale figure went flying over his shoulder to fall into the crowd below. This one was a warrior. She could almost have admired him when she was something close to human.

And then as he prepared to attack her, the transformations she was going through became visible to him for the first time.

*      *      *

Frank felt a sense of urgency, and moved forward, drawn to the sacrifices, to the power that they offered, and while some small part of him wondered if there was danger up ahead, the Other voice inside of him was growing louder, more excited by the second. The walls were too narrow, and so he smashed them down, breaking through the hallway with all the finesse of a bowling ball hammering its way down the fluted cup of a champagne glass. Some of the Moon-Eyes—His Other called them “Muhneyht” and was now speaking in the language that Meemaw used to sing to him in, he understood enough to know that the Other was repulsed by the white shapes—tried to stop him, but his arms lashed out, and grabbed them, tore at them, broke them into bloodied pulps. And all the while his Other screamed, drooled, demanded satisfaction.

The double doors before him would have accommodated him only an hour earlier, but now he was too big, too swollen with power and desire. Auntie lay ahead of him. Part of him wanted to kill her. Most of him had other desires.

And Shub was somewhere ahead of him, too. He could hear the voice of Shub Niggurath, a deep tone that vibrated his bones through the swollen meat of his form. He only understood a few of the desires of his Other, but knew that the thing that was taking him over wanted Auntie Siobhan and also lusted after the thing coming down to join with her. Perhaps his Other understood the odd anatomies of the thing, but the very notion hurt Frank’s head.

Frank charged forward, roaring and destroying everything that stood between him and his targets. He was dimly aware of the sheriff limping along in front of him, but not even that man meant anything to him now. He had his Auntie in his sites and he needed to hurt her. The Other disagreed. It had other plans. Two legs didn’t seem capable of moving him fast enough, and so he grew another, and then two more, the better to cross the distances to his prize.

*      *      *

Carl’s hearing must have been starting to come back, because he heard a thunderous roar of obscene noises coming from behind him even as he turned to look. Worse, he could feel the ground shuddering at the same time.

Deep in the pit of his stomach he knew what he would see: he could have told anyone who was there to ask him at that moment, because the last thing he wanted to see was exactly what came up to ride his ass.

The area behind him was no longer a ballroom, nor did it look remotely like any place he’d ever seen in person before. The sky was the wrong color, and the ground was a vast field of jagged rocks and mossy spots that wriggled and squirmed and tried to get out the way of the thing coming toward him, stomping on rocks, moss-stuff and bodies alike with complete abandon.

Frank Blackbourne charged, bulldozing his way past the abominations that tried to get out of his way. Carl did not recognize him easily, because he had grown like a cancer being fed steroids. The freakish thing was easily eight hundred pounds, and each time one of the massive feet slammed into the ground the world seemed to shake. There were a lot of feet. Way too many.

Carl didn’t even try to count them, he just stared, too shocked to do anything else for a moment. The part of the thing that was recognizable as Frank was smaller than he’d expected. He could make out the face, part of the torso, but they were insignificant. The gaping, babbling mouth of the thing below the chest was larger, and drooled as it bellowed vile, offensive gibberish.

Had you asked Carl what his plans were, he would have probably considered prayer, or just possibly even shooting the goddamned thing. What he would not have said, what he would have expressed as a sure fire guarantee of a painful death and maybe a good way to lose his remaining shreds of sanity, would have been to hitch a ride on the freakish thing.

And yet, he did it. Without any conscious thought his left hand lashed out and grabbed at the remaining shreds of cloth that had twisted into the cauldron of flesh that poured past him at high speed.

He was pretty sure he was screaming as he was hauled off the ground. It was hard to tell past the massive thing’s shrieking tirade.

There was a certain rhythm to the way the thing moved. That helped.

Carl held on tight and looked at the approaching altar, the growing image of Wade fighting for his life, the nightmarish thing that Siobhan was becoming—and his mind did not want to even consider that—and worst of all, the shape that was pushing at the blazing rift in the sky.

