Storberry
Author: Dan Padavona
Date: 2014-08-24 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Vampires
Description: Do You Miss the Days when Vampires Novels were Scary? Haunted by the demons of his childhood, Evan Moran returns to Storberry, Virginia, to find a greater evil threatens the town. Across town, teenager Jen Barrows is frightened by the strange noises which come from her garage crawlspace after nightfall, despite the assurances of friend Tom Kingsley that there is nothing to fear. When a strange storm cripples the town's communication systems, something hideous begins stalking the people of Storberry. Tom and Jen align themselves with Evan and a tiny group of survivors who suspect the horrible t

Contents

Copyright Information

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

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Dark Vanishings

Author's Note

Copyright Information

Published by Dan Padavona

Visit our website at www.danpadavona.com

Copyright © 2014 by Dan Padavona

Cover Artwork Copyright © 2014 by EBook Launch

All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

The crawlspace above the garage was boarded shut. From the inside.

Dew-covered grass glistened beneath the morning sun like fallen stars. Sunrise burned fiery orange against the east-facing buildings of downtown and painted the green grass along Blakely Hill leading out of the town center in gold tones, as though the end of the rainbow could be found here. The rays swept flaxen and auburn up the incline to Becks Pond and Maple Street, where they bathed the side of the Barrows’ white garage in warmth.

Jen Barrows should have been on her way to school by now. Instead, she stood in the dirt and stone driveway and watched the paint-chipped garage with renewed apprehension.

She was shorter than most of her classmates at Storberry Central School, quick-witted and pretty. As the morning breeze, too mild for early spring, played through her long black hair like curious hands, she decided that the day was going to be a warm one.

She had dilly-dallied for too long, and it was too late to catch Tom Kingsley. He was probably halfway to school by now. She would have to walk alone.

There was still the matter of the garage crawlspace.

The crawlspace had a front and a back window, both boarded up from the inside. A side room on the garage caught the westering sun during the afternoon through south and west-facing windows, and her mother liked to start flowers within the room.

Nestled in the room’s corner behind dusty spider webs and a wall of garden tools was a ladder which led up to the crawlspace. An impenetrable trapdoor blocked entry. It too was nailed shut from the inside, evidenced by the rusty nails which protruded from the ceiling like stalactites.

The conundrum had not mystified her until her critical thinking emerged in grade school. Now sixteen, she had pondered the bizarre puzzle for nearly a decade. The crawlspace had been nailed shut since before her parents purchased the house, four years before she was born. She knew, because her father had told her many times. He had no interest in solving the riddle., nor did he have use for the additional storage space, and—

“If you think I'm going to break open that door, and have mothballs rain down on my head while you and your mother laugh at me, you're crazy.”

Many times she had held a crowbar at the ladder’s base, staring fixedly at the trapdoor. If she pried open its secrets, she wondered if she would discover the world's worst carpenter, skeletal and decrepit, proof that Darwin was correct.

Or maybe she would look upon something darker. Rats as big as cats, spiders the size of bats, and the desiccated remains of a previous homeowner who had tried to lock the monstrosities away from the world. An undefinable whisper of warning from deep within always prevented her from taking the next step. What bothered her more was a sense of subtle coercion, as though the space beyond beckoned her to unlock its secrets and see for herself.

Jen twirled her hair with her fingers. She didn't like the riddle. And the noises had started again.

The sounds from the crawlspace didn't happen often, thank goodness. They seemed to come in early spring at the first signs of coming warmth, as though old bones within stirred and desired to move again. When she was a child she had been convinced that a monster lived within the crawlspace, hunkered down in the blackness and waiting for her to fall asleep, so it could creep out of its lair and climb through her bedroom window. She was old enough to know better now but not convinced that her original impression was incorrect.

Her father called the noises growing pains. The old boards were expanding and contracting with the wild temperature swings. Her mother believed it crawled with vermin and that cats found a way inside to stalk them.

But the sounds from the crawlspace were too loud to be cats or “growing pains,” and Jen knew this because it was her bedroom window that faced the old garage. Sometimes when the weather was unusually warm, and the dilapidated exterior washed cobalt in the glow of a full moon, she was sure something hideous was trying to claw its way out.

She shivered despite the building heat. She wished a lightning storm would take the structure away. When she was young, she had prayed for a precision strike to burn her nightmare to cinders. She was alone in the world, the only one who suspected the crawlspace's secrets. And it knew.

The wind shifted from the southwest. Now the morning breeze traveled from the fields above Becks Pond at the edge of the hill forest, descending through a dense copse which separated the meadow from the backyards of Maple Street. The air should have been redolent with the meadow's wildflowers, which bloomed early this season in the unusual warmth. But it never was from this direction. The air had a stale, mothball quality to its.

She suddenly felt exposed, as she stood alone in the face of the garage—its boarded window the eye of the Cyclops, the automatic door a maw which might gape open and swallow her whole.

She clutched her books to her chest and hurried to school.

Two

He looked like a stockbroker in overalls.

The old horse trailer hit a pothole, bounced twice, and settled against the blacktop as he headed west on Winchester Road. Evan Moran was fair-haired and boyish and woefully out of place. As he checked the rear view mirror to ensure that the trailer was still securely connected, General's tail flicked beyond the front grates as if the young horse meant to signal that he was fine. A lesser bump in the road shook the truck and trailer again.

The flora off the road exploded with green leaves and cherry blossoms. It was March 27, 1987, and spring had arrived with its promise of renewal from winter's dormancy.

He eased the Dodge pickup to the center line to give room for two young boys walking along the side of the road. The taller boy rested a baseball bat on his shoulder, and both carried mitts. If there ever was a day to play hooky, this was it. When Evan was certain the truck had safely cleared the boys, he veered back into the right lane.

A car approached from the eastbound lane, camouflaged by bright sun reflecting off its exterior. The car, which looked like a shooting star as it rocketed eastward, took shape as it passed. Yellow Corvette with Virginia plates. Surf board sticking out the window. He didn't recognize it, and it most certainly didn't fit in with these back roads.

Probably headed to Virginia Beach.

He didn't think that was such a bad idea on a morning as sunny as this, but there was work to be done. The fields were plowed and ready for the new season. The Marks' boy would be spreading seed right about now. General was probably missing his pasture too. There were no days off on the farm.

When he reached the end of Winchester Road and its sparsely developed farmland, he turned north onto county route 16. The sky was a deep ocean blue, typical of mid mornings in springtime before the humidity of summer turned it to a white-washed haze. “It's going to be an early summer,” he said without needing confirmation from the weather man.

The pickup traveled past open field and forest for several minutes, interrupted only occasionally by isolated farm houses. As the Dodge wound through a gentle curve, trees at the edge of the road whistling past the vehicle in a blur of green, he turned the radio to AM 670 out of Richmond. The morning news droned in the background. He swept around another curve and—

He slammed the brakes. A tractor and hay cart were stopped in the middle of the road. An old farmer in no rush to move sat upon the huge tractor. The Dodge bucked and skidded as the weight of the trailer pushed it toward the tractor. For a terrifying moment he was sure that the truck would roll, but it righted itself and squealed toward the blockade. Time stopped as he hurtled toward the metal behemoth.

The pickup lurched to a halt in front of the hay cart. Evan's heart pounded, and his mouth felt cotton dry. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and his palms had hummock impressions. Somehow he had stopped in time. He checked the mirror and saw General's tail flick in boredom.

To Evan’s amazement the farmer didn't move forward out of the right lane. He just sat there, eyes as black as coal, regarding him. It occurred to Evan that it would be an easy thing, such an easy thing, to vanish forever on the outskirts of Storberry. The farmer's unblinking eyes burned holes in him. Isn't that a rifle on the side of the tractor?