He had no idea what was trying to be born, but he was terrified to find out.

One shot.

One shell.

One target.

Carl held his breath for a moment and then sighted on Siobhan Blackbourne’s hellish shape as she expanded, grew larger and more malformed even than Frank, and prepared to pull the trigger.

*      *      *

The world had gone stark raving, bugfuck mad. Griffin had managed to free himself but before he could get his hands on the Blackbourne bitch she had begun to grow. No, that was wrong. She wasn’t so much changing as becoming fully visible. Phantom limbs, human, insect, and animal shimmered in the air about her and behind her was a gigantic pulsing mass like the venom sack of some great bloated spider. How could he hope to stop anything like that?

And then another mad image. A huge, misshapen thing that also seemed to be growing in more than one dimension, and riding it like a cowboy gone berserk was Carl goddamn Price. Griffin saw two things at once. He saw Carl level a shotgun and fire, and he saw something silver and glittering out of the corner of one eye. Decamp’s sword, fallen to the ground, perhaps too full of the wrong kind of magic for any of the pale abominations to hang onto.

Griffin dived from the platform as the female horror recoiled from the shot. The shotgun couldn’t hurt her, but perhaps it had surprised her. Griffin hit the ground, rolled and came to his feet, lashing out with the sword to cut through a Moon-Eye who was trying to grab him with hands like lobster claws with eyes. Griffin glanced back. Carl had fallen from his lunatic mount and was limping slowly toward the altar. To Griffin’s surprise, the Blackbourne woman was clutching her midsection and she suddenly looked far more human than she had a moment before. Her fingers were clasped tightly over her abdomen but a great quantity of brackish blood was streaming from the wound. The semblance of other limbs and greater mass was a ghost image around her more human shape.

Above them great arcs of purple flame and coruscating white light spun across the gate. The dark shape trying to coalesce in the center of the gate flickered and a voice unlike any heard on the planet in countless ages shrieked in frustration and rage. Then the giant form that had carried Carl to the stage slammed into the Blackbourne woman and both figures crashed to the strange grassy plain that had appeared out of nowhere.

Griffin made his way to Carl, who was leaning against the altar. He said, “I think the gate is collapsing. What the hell did you shoot that freaking bitch with and do you have any more?”

Carl shook his head and immediately looked as if he regretted it. “One per customer. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now we’d better get the hell out of here.”

Griffin heard a sound like thunder and felt a concussive force shake the ground. He looked past the blazing gate to the rock strewn plain beyond and as he watched, slowly, impossibly, the horizon began to tilt.

“What the hell?” Carl said.

“I think the dimensions are shifting again. We have got to get out of here. I can’t see the door to the ballroom but maybe it’s still there.”

“Go,” Carl said. “My leg’s twisted and I think something’s broken inside.”

Griffin said, “No way. No freaking way.” He slipped one of Carl’s arms over a shoulder and half lifted the sheriff. “Now run!”

Carl didn’t run fast, but he ran. With Griffin supporting his friend, the two ran in some grotesque parody of a three-legged race. Fortunately they met little resistance. Most of the pale ones were cowering on the ground or wailing in terror. That made Griffin remember the remaining humans who had been brought for the sacrifice. Some were still alive. Carl stumbled and almost fell, and Griffin gritted his teeth and moved on. Those other folks were on their own. There was nothing he could do.

Griffin heard another screech and he risked a glance backwards. The gate seemed to be collapsing in on itself and as it did so, anything near it was being pulled inside. Griffin saw pale folk go spiraling into the air, drawn by the force of the shrinking gate. Some were torn apart as they approached the vortex, affected by two different gravities.

The ground bucked and writhed under Griffin’s feet. Was the door really gone? No! There it was, standing in mid-air amidst the leaning, swaying boulders. Griffin half dragged Carl toward the door, cursing with each step. Carl was not a small man. Just as they reached the panel it swung inward and there stood Isaiah Blackbourne. His dark clothes were covered with dirt, his dark glasses were gone, and his gleaming eyes reflected the crimson fire from the gate.

“No,” said Isaiah. “You’re not going to get out of this one. I came home at just the wrong moment. Can’t find my way out of this damn house of mirrors, so looks like I’m going down with the family ship.” He smiled his razor smile. “But at least I can take you boys with me.”

Griffin let Carl slide to the ground and leaped forward, the point of the silver edged sword striking straight for Isaiah’s heart. The albino slipped aside, not with the extra-dimensional speed he had shown before, but with old fashioned, snakelike quickness. Griffin figured Isaiah’s dimension shifting powers were canceled out in this environment of unstable dimensions.

“You’re a quick one,” Isaiah said. “Maybe the fastest human being I’ve seen. Not fast enough though.”

Griffin saw Isaiah’s clawed hand shoot forward and he almost got out of the way, but then he felt lines of fire sear across his shoulder as the claws dug deep. Griffin grunted, but spun away, lessening the damage. He continued his spin, whipping the long, slender sword out in a killing arc. The tip of the sword slashed through Isaiah’s black shirt, leaving a gash in the pale flesh of the albino’s chest.

“You actually cut me,” Isaiah said. “I won’t give you another shot.”

“Sure you will,” Carl Price said.

Griffin and Isaiah glanced down at the same moment. Carl had hold of one of Isaiah’s ankles. The albino snarled and tried to jerk his leg free, but while he was busy, Griffin ran the sword through his chest.

Isaiah sank to his knees, breathing black blood. “Take more than that...to kill me.”

“I believe you,” Griffin said. He jerked the blade free and made a quick cut downward, slicing Isaiah’s head from his shoulders. “I just hope that was enough.”

The ground shuddered again and the entire moor seemed to shift. Griffin bent down and helped Carl to his feet. The two managed to stumble through the door. Griffin felt that familiar nausea that he’d come to recognize as the shifting of dimensions and then they were in the dirty white corridor. But this time the nausea didn’t go away. The walls and floor and ceiling all seemed to be heading in several directions at once and there were too many walls and parts of walls going off at odd angles. Griffin couldn’t help but think of what Charon had said about non-Euclidean geometry. Just looking at the corridor made his head ache and his eyes blur. Reality was collapsing and they had to get out of the house before it finished.

Grunting with effort, both men staggered down the hall, leaning on the walls and on one another. Griffin just hoped they were going in the right direction.

*      *      *

What the hell had that damned fool done to her?

Siobhan screamed, pain lashing through her body, tearing into her in ways she hadn’t thought possible anymore. And before she could properly recover from that sudden explosion of shredded nerve endings, Frank plowed into her. She recognized him, of course, the damned whelp, the nuisance that had haunted her again and again.

She’d created him, she knew that. She’d spoken words of power into his body as she cut him open in her childhood, a toy for her to play with, a favorite toy that she broke and then tried to fix and she’d fixed him all right, but far too well.

“Why don’t you just fucking stay dead?” She screamed the words at him and he looked at her with those pathetic, puppy dog eyes of his, the same ones he’d always cast her way when she discarded him.

And then she saw the other face, the other half of him the part that she had brought out in him with her words, her rituals. The part of him that was like her, connected to the god above them. The god that suddenly screamed in frustration as everything started falling apart.

Frank opened his human mouth and tried to say something, prattling on about his Meemaw again, as if her mother had ever been worthy of anything but contempt. She was a weak-willed woman who was broken when she gave birth to Siobhan.

And Frank’s other face, the true face that had hidden inside of him, spoke again, condemning her, calling for her, demanding that she give herself to him as if that could ever happen.

And above them both, the One roared in pain. Siobhan looked up toward the gateway as it disintegrated, torn apart by the blasphemous metals inside her body.