Evan put the vehicle into reverse, shifted into drive, and drove around the cart. He checked the mirror. The farmer's eyes followed the truck, never wavering, until the Dodge wound through another curve and the farmer disappeared from view. Evan exhaled.

There's your welcoming committee, he thought to himself as the Dodge resumed travel on 16. His pulse raced, and he thought that he could use a cold one right about now. Birds sang in indifference, and the wind whispered through the tall grass.

The pickup turned left on Jensen Road and started into Storberry. It was a wonder anyone knew the town existed as not a single major thoroughfare was within a twenty minute drive. The isolation prevented the town from attracting industry and outside commerce, and made Storberry a good place to hide.

The bright reflection of the sun off the ham radio tower caught his eye on the right side of the road. The tower had been there when he was a child, forever guarding the road like a metal titan. It was still standing tall when he had moved north for school and career, and it was here now.

A wall of trees on the left side of Jensen opened to reveal the brick-faced telephone exchange. He often wondered why the town had located the ham tower and exchange building so close together. All it would take would be one unlucky tornado track and all communications would go down simultaneously. That was forward thinking for you.

On the right stood a wooden welcome sign:

WELCOME TO STORBERRY

EST. 1894 POP 3980

“Home of Southern Charm”

“Southern charm,” indeed. I should still be up north.

Evan had earned a Bachelor's of Arts in Education with a minor in Mathematics at Villanova, and after a year of pounding the pavement and substitute teaching, he landed a full time job in Syracuse, New York teaching tenth grade math. He would have been preparing students for the SAT exams this week had he stayed.

It was the loss of his father in the last year that had forced him to return. John Moran died young, only 64. Evan's mother, Eva, had gone even sooner at 57 when the cancer got her. John was never the same after Eva left. The great brick of a man had become thinner and thinner in the years following her death, until his heart gave out while working the fields under an uncaring gunmetal sky.

John had known that his son didn't love the farm the way he did and that he would leave after high school. Evan wondered what his father would think of him now, choosing Storberry over New York. He had kept the farm, after all.

One mile prior to downtown, the Dodge turned north on Spruce Street, and he took in the changes the town had undergone since he was young.

The Watering Hole was new. The wooden building was designed to portray an Old West Saloon, minus the swinging bat wings that the villain always pushed through when he called out the hero. The Watering Hole chose its entry to be of reinforced steel.

The battle lines were drawn in the eastern end of Storberry. The homes were a growing blight in an otherwise ideal slice of Americana. It was just a matter of time before the residents who cared about the east side gave up and moved, and then the blight would spread unabated.

The worst of the lot was East Avenue. If you ran into trouble with the law, or drank more than you worked, East Avenue attracted you like a moth to a bonfire. It was as though the town had quarantined its disease to one street. Houses with sagging porches, roofs with upturned shingles, lawns turned into makeshift car repair shops. He saw young shoeless children with blank faces watch him from the corner of Spruce and East as he passed. Why aren't they in school?

Evan slowed at the railroad tracks and eased the trailer over the bumps. When he cleared the tracks, a chill ran up the back of his neck.

When the hill forest filled the driver-side mirror, he pulled over to the side of the road and stepped out of the running vehicle onto the rocky shoulder.

The distant trees crowded forward like members of an angry mob breaking through a barricade.

Jesus, it spread.

Left unchecked any forest would expand. Nature always worked to take back what was hers. But not this fast.

Becks Pond heliographed in a cup halfway up the hill. The trees were much closer to the pond than they had been twelve years ago, and now they encroached on the hillside residences along Maple Street. Hadn't anyone bothered to cut them back? Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference.

To the left of Becks Pond sat the newly constructed Liberty Cemetery. Evan wondered why the town would build anything up there. If Storberry envisioned hillside development, he didn't believe the forest would allow it. It was a ridiculous thought, but he knew it to be true.

He climbed into the truck, and as he pulled out, Evan checked the mirrors to ensure the trees hadn't moved closer.

Three

There were no traffic lights on Spruce, and just one four-way stop sign. The number of houses diminished along the three mile drive, as residences gave way to meadows of switchgrass and bluestem.

The Last Stop gas station appeared on the right with no lines and no waiting. Then the road curved westward to become Standish Road, and the red barn of the Moran farm rose up off to the right against the cloudless sky.

When the Dodge turned right into the dirt driveway and pulled up to the barn entrance, the Marks boy squinted into the sun and moved toward the vehicle.

“Any problems, Randy?”

“None. The corn is in and I've got enough hay for another bale.”

Randy Marks was nineteen years old and one year out of school. The gangly red head still had his boyish freckles. Evan liked him a great deal and knew Randy was cut out for more than this.

Randy may have been of average intelligence, but he had worked harder than his classmates and flirted with the school honor roll through his senior year. The boy should be sitting in a college classroom, not baling hay.

Randy unlocked the back trailer and led General out with a click of his tongue. The horse followed him obediently to the pasture.

“I'm starting to think he likes you more than he does me,” Evan said.

“He's just gotten used to me is all.”

The boy returned with a shovel and cleaned out the trailer, but never met Evan’s eyes. As Evan unhitched the trailer and wiped the sweat from his forehead, he was grateful for the breeze moving across the meadows to the east.

“I thought about what to do with that unused corner you plowed yesterday,” Evan said.

“Yeah?”

“Thought maybe we'd have some fun for a change. I got my hands on some watermelon seed from an old friend of my father in Georgia. He says they're sweeter than sugar.”

Randy didn’t reply, but simply nodded.

“We'll sell a few. But I'm thinking they're more fun to eat.”

Again Randy nodded without reply and walked the shovel back to the barn. Evan watched him disappear into the shadowed interior. Something was off with the boy, but Evan suspected now was not the best time to broach the subject.

Randy never talked about his parents. The subject was anathema to him. Evan surmised that they did not see a life for him beyond Storberry, and that was why the boy didn't aspire for college. But there was something else, a discomforting veil over the boy that Evan couldn't identify.

As the sun circled to the southeast at its mid-morning position, Evan shielded his eyes with his hand and glanced toward the southern forest, now front lit by the strengthening sun. Smaller trees along the front swayed in the breeze, as though they were laughing. Larger trees towered behind the new growth like giant wardens.

And then the wind shifted out of the southwest, and he thought he could discern the scent of decay and carrion. But that was impossible. Not from this distance. The hair on the back of his neck bristled.

He would never enter the forest again. Not unless he had no other choice. God help him if it came to that.

Four

He reached down to her thighs and ran his hands to her calves. A few years ago he wouldn't have been caught dead with the girl. Wouldn't have even looked in her direction. But in this moment he longed for her. He grasped her by the ankles and pulled them forward, pushing into her as she moaned into his ear.

He had been thinking of her all morning, and when she arrived at his door he could barely contain himself. Now she was under him again, and he knew he would not last long. He never did with her.

His two room apartment overlooked Main Street from three stories up. There was no air conditioner, and the rising afternoon heat caused beads of sweat to form on their bodies. He could hear the low rumble of car engines and chatter on the street below. It excited him that so many people passed below on the sidewalk, unaware that he was with her.

What they would all say, if they knew that he was with this girl.

But they didn't know.

He pushed forward, and she moaned into his shoulder. His dangerous little secret. His rose, alluring yet riddled with thorns that would tear flesh if he gripped it too tightly.

Sunbeams through the bedroom window illuminated motes of dust, which danced in delight as the cot began to knock against the wall. As the worn bed springs sang to an increasing tempo, he felt her quiver. His body shook, and they were joined together in one moment of glory.

Then he was done.

Katy Lawrence collapsed against the mattress, the long curls of her dark hair fanned out across his pillow like a shawl. She smiled at the boy, but there was no contentedness in her eyes.

Over his shoulder she could see the cheap digital alarm clock next to his television. It read 12:23 pm. There was a time, she recalled, when she marked the day by what class she was skipping. But it had been over a year since she walked into Storberry Central School.

She was seventeen years old and still in the ninth grade. Not that any teacher knew she was a ninth grader, for she attended school so rarely that she was never missed after she quit altogether. Her father never noticed, or never cared. And her mother...well no one had seen her in thirteen years.

The boy of the month was Jeff Branyan. She liked him all right. Jeff liked her more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

He was athletic and fair featured, the perfect combination for a boy to win popularity in high school. Two years ago he threw the winning touchdown pass on homecoming weekend, then he deflowered a pretty sophomore girl named Cheryl (or was it Sharon?) in the backseat of his black Camaro. Back then success came easy to him. Everything came easy. He didn't need a girl like Katy then.

Jeff was twenty now and too dull for college. He had tried. He even attended a two-year school for a semester before he realized he was in over his head. He returned home and worked construction for a summer, knowing full well how ashamed his folks were. Johnny Quarterback. Now Johnny Loser.

He had taken a full time position at the Last Stop, but the pay was barely enough for his tiny apartment. Sometimes he wondered if Bruce Springsteen had him in mind when he talked about glory days, or if his life was too pathetic for even ole Bruce to sing about.

A wind gust pushed the broken Venetian blinds forward, and the room filled with sunlight. The blinds clanged against the window pane like a tin wind chime, and came to rest again.

“That was incredible,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” she said, and stared at the clock.

She is already planning her escape, he thought to himself.

“You need to be somewhere?”

Katy shrugged her shoulders. She didn't desire to see him again today, but she didn't have anywhere to go either. Staying in one place made her uncomfortable, even a bit claustrophobic. There was always another boy to bunk with, so why let the grass grow under her feet?

It had been five days since she had been back to the trailer. She knew her father was asking around by now, trying to find her, and that eventually she would have to return. Otherwise, he would get the police involved.

“No plans. Not really,” she said.

“I gotta work two to ten. I guess you can hang here while I'm gone. If you want.”

He didn't like the idea of her being there while he was away. Not that he believed that she would take anything. She wasn't like that. Hell, what was there to take anyhow? But he also couldn't tell her to come back after ten just so that they could have another go.

“No thanks.”

“So are you going to come by later?”

Again she shrugged her shoulders, and he grew frustrated. He knew it was just a matter of time before she disappeared, as she always did. Sometimes she went back home. He wasn't stupid enough not to know that most times she found others like him. With her looks, and her willingness, there was never a shortage of temporary roommates.

“Fine,” he said, and threw back the bed sheet. “Where the hell do you go all day anyhow?”

“Why do you care?”

“It's just a question.”

Her head turned away from him, and Katy stared out the window through a break in the blinds.

“It's gonna be that way then?”

Jeff kicked the bed sheet off his feet and lay naked on his back. He didn't know why she frustrated him so. What did he care what she did all day, or who she was going to be with next week? That was her business, not his. Jeff sighed and walked to the bathroom, as Katy watched the blur of cars passing through the blinds.

He closed the door but left it unlocked, then turned the faucet to warm and stepped into the shower. As the water cascaded down to his chest in sheets, he closed his eyes and dipped his head under the stream, feeling the water pour through his hair and down his face. He poured liquid soap onto his hands – and wouldn't his buds love to know that not only did he sleep with the weird chick from the trailer park, but that he also washed with a girly-smelling soft soap – and lathered until his body was covered in a foam of white. Then he rinsed and lathered again.

It was always a relief to clean himself after being with Katy Lawrence, even if it didn't make him feel good to think it.

He sighed and resigned himself to another long evening at The Last Stop. If she came back afterward, fine. If not, he'd walk to the Red Lion Tavern and have a beer. If someone else was paying, maybe he'd have three.

Jeff felt clean again. As the soap washed down his body to his feet and circled the drain, gurgling as it descended toward the sewers under Storberry, he shut off the faucet, pulled back the mold-spotted shower curtain, dried off, and wrapped a towel around his hips.

The mirror over the sink was clouded with fog. He barely reflected through the murk, like a ghost beyond the glass. Tendrils of mist floated past his vision.

He ran a comb through his hair and mused how he would explain Katy Lawrence to his friends if they ever found out. Maybe it shouldn't matter. If they didn't like her, too bad. What shit did he give what anyone thought about him now?

He would ask her to stay, maybe even tell her that he worried about her. He owed her that much.

When he opened the door, she was already gone.

Five

The big clock on the Storberry Savings Bank read 1 pm. The digital readout cycled to the temperature: 78 degrees.

The days were longer than the nights now, and if you lived there you began to notice the telltale signs of summer's approach. It was there when the south wind carried the sweet smell of purple aster and bellflower off the meadows into Storberry and when the marsh marigolds exploded in brilliant yellows. And then you knew that the heat of summer was not far behind.

In southern Virginia summer ignored the meteorological calendar and arrived the first week in May. Sometimes earlier. Once it came to stay it would not leave until October, sometimes not until the last Halloween pumpkin was carved and glowering at passersby.

You knew it arrived when the gray stratus of winter washed away to the north, and the prevailing wind shifted to southerly carrying gulf moisture through the Carolinas and across the Virginia border. You knew it when shorts and a t-shirt were warm enough for night walks, when the daytime humidity was so thick you were sure you could grasp it in your hands and wring it out like a sponge, and when thunderstorms rose out of massive cumulonimbus and raked the countryside with winds strong enough to bend trees to the soil.

In summers when storms do not come, the sun bakes every drop of moisture out of the soil until all that remains are infertile hummocks of dust, which take to the wind and choke the air. Crops are laid to waste, and banks foreclose on the family farm.

Intuition told Greg Madsen that summer would come early to Storberry this year. He could not know if it would be a harsh or prosperous year; only that the long days of summer were close.

He watched the Lawrence girl hasten south along Main Street. She had come out of the apartment buildings across the street from the Sweet Nothings Café. Madsen knew she had been with the Branyan boy again. He also knew that the Lawrence girl had to be watched. She had dropped out of school. She shoplifted when she couldn’t afford necessities. And she slept in too many beds.

He kept an eye on her, not to catch her in the act, but because he cared. He couldn’t think of a worse home to grow up in than the Lawrence home. Madsen had arrested her father, Dell, multiple times for public intoxication, brawling, and on one memorable occasion for public nudity outside The Watering Hole. But his greatest crime, the one Madsen had no jurisdiction over, was the toxic environment he raised his child in.

At least Dell had stayed. The mother had left them a long time ago—disappeared in the middle of the night, or so the story went, never to be seen nor heard from again. Madsen could understand a marriage breakup—they happened all the time. But to abandon your child was unfathomable. It was a hell of a load to dump on a kid. Katy’s regression was both predictable and tragic.

The sound of chatter swelled behind him as the door to the café swung open. Cool air conditioning spilled down the steps and across his calves, and then the door closed.

At 32 years of age Madsen was young for a chief. He arrived in Storberry a decade prior straight out of college, and encountered a department composed of officers long on experience but short on ambition. There were six full time officers and three part timers who filled in on the desk and worked an occasional beat.

When his police radio crackled to life, he was alerted to a stalled car at the corner of Main and Jensen. He was riding his bike today, saving the department a few dollars in gas and taking advantage of the gorgeous day. There wasn’t much he could do to revive a stalled car, but he could stay with the driver until a mechanic arrived.

As Madsen rode southward with traffic on Main, he hopped the curb seeing the blinking hazard lights of a rusted Subaru at the corner. The Lawrence girl was on the opposite sidewalk about twenty yards ahead, her long curls bouncing behind her.