How many times had her mother called into the charm bracelet? How many rituals had she performed in an effort to stop the curses Siobhan had put on Frank when she was younger and didn’t fully understand that she was meant to be the gateway for Shub Niggurath to come back to the universe? How could it be that the damned woman had created something so powerful, strong enough to bleed the power from her body?

The rift in the multiverse collapsed and pulled with incredible force and Siobhan felt herself drawn up into the sky, pulled along with Frank as if they were little more than leaves in the cosmic wind.

And in that instant she realized her folly.

So many children, so many efforts to create others as adept as she was, as capable as she was and she had always taken for granted that she had failed.

She might have believed it all a coincidence, but she felt it, the taint of the magics her mother had generated, the alteration to the spells her mother had created. Old sorceries to be sure, created by the Pale Ones when they drew the One to mate with her mother so long ago. Only one of her children knew about the charm bracelet her mother had created and been buried with. Only one child would have had the ability to alter the spells woven into the thing.

So many children and the one she’d kept at her side was the one who betrayed her. She screamed Jolene’s name in vain as she was pulled from the sacrificial fields where she was meant to finally gain the graces of her master.

Frank screamed too, crying out his frustrations, his demands for his Meemaw’s damned charm bracelet, which she’d have given if she could have pulled it from deep within her body.

Their screams mingled together with the howling rage of the One and then the rift was gone and their song of damnation was silenced.

*      *      *

Merle Blackbourne ran for all he was worth. He’d never been the most powerful member of the family, to be sure, but he was wise in his way and he knew enough to understand when the end was upon the house he’d helped create. The walls warped and shuddered and the energies that had been built into them started to collapse.

That damnable thing—the monstrous form that had torn the house apart as it entered—had started the damage, but Siobhan’s failure to pull the One through was surely the final blow. He felt her rage as she was drawn into the sky and ripped away from the universe. Part of him was terrified by that notion, but part of him felt a savage glee at the concept of a life without her ruling over everyone and everything.

There was no love in the Blackbourne family. He had never loved his mother, merely feared her. Obeyed because that was what every member of the clan had to do if they wanted to survive.

The ground bucked under him and threw him to his knees.

Merle climbed back to his feet and started running again, shaking off the feeling of nausea that tried to grab his mind and throw him into madness.

He understood the feeling, of course. Riding the dimensions was a tricky business and he’d been doing it for years now, long enough to adjust to most of the odd distortions not only of the senses but of the mind itself as it tried to adjust to the impossible.

He’d get past this. He would endure. That was what Blackbournes did. They survived. He’d survived every obstacle ever thrown at him, and he had prepared himself for the possibilities. Siobhan had amassed a fortune over the years, and being a wise son, he had done the same. Every dealing that had taken place in the Hollow had been his to oversee and every transaction had earned him a percentage.

The walls were falling.

Shit.

Merle braced himself in a doorway for a moment and held on, certain that the end of the place was coming and soon. Not far now. The good news was that he knew the house, had built the house and understood the secrets of getting in and out. He stepped to the left and moved through a hallway that wasn’t visible to the naked eye. He knew it was there because he’d been the one to hide it. The dimensions were locked together here, and the perceptions of reality were deliberately altered. You just had to know where to look and how to look.

Three more paces and to the right at a sharp angle and there it was, the main entrance of the house. The door was open, the ground buckled and broken but still intact enough to let him pass.

“Told you, Wade. Just got to follow the rat to get off the goddamn sinking ship.” Merle turned his head sharply, surprised by the voice. Carl Price was behind him, leaning on the wall. Next to him was his friend, the ex-cop.

Merle opened his mouth and reached for the .38 he had tucked in the small of his back at the same time.

“No. Fuck no, Merle. Not this time.” Price drew first. At the end of the day, the sheriff was faster. Merle left the house with a bullet blowing out the back of his skull. Carl Price and Wade Griffin left the house one second later.