He kept an eye on her until she ducked into the Red Lion Tavern. The owner Chuck Kingsley would be on the bar today, and Madsen knew Kingsley was an honorable man and would never serve Lawrence. But he also knew she would find someone to go home with. As he found himself wishing that she had stayed with the Branyan kid, Doug Masterson, arguably the second-most disreputable man in Storberry next to Katy’s father, followed the girl into the tavern with his eyes glued to her. The tavern door closed, and Greg felt a sense of anxiety as he lost sight of her.

Jeff Branyan wasn’t going anywhere in life, and he’d probably bounce between dead end jobs like The Last Stop forever. Madsen had once considered talking the kid into joining the department. He was strong and athletic, and Madsen’s instincts told him that Branyan’s street smarts dwarfed his IQ. He might make a fine cop with a little refinement.

Lawrence could do much worse than Branyan. He would treat her decent, and she would leave him for someone who wouldn’t.

Six

Renee Tennant unrolled the driver’s side window of her hatchback and pulled out of the Storberry Public Library’s parking lot. It was after 3 pm, and the student help, in the form of Jen Barrows, had arrived to tend to the library.

She had grown up in a small town in the northwest corner of the state, graduated from West Virginia with a degree in American history, and later found another small town to call home. Renee sometimes wondered if Storberry was her attempt to take a mulligan on her childhood.

Her father had been a steel worker, and her mother stayed at home. It was a conservative household. Perhaps not conservative in a political sense but in a traditional sense. She had one sibling – an older brother named Kevin who was an all-state basketball and baseball star. As far as Renee was concerned, her parents had one child, and that child was Kevin.

Renee drifted through her teenage years like a phantom – never seen or heard, even if her presence was suspected. The family would sit in the living room after the dinner dishes were put away, and Renee would say, “I made Honor Roll this quarter,” and Dad would say, “Did you know Kevin is leading the league in assists?” And Renee would say, “I’m thinking of trying out for the school musical this spring,” and Mom would reply, “Will it interfere with your brother’s baseball games? We can’t be two places at once. And did you know your brother won the game with a double and—”

And she could forget asking for the car on Friday night, because Kevin needed it to go out for pizza with his friends, or to pump Betty Lou Grayson’s tires at the lake.

Yet Kevin treated her well. He was not responsible for the actions of his parents, and she was mature enough to recognize it. He watched out for her, took her under his wing whenever possible, and showed more interest in her activities than either parent had.

When Renee began dating, he sat her down and told her that she didn’t have to go as far as some boys expected. When the Crasnick boy spread a rumor about Renee on a park bench after a school dance, Kevin explained the meaning of life to the boy in the locker room and ended the lesson with a salvo to the solar plexus. The rumors died with one punch.

But she remained a phantom in her own home.

The local library became her respite. Sometimes she walked to the library after school and read until dark. She liked the low hum of the light fixtures and the feel of the dog eared pages. The smell of the paper vaguely reminded her of vanilla.

The checkout cards in the book backs told their own tales. Mr. Gamble, the biology teacher who read teen romance. Jennifer Norris, the cheerleader who found comfort in horror. Bill Turrey, the 250-pound linebacker who read Twain and Dickens with ferocity.

Kevin went to the University of Pittsburgh on a full athletic scholarship to much fanfare. Two years later, Renee garnered multiple academic scholarships and nobody noticed. Except Kevin.

Make lots of nice friends, dear, study hard, and here’s your bags…

Yeah, and I won’t let the door hit me in the ass on my way out.

Now she was seven years out of college and happy to be running a public library of her own.

She followed Court Street northward, and as she turned right on Standish and increased her speed to the 40 mph limit, apple and cherry blossoms lit both sides of the road in splashes of color. The colors raced past the side windows like paint streaks. She released the auburn curls from her pony tail and let the warm wind catch her hair.

There was a large-lidded Rubbermaid box and a shovel stuffed into the hatchback's trunk. It was a perfect day to get her garden started, and the Moran farm always had leftover manure plowed into piles for the town to take.

Just before Standish veered and became Spruce, the big red barn appeared on her left. She recognized the redheaded farmhand in the driveway as Randy Marks, who knelt fixing a wheel to the horse trailer. Her heart sunk when she didn’t see the manure pile.

“Afternoon,” she said, waving to Randy.

“Miss Tennant,” Randy said with a courteous nod.

Renee climbed out of the car and shut the door. She had changed into a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a t-shirt in her office, and donned a sun hat. The boy didn’t notice the sun hat because he was looking at her legs.

“Usually there is a pile here for the taking?”

“Yes ma'am,” Randy said without lifting his eyes. “There was last week. We have more out back. Let me get Mr. Moran.”

As Renee leaned against the car, she pushed herself up to sit on the hood. She could see Moran through the open barn doors. He chewed on a carrot while he patted down a horse at the pasture fence. The man bit off a piece for the horse, who took it from his clenched teeth, and this made her grin.

As Evan Moran walked through the barn entrance with a smile, she realized that he wasn’t as she had imagined. It was common knowledge that Moran was a former teacher and college educated, but it still surprised her how little he looked like a farmer. She thought he looked more like a young college professor.

“Evan Moran,” he said and shook her hand.

“Renee Tennant.”

“You were looking for some compost supplies, I take it?”

“If it isn’t any trouble.”

“None at all. Let me push the pile out to the front, and you can take whatever you need. There’s plenty.”

“Thank you Mr. Moran, and I’m sorry to give you extra work.”

“Well it’s a crappy job but someone has to do it, har har,” he said as he walked back through the barn. “And call me Evan.”

She laughed, and it broke what little ice existed. She already felt comfortable talking to him, like she had known him for years.

“Ah yes, a comedian and a gentleman,” she shouted back to him.

He faded into the shadow of the barn’s interior, and then the light through the back doors rendered him anew.

Evan drove a small tractor from behind the barn and pushed the pile to the front. Afterward they shoveled as much as they could fit into the container.

“I hope you don’t think I’m prying. I’m curious why you left New York for our little town,” she said.

“You’ve been doing your homework.”

“People talk.”

He considered his answer before he spoke.

“I suppose I could say that I didn’t want the farm in someone else’s hands. And maybe there is some truth to that,” he said, and then paused. “It’s hard to say why. Call it unfinished business, if you like.”

“And now you are Farmer Evan.”

“I suppose I am. It’s a good life. No boss looking over your shoulder, no school boards or unions to wrestle with. And I’m outside on a day like today, and I can use manure to attract pretty girls.”

She laughed and shook her head at him.

“Like flies?”

“Hardly.”

Together they lifted the container into the back of her car.

“I was just about to call it a day and get cleaned up. Could I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Make it tea and you’ve got a date,” she said with a smile.

“That would be fine. How about an hour from now at Sweet Nothings?”

“I would like that,” she said. She considered him for a moment and said, “You’re a breath of fresh air around here, Evan Moran.”

Renee climbed into her car, and Evan closed the door for her. As she backed the hatchback into the road and turned up Standish, he waved and yelled, “See you in few!”

She was pleased he had made the first move. She liked him. There was something trustworthy about him, and she felt a tinge of excitement in her stomach as she thought about seeing him again.

Seven

A dead silence crept through the interior of the forest.

You could not have heard it, for you were not permitted this deep into its center. But if you were to venture this far, the silence would have overwhelmed you.

The silence was in the great trunks of trees which towered above their younger brethren, watching and waiting. It was in the smell of decay and rot in its soil. It was in the absence of birds and in the leaves which floated to its dirt and fed hungry roots spreading with quiet aggression under the forest floor.

It was in the wind that never reached its interior. It was in the darkness, too, for if you were unfortunate enough to find yourself here, you would stumble blindly among its sentries, and your screams would not be heard.

The dead silence emanated from the leaves that conspired to blot out the sun and the branches and roots that choked off competing vegetation. The silence crept toward what it craved beyond its borders. It had a purpose now.

Half a mile beyond the forest border, the sun's rays danced across the surface of Beck's Pond. The spring air carried the scent of wildflowers, and a hint of barbecued burgers drifted on the wind off Maple Street. The cerulean sky appeared as a tropical ocean held aloft.

Matted tall grass and weed marked a beaten path which wound irregularly from the pond back toward the northeast, a worn book eternally rewritten by the children of Storberry. As a lawnmower buzzed to life from the backyards of Maple Street, the distant voices of children playing carried on the wind to the meadow.

Tom Kingsley cast his line into the middle of the pond and brushed blonde locks from his eyes. The sixteen-year-old son of Chuck and Donna Kingsley was only mildly disappointed that the fish weren't biting, because she was here.

She sat on the end of a small makeshift pier, legs crossed with her toes dangling into the water. He was feigning interest in the fish and sneaking looks at her legs. She smiled and pretended not to notice.

Jen Barrows had grown up five houses from Tom on Maple Street. They had run with the same neighborhood friends and spent their childhood at Becks Pond and the surrounding meadow. Time changed a growing body. She was very pretty now, and he began to feel an ache in his stomach whenever he was with her. He thought about her before sleep, and sometimes if he was lucky he would dream of her, too.

Lately he wondered what it would be like to hold her hand or to kiss her soft lips.

“Dare you to jump in,” she said.

“I dare you to go first.”

“I can't. I'm not wearing a bathing suit.”

“That's okay. I'll hold your clothes for you.”

“Ha! You would like that, wouldn't you?”

She saw that he was blushing when he laughed. She thought of telling him that she thought it was cute but didn't want to embarrass him any more than he already was. He carried himself with more maturity than other boys his age. Tom Kingsley was brilliant, too. He was still a junior in high school, but Cornell and Princeton had already offered him scholarships to attend their schools.

As he concentrated on the line, which extended into the middle of the pond and disappeared into the cloudy bottom, the nylon strand danced left and right, pushed by subtle waves under the surface.

Now she stole a glance at him, and for a moment was lost in thought. When had this happened? Her feelings for him seemed to have appeared suddenly, but in truth she knew it had been a gradual process, like the way coral accretion builds a masterwork which is only appreciated in finality.

She wanted to tell him how she really felt, but she knew time was running out. A little over a year from now, Tom would leave Storberry, and her childhood friend would be gone. When someone as gifted as Tom Kingsley left a town like Storberry, they did not return.

“Let me show you how it is done,” she said.

She fixed her own hook with a worm and cast it into the pond. The hook splashed next to his line, and concentric circles expanded across the water.

“Don't even think about stealing all of my fish,” he said.

“You don't own the middle of the pond, Tom Kingsley. Besides, you're just making excuses because I'm whipping your behind again.”

“The afternoon isn't over yet.”

She felt a tug on her line, and then she reeled in another small sunfish. He looked incredulous.

“That's four to one. There's no shame in surrendering,” she said, and then unhooked the wiggling fish and tossed it back to the pond. It landed with a splash, and its shadow darted toward the murky bottom like an arrow shot from a bow.

“You must be cheating,” he said.

“Cheating? How can I possibly be cheating?”

“And therein lies the mystery,” he said.

He reeled in his line, swung it over his shoulder, and sent it toward deeper water. Jen smiled at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Why don't we take a walk? You can watch me catch more fish than you again tomorrow,” she said.

“Oh, sure. Just when I was about to stage my big comeback.”

They wound in their lines and placed their fishing poles in the grass next to the pier. Jen slipped on a pair of gray sneakers which had been white last fall.

There were still two hours of daylight left, and the sun's rays painted in amber swatches across the meadow of wildflowers and bluestem. Jen and Tom hiked southwest up the gentle slope of the hill, their long shadows following them through the tall grass. Robins grew more active with their songs, sensing the march toward sunset. The wind played through the meadow like distant breakers.

Tom stole glances at Jen as they walked. She appeared more beautiful to him every time he saw her. He paid her too much attention and almost walked headfirst into a low hanging maple branch. She giggled as he clumsily dodged it.

“Smooth move,” she said.

They passed the Liberty Cemetery on their left. The sparse population of headstones was cordoned off toward the southern border of the property by empty grassland, almost 100 yards from them. In a town as small as Storberry, it would be a long time before the sizable property began to fill in.

It seemed a little creepy to have the cemetery so close. Becks Pond had been a fun escape for them since they were kids, but now the cemetery always loomed in the background. Tom wasn't superstitious, and he certainly didn't believe in ghosts, but there was something about the way the new cemetery butted up against the hill forest that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The cemetery placement seemed a tragic mistake.

As their footfalls became soft whispers against the thick meadow grass, Tom realized that he didn't quite know where they were walking to, though their path was toward the forest edge. The destination wasn't important. He was happy to go wherever Jen wandered. Just as long as she didn't want to cut through the cemetery or enter the forest.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” he said.

“I heard something in the old garage again last night.”

“We've been over this.”

“And every time that you tell me there is nothing to worry about, I hear it again.”

“It was probably a cat. I see them sneaking into our garage all the time.”

“It sounded a lot bigger than a cat, Tom.”

“Okay,” he said.

Jen had been afraid of the old garage behind her house for as long as he had known her. Her stories of a monster hiding in the dark crawlspace above the garage had haunted him when he was young, but they were teenagers now. It was past time to reason this out.

“Why don't you tell me exactly what you heard, without the opinion of what you think it was.”

She sighed. She knew it sounded ridiculous.

“There were loud creaks, very loud creaks, like something heavy was walking across the floor boards. And a scratching noise, like it was trying to tear right through the front wall.”

“Well, the scratching could have been anything. A cat, a mouse, even a skunk. The creaks are a little more difficult to explain if they were as loud as you say they were. But my guess is that the old boards were settling after all of the warm and cold snaps we have had lately. That garage is older than dirt, and I doubt your father maintains it. Heck, I've never seen him park in it.”

“You make it all sound so logical. How would you explain the growling?”

“You heard growling, too?”

“Well...no. Not last night. But sometimes at night, I do hear something that almost sounds like a growl.”

“Have you heard this growling during the day?”

She considered the question for a moment.

“No, I'm sure I haven't.”

“And we are ruling out the obvious – that your imagination runs wilder at night than by day?”

“You're on shaky ground, Tom Kingsley. Your answer?”

“Physics.”

“Physics?”

“Yes. It has to do with the way sound travels. When the sun sets, the ground cools off, and the warm air rises into the air above it. Sound tends to travel differently at night, and sometimes you hear something from a long way off, and it sounds closer than it really is. Like if a bear wandered to the top of the copse and growled. You might hear it at night, but not during the day.”

“I think you are trying a little too hard to come up with an explanation.”

“Well, what is the alternative?”

“The alternative? I guess the alternative is there is a monster above the garage.”

“Exactly. And since I live five houses away from you, I would also be in imminent danger of said monster. So you understand my need to offer a more logical explanation.”

“So what you are saying is that I'm not crazy, you're just a wuss?”

“At least I don't cheat at fishing.”

She laughed, and when she looked into his eyes, his heart beat a little faster.

After talking to her for so long that he hadn't noticed how far they had wandered, the joy Tom felt from being with Jen faded, and he felt a dark pall fall over him. The hill forest loomed over them, the trees like gangly giants laughing.

It was thicker than any forest in these parts could naturally be. Younger maples, oaks, and elms crowded the front line. Behind them rose a greater diversity of trees, many with thick, imposing trunks.

While the trees across town had just started to bud out from the unusual warmth, the leaves at the top of the hill forest were near maturity, creating an impenetrable canopy that repelled sunlight. The early growth might have spoken to the rich soil and health of any other forest, but here it seemed to whisper of aggression and something unnatural.

More unsettling was the lack of activity within the forest. Where was the wildlife? Except for the odd chipmunk or bird along the periphery, there was no visible activity deeper into the forest. It grew dark after several rows of trees, and they could see only blackness beyond.