*      *      *

The house did not disappear. It did not collapse in on itself, nor did it explode.

Instead it seemed almost as if the structure gasped out a last breath and died as they stepped past the ruined threshold.

Both Carl and Griffin understood the instant the power left the house: their heads stopped aching with that unique pain, and the hairs on their arms calmed down and settled.

And while both of them felt like collapsing, it had more to do with physical exhaustion and less to do with the distortion of the world.

The house simply sat there, fat and bloated and ruined, broken and beaten by whatever the hell had torn through it.

Whatever explosions were going on inside, they were trapped away in another reality.

Neither one of them could complain about that part at least.

*      *      *

The walking wounded. That’s what Charon had called them and Griffin had to admit she was pretty much on the mark. Sitting there in Decamp’s study, with the late autumn sun shining through the windows, the group did indeed possess a varied collection of bandages, splints, casts, and less visible signs of medical treatment. Griffin had broken fingers on both hands, cracked ribs, and more bruises, cuts, and lacerations than he cared to think about.

Carl had ruptured an eardrum when he had thrown the frag grenade, and had torn ligaments in one knee and broken his left wrist somehow. His collection of cuts and abrasions rivaled Griffin’s as well.

Decamp was still healing from the wounds incurred in his fight with Isaiah Blackbourne, but he seemed well on the road to recovery. He leaned back in his desk chair and took a sip of Charon’s passable coffee. He said, “How did your meeting with the city fathers go, Carl?”

Carl made a face. “I think they bought the exploding meth lab story for what happened to the Blackbourne house. The fact that Wade and I threw some explosives in there before I let anyone see the place probably helped. But a lot of people died over the last few days and there will be more investigations. Ain’t looking good for re-election time.”

Decamp nodded. “More of that may go away than you suspect. I’ve called in some favors.”

Carl gave the man a long look. “What kind of favors?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Griffin glanced at Decamp. What was with this guy?

“Well what I want to know,” Charon said, “Is how you knew that shooting that charm bracelet at Siobhan Blackbourne would hurt her, Carl.”

Carl shrugged. “Instinct and a little bit of the old deductive reasoning. Someone went to some trouble to get that bracelet to me, and whoever did it didn’t seem to mean me any direct harm. Hell they could have killed me while I was in the shower. That and some things Andy Hunter told me about the bracelet made me think it might do some good against the Moon-Eyes.” He paused. “That and there was a note for Andy, told him to give the bracelet to Siobhan. I didn’t think they meant wrapped up as a present.”

“Not bad for a small town sheriff,” Griffin said. “And by the way, if the election doesn’t go your way, I could always use a partner in the private investigator business.”

Carl grinned. “The old team together again, eh?”

“Indeed.” Griffin turned to Carter Decamp. “I guess now’s the time for the hard question. There are still plenty of Blackbournes out there, so is this really over?”

Decamp said, “It’s as over as it was back in 1986. What you and Carl stumbled upon was something that had been in the works for decades. It will take the Moon-Eyes a long time to recover, if they ever do. When you interrupted the spell and sent the Old One back to the other side, the power that the Blackbournes had accumulated went with it.”

“Do you think the Blackbournes inside the house were killed?” Charon said.

“I hope so,” said Decamp. “As I told you before, I think they escaped back in 1986 by shifting through the dimensions. I think it likely that the state of dimensional chaos inside the house kept them from being able to do the same this time. But I can’t be sure.”

Carl said, “Still a lot of questions left unanswered.”

“Unfortunately life is like that sometimes,” Decamp said.

Griffin said, “At least we got a little payback for Jerry Wallace.”

“And for poor Whit,” said Charon.

Carl raised his coffee cup, as if in a toast. He said, “Absent friends.”

The others raised their cups. “Absent friends,” said Griffin.

Table of Contents

Blind Shadows

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