For reasons Tom did not understand, Jen was utterly frightened of the old garage behind her house, but seemed only mildly unsettled in the presence of the forest. Tom had hiked through the mountains and forests of Virginia with his parents many times. He knew about the diversity of life which inhabited it and how the rich fecund smell of the forest floor promised growth and life.

Those smells and sounds were absent here. In their place was something reminiscent of pond water out of balance.

An alarm from the back of his mind pushed past his ability to reason with his fear through logical argument. It may have been an instinct which was instilled in everyone, borne of a time when people understood that true evil walked the earth. It awoke and called to him, and in the shadow of the hill forest, he heard it.

He wasn't afraid of horror movies, monsters, or the boogeyman, but he was afraid of what he couldn't see in this forest.

“How about another dare?”

“Oh I don’t think so, Jen.”

“I dare you to enter the forest and go as far as that big oak tree at the edge of the darkness,” she said, pointing about 30 yards into the forest.

Her dare was not taken lightly. They had run with neighborhood friends through the meadow all their lives, and sometimes they even entered the boundary of the forest to hide. But nobody ventured into its depths.

The reason, most kids claimed, was that the forest was too dark to safely run through. What if you stumbled into a hunter's trap, or fell into an unseen hole? What if there were wild animals waiting in the dark?

But the real reason was more likely borne of the stories they told to each other around campfires and at sleepovers. Stories about the evil things that lived deep inside the forest, the people who disappeared in it never to be seen again, or the dead which returned from its dark interior. Every town has its haunted house, and for Storberry, it had always been the hill forest.

“How about you do it instead?”

“Oh yeah? I will. Not a problem.”

As Jen walked toward the trees, fear welled up in Tom's chest, and he grabbed her by the arm.

“That was a joke. You're not going in there. Forget it.”

“Now who's afraid of monsters?”

“I'm not afraid of monsters. Let's be serious here. I hardly see anything at all past that oak. How do you know there isn't a bear or a coyote just waiting for you to walk right up to it?”

“Or a ghost?”

“Stop that.”

“Or a crazy man with an ax,” she said, her eyes large and exaggerated.

“I doubt it. But all sorts of things live in that forest. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they aren't out there.”

“Well, one of us has to go in.”

“No, one of us does not need to go in. This is just one of your dares, and it's not a very good one. Let’s fish some more. Best two out of three?”

“Tell you what. We'll do it together. We'll both walk to that tree, touch it, and get out of there. One minute, tops.”

At that moment he would have done most anything she asked of him, but the farthest reaches of his brain screamed danger!

Consciously, he reasoned that it was just a forest and there was nothing to fear. If there really was a bear out there, they would have heard it by now. And did he really believe in monsters? No. So what was the harm in walking with Jen into the forest? And how would she view him if he didn't?

His unease remained. Nothing seemed to make sense about the hill forest. Why weren't crickets chirping in the dark and wildlife rustling through the leaves? Why was it that the breeze bending the tall grass around them didn't reach inside the tree line?

Why is it so quiet?

“Tom Kingsley, don't tell me you are too afraid to walk into the forest with me.”

And that was all she needed to say. The internal scale tipped, and the right side of his brain claimed control. Rational thought prevailed.

After all, this was no more dangerous than walking into a dark room at night and flipping on the light switch. Hadn't he always been afraid of the dark? Many times as a child his fear was greatest the moment before the light turned on. What would the light reveal, waiting for him?

Irrational fears were never realized. There was never a decrepit witch cackling, or a crazy man with a butcher's knife crashing out of the bedroom closet. There was always just a room, his dirty clothes piled in a corner where the left side of his brain had interpreted the shadow shape as writhing snakes.

“No, of course not.”

“So let's go.”

“On one condition, Jen. No messing around.”

“Scouts honor,” she said, raising one hand in the air in mock sincerity.

“I'm serious.”

As they started into the woods, walking slowly side by side, the first trees passed behind them, and weak sunlight filtered through overhead branches. Jen smiled at him as if to say, See, there is nothing to be afraid of. Tom's eyes darted back and forth, scanning the forest for hidden dangers. The stillness beyond the inner boundary unsettled him.

Halfway to the big oak he saw that the first layer of darkness had been an optical illusion. With the sunlight cloaked by the forest behind them, his eyes adjusted to make out larger trunks behind their target. But the darkness became more absolute past that point. He was certain that was no optical illusion. The trees deeper into the forest grew huge and crowded together to form a barrier of foliage and branches impervious to sunlight. The only available light would be in small pools of gray widely scattered across the forest floor. The darkness would only grow in the coming weeks as the foliage filled in, spurred by the coming heat.

The brown mat of twigs and dried leaves crunched underfoot like brittle bones. The crackles died with each step, without natural reverberation, as though they walked within a soundproof room.

Tom did not approach the oak so much as he was drawn to it against his will, as if he stood on an invisible conveyor belt. Closer and closer it drew him, the deep contours of its bark further rendered with each step. The air quality, which should have overflowed with health from abundant photosynthesis, tasted stale.

When they were several steps from the big oak, Tom's anxiety grew stronger, and he began to fear that Jen might run into the woods, laughing and expecting him to chase after her. Tom didn't think she would take such a foolish risk in the low light, but he also knew it was not unlike her to do something unpredictable. He imagined her bolting into the darkness and daring him to follow. What would he do then? Would he be able to find her in the gloom without becoming lost?

The oak drew closer, Tom's eyes shifting between the unseen within the forest and Jen. And then their target was attained without incident. No boogeymen here. They reached toward the oak, and both laid their hands on its moss-covered bark. Jen shrugged her shoulders.

“I guess the monsters are too afraid to show their faces,” she said.

Tom smiled back at her but noticed that she kept her voice to a whisper.

He was relieved she hadn't done anything crazy to tease him. As he breathed deeply, somewhat sickened by the stagnant air, the forest interior pressed against him with unnatural warmth. His instinct screamed for him to turn back while there was still time.

A branch snapped ahead in the darkness, startling both of them.

For the first time Jen wasn't smiling. Her eyes met his questioningly, and they stood and stared toward the direction of the noise. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he felt goosebumps spread over his body. If there was a bear or a coyote out there, it wasn't far away, and they would not be able to outrun it if it charged.

Jen moved her lips, but Tom cut her off by pressing a finger to his mouth, signaling her to stay quiet. Nothing moved in the forest. The smell of humus beneath them turned acrid.

The ancient trees stared down at them like giants cloaked in darkness. Branches grew outward like gnarled arms and talons. There was an added depth to the silence, something they could not put a finger on.

They knew they were not alone.

They froze in place, and no words were spoken. Tom could see that Jen was scared, and for one moment he almost wanted to turn the joke on her. But he sensed the danger was not imagined. It was real. He remained motionless, while his eyes struggled to cut through the shadows.

You don't want to flick the light switch on this time.

Another branch cracked, this one much closer.

The unseen danger snapped him out of his trance, and he grabbed Jen by the arm. Terror spread across her face, and then he pulled her from the tree as the shadows shifted at the periphery of their vision.

They turned and ran without caution across the pitfalls of the forest floor. Tree limbs whipped past their faces in a blur, slapping and scratching at their skin. The snapping of branches pursued them out of the darkness, coming quicker now.

A voice from within screamed at Tom, Get to the light! He dragged her forward as they ran, afraid she might fall behind.

The sunlit meadow was not far ahead, appearing as an amorphous sheet of white beyond the comparative blackness of the forest. Leaves rustled and branches snapped like toothpicks behind them, closer and closer. It was gaining on them. The filtered light at the forest edge grew stronger, and they ran to it like frightened toddlers to a parent.

The meadow sunshine appeared blinding from the forest.

They burst into the meadow, and as they ran without looking back, past the cemetery, through the tall grass, and toward Becks Pond, bluestem whistled past their faces in indistinct green blurs. Tom no longer heard the pursuit but was certain it was close behind. He could feel it, like you can feel someone behind you in the dark a split second before they place a cold hand on your shoulder.

The still pond waters shimmered in the distance, heliographing so loudly that the pond seemed to shout for them to reach its edge. The familiarity of its waters gave them hope that safety was within reach. Tom's lungs burned as his legs pumped like pistons. And still he held her arm, forcing her to keep pace.

They were out of breath when they pulled to a stop at Becks Pond. Jen could not have sprinted another ten yards without collapsing.

Tom finally allowed himself to look back. Across the meadow, tall grass and wildflowers danced in the wind. The distant forest edge cloaked whatever lay beyond in a shroud of black. He watched for signs of movement, expecting something to crash out of the forest at any second.

Nothing came.

Jen bent forward with her hands on her knees and gathered her breath. Her eyes met his, and there was an unspoken understanding that passed between them. The danger had been real. They had both felt it.

The sun fell lower, and the western sky was painted in fiery oranges. The drone of car engines moved between Main Street and Blakely Hill. Somewhere below them, a dog barked on the western edge of Maple Street. It was answered by another bark from the east.

They gathered up their fishing rods and hastened down the winding path below Becks Pond toward Maple Street. They did not wish to be near the forest edge when darkness fell.

Eight

The black shingled roof absorbed the sun on the west end of Storberry. Randy Marks watched the house from a distance on Randolph Road. Heat radiated off the blacktop in ripples, like a gateway between dreams and being.

He touched the steel in his front pocket, and it felt as unwavering as the young man's decision.

Randy always thought things through. The day had been well-planned— the neighbors would not be home from work yet; his younger brother Benny was with a friend at school for the Science and Mathematics Awards Show, and then Benny would be spending the night at his friend’s house.

His parents would be alone in the house.

He had finished his chores at the Moran farm, and though he had accepted Evan's invitation to live on the premises, he didn't feel comfortable with the charity, even if he needed it.

Either way, the goodwill would soon end. It was just a matter of time before the town found out, and then he would go away forever.

He had walked west on Standish from the farm, where he caught a ride with an elderly gentleman named Tucker Pence, who Randy knew from Saint Anthony's church. Randy figured it wouldn't take long before the young police chief was in Pence's living room, and—

Yeah I gave Randy Marks a ride to Randolph on the day he shot them. He was such a good boy. Quiet, you know? Aren't they all, before they do something bat-shit crazy? And no, I wouldn't have given him a ride had I known he had a gun.

Randy worried about Benny. After tonight, he would be alone in the world and living with the reality that his brother had killed Mom and Dad. Better that than the alternative, of course, because Randy knew it would start again. Benny was the right age after all, the same age Randy had been when it first started.

The sun watched overhead, a lone witness in the depthless blue. He felt his forehead burning. Blood pulsed in his neck, and the shiver he felt when he looked at the house belied the oppressive heat. The two windows looked back at him, eyes which had seen all and knew his intentions.

It had happened beyond those walls of concealment, through his childhood and into his teenage years. It would have continued too, had he not grown strong enough to stop the man's advances. He hadn't possessed the power to defend himself as a child, any more than would Benny now.

It had to end today.

He climbed the steps, and as he cast a glance at the empty neighboring driveway, he tested the knob. The door was unlocked. His mouth was cotton dry, and he licked his lips.

When he pushed against the door, it didn't squeal or groan. It swung open smooth as silk on well-oiled hinges.

The living room was shadows and vague outlines, his eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. The heat felt stifling.

The son-of-a-bitch is too cheap to run the air conditioner for his family.

The television was off, and he could hear the transistor radio from the kitchen playing harmless pop drivel, as though it were an integral part of the house's facade. He thought they might be in the barn behind the house, but then he heard the rocking chairs from the sun room.

Reeek. Reeek.

The sound brought a rush of memories, like a dam giving way.

He thought of the many times the man had come to his room. He would close the door, latch the hook-and-eye, and pull the shades. The man who called himself his father liked it better when it was dark, as though he figured God could not see into the shadows.

Randy had been nine when it started. Calvin Marks had wanted to show Randy something, to teach him a new kind of exercise he said. He used soothing tones to warn his son that it might hurt a little at first, and Randy remembered the uneasy feeling that had crept over him while his father talked, like he was Hansel being coaxed inside a house made of chocolate and candies.

And it had hurt like hell. A burn which erupted into a tearing pain. All the while Calvin spoke in soothing tones, as the pain increased.

“Just a little more Randy...that's it...easy peasey...”

Then, when he was finished with Randy, who lay slick and sobbing, he would return to the sunroom and his favorite rocking chair.

How wonderfully ironic that he was in his chair today.

Huey Lewis sang about the power of love when Randy Marks crossed the kitchen to the sun room. The music sounded tinny and hollow through the cheap radio speaker. And still they rocked, unaware or uncaring of his presence.

Reeek. Reeek.

Sue Marks was lost in a paperback when he opened the screen door dividing the dining room from the sunroom. Her long black hair was pulled back from her face.

Randy felt a tinge of guilt when he saw her. Was it necessary for her to pay the same price?

She had always known. The lines on her face, too deep for a woman in her late forties, were proof enough. She could have ended it years ago. Her inaction made her complicit.

“Oh, I didn't see you there dear,” Sue Marks said, placing the novel in her lap.

As Calvin Marks thumbed through a sports magazine, his reading glasses on the edge of his nose, Randy noticed that there wasn't so much as a line on his father’s alabaster skin. His thinning hair was slicked back, and he wore a polo shirt which Randy found maddening. Calvin Marks was probably the only pompous ass in this one-horse town that owned a polo. It was always about appearances with Calvin. His father flipped the glossy pages to an article about the upcoming baseball season.

He won't even look at me.

“You don't look well, Randy. You shouldn't work so hard in this heat,” she said.

“He's a busy boy, Sue,” Calvin Marks said with his head still buried in the season preview.

“That's what you do when you graduate high school with honors. You stay busy. Shoveling horseshit for some two-bit teacher who couldn't make it up north.”

He sniffed.

Hatred roiled through Randy like boiling water in a lidded pot.

“Fuck you, Calvin.”

The words hadn't finished reverberating off the glass walls when Calvin's head shot up from the magazine. The boy had never so much as raised his voice to him in nineteen years. Calvin was tempted to burst out of the chair, but the look in his son's eyes froze him. There was a danger about the boy that radiated from his skin, like heat off the pavement.

Sue Marks was too stunned to move. Her mouth hung agape, and the novel fell from her lap.

“What did you say to me, boy?”

Randy took a step closer to his father. His body trembled as though he were fevered.

“It ends today.”

“What ends today? You don't make much sense, if you ask me. Now you apologize, or so help me—”

“So help you what? What are you going to do to me, that you haven't already done?”

“Randy!” Sue pleaded.

Randy turned his head in her direction.

“And you let it happen.”

Her eyes filled with horror, borne of dark secrets and the knowledge that those secrets had been released.

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Calvin Marks said.

His eyes locked on his son's, daring the boy to let the words spill from his mouth.

“How long until you start with Benny too? Or has it already happened.”

Calvin jumped from his chair, a cornered animal ready to lash out. Then his son pulled something from his pocket. As diffused sunlight reflected off of cold steel, Calvin stopped in his tracks.

“Where in the hell did you get that thing?”

Sue's lips quivered as though she carried a silent conversation with a phantom.

“My God, Randy, please don't. Think about what you're doing. That's your father!” she cried.

The first shot exploded with a loud pop that reverberated within the enclosed space. Calvin Marks looked down, as though searching for the bullet hole in his chest. He was shocked to find himself unscathed.

Sue Marks slipped to the floor. Blood poured from her chest, and she breathed in harsh gasps that sounded like duck calls. The air was redolent of gunpowder. The gun shook in Randy's hand, regret pouring out of him in tremors.

She was complicit, dammit!

A new terror was in Calvin's eyes, for he knew his fate. There was no talking the boy out of it now. If he had murdered his mother, he would have no problem pulling the trigger one more time. Pulling the trigger at the man who had violated the most sacred of bonds. No, it wouldn't be hard at all. Easy peasey.

Ain't that right, Calvin? It's going to be easy peasey!

Randy had planned from the beginning to shoot his mother first. He had wanted to get the pain and regret out of the way, quick and clean. But most of all, he had wanted to watch Calvin squirm. And squirm he did. His body quivered, teeth chattering as though he were on the brink of hypothermia. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his cheeks in rivulets of mock tears. It poured down the bridge of his nose, and he nervously fixed the glasses which teetered on the tip of his nose.

“Randy. Son. Let's talk about this. Let's—”

After the second shot tore through Calvin Marks' heart, he fell to the ground, his eyes pleading with his son. A red spot formed near the top of his polo and began to pool outward. His breath came in labored bursts.

His mouth moved, but no voice followed. Blood ruptured out of his mouth, and ran down his face into streams which pooled on the floor like a river meeting the ocean.

He died minutes later with his eyes open. Randy's hands trembled until he could no longer hold the gun, and he dropped it to the floor.

Randy dug two long holes behind the garage and waited for sunset. Then he dragged Sue Marks to the first hole, said a prayer, and covered her with earth. He dragged Calvin Marks to the second hole, doused the body with kerosene, and lit a match. The body lit with a woosh, the heat radiating outward in waves. He gagged at the stench of burning flesh.

He watched the body burn until it was charred and hardened, like barbecued chicken which had slipped through the grates onto hot coals, his eyes seeing another place and time. He dropped the gun through his father's burnt out chest cavity and covered the hole.

The western horizon was bloody glory when Randy Marks hitched a ride from Jensen Road to the Moran farm, where he would sleep and wait for the town to come for him. Nothing mattered, as long as Benny was free of it.

Chapter Two

Evan Moran parked his pickup on Main Street in the northern end of downtown. As the late afternoon sun began its slow descent, bathing the west-facing building tops in vermillion, shadows spilled out from the building bases and elongated across Main Street.

A bell jingled when he opened the door to the Sweet Nothings Café. Air conditioning, which had pooled inside the doorway, rushed to greet him, and he was momentarily chilled.

Several people were scattered at round mahogany tables in the small room, and a glass counter and display case bordered the café to his right. Behind the counter a stout woman, with the beginnings of gray showing in her ponytail, recorded entries into a sales registry book.

Renee Tennant waved to him from her table at the back of the café. He weaved through the scattering of tables and turned sideways to avoid knocking over someone’s drink, then sat down across from her.

“Sorry if I am late,” he said.

“You're right on time. I'm early actually.”

The café proprietor, Mary Giovanni, wished a good day to a departing couple. She was 51, and built solidly from years on her own farm. She had an entrepreneurial spirit, and had taken a second mortgage against her home to start Sweet Nothings in 1979. It was to be the first dedicated café in Storberry, and she was confident it would be a niche success. The first years were so strong that she had paid off the fifteen-year mortgage in seven years. The steady revenue from the café went straight into the profit column now.

“’Evening, Renee,” Mary said. “Did you close the library early to enjoy the warm weather?”

“No, I have my students running the show. It's been slow all day. I guess there are better things to do than nose through card catalogs when it’s 80 and sunny.”

“And you must be Mr. Moran?”

“Yes,” Evan said, rising to shake her hand. “Evan, please.”

“I'm Mary. I remember you when you were just a little one. I doubt you’d remember me, but I knew your parents well. I was so sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man.”

“That's very kind of you. Your family had the farm on the west side of the town – the one with the big cow painted on the side of the barn?”

“Yes, that is us,” she said with a laugh. “Make the Moo-ve to Giovanni Milk. The farm is still there. My folks still run things, believe it or not. Though they have plenty of help for the hard labor. How are things on the Moran farm?”

“Good. Mainly thanks to the Marks boy. It's amazing how much you can forget when you've been away from the job for a while.”

“Ain't that the truth. I'd be lost if I started my own today. What can I get for the two of you? We're doing espressos now.”

“Just an herbal tea for me, Mary,” Renee said.

“One herbal. And for you, sir?”

“I could go for a coffee – cream and sugar, please.”

“I'll get those right away for you.”

Mary returned to her post behind the counter, rang out two customers, and began working on their order with workmanlike efficiency.

As Renee crossed her legs, they brushed up against his under the table. They were curved and smooth, he thought—more like a runner's legs than a librarian's.

“So you've been back for about half a year now, right?”

“About that. Yes.”

“But I've never seen you in the library. Actually today is the first time I've run into you. Where have you been hiding all this time?”

“The first several weeks were a blur. Besides dealing with my father’s estate and the paperwork for the farm transfer, getting back into the business has been intimidating. I felt like I was in over my head. Which is why I brought in help.”

“It must take up quite a bit of your time.”

“It's not as bad now. I made a decision to scale back operations. We don't produce nearly as much as my parents did. I wanted to specialize in several things, rather than try to be everything to everyone. So the cow pasture became General's playground, and we took half the field and converted it to a cover crop. We'll go back and forth year to year, planting in one half and covering the other. Speaking of which, did you get your garden topped off?”

“Yes, I did thanks to you.”

“I can't take the credit, for General on that one.”

“That's very reassuring,” she laughed. “You sure do seem to love that horse.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Some people have a dog. I have a horse. By the way, we're being watched.”

When Renee started to turn her head, Evan signaled her with his eyes not to look. A couple, probably in their early 50s, watched them from two tables away. Sharply regarding Evan, the woman leaned toward her husband and whispered. She had a hawk nose and jet-black hair pulled tightly into a bun. The man was fair-haired and tall. As the man’s eyes focused on his plate, as though he were embarrassed, Evan could feel the coldness drift off of the woman like air off of north facing snowbanks at winter’s end.

Renee didn't need to look, for she had seen them earlier.

“Bill and Janet Barrister.”

“You know them?”

“She know us.”

“I don't follow.”

“We're outsiders, and we aren't good Christians. And to be a good Christian, you need to be born in Storberry and to stay in Storberry. That's all she needs to know about anyone.”

“I see. And what makes you think I'm not a good Christian?”

“When's the last time you were in church?”

He thought for a moment, then thought some more.

“Exactly,” she said.

“But I'm from here.”

Mary returned with their order and greeted a young couple at a neighboring table.

“You left. Probably came back with the taint of a big Yankee city all over you.”

“I lived outside of Syracuse, New York, not Manhattan.”

“To some people, it's all the same. Anyway, I shouldn't speak poorly of the husband. He keeps to himself. Seems to mean well. Why he has stayed with her all of these years is one of the great mysteries of the universe.”

As Evan lifted the cup to his lips, steam drifted past his eyes, temporarily obscuring Renee in a transient fog. The polite clink of cup and plate rippled through the room like a wave.

Then a hard-looking man peered through the window of the café, his hands cupped above his forehead so he could see inside the darker interior. His short brown hair was a ruffled mess. Searching with a hint of desperation, the man’s eyes followed over the guests.

“Isn't that Dell Lawrence?”

“The one and only,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“What on earth is he doing?”

“Probably looking for his daughter again. Katy. Pretty little thing. She goes missing a few times each year.”

“Is she missing now?”

“She has been running away since her tenth birthday. It's not news anymore when she goes missing. And nobody can blame her, given her home life.”

“That's terrible. Hasn't the school stepped in?”

“I'm sure they did at one point. She hasn't attended school in a long, long time.”

“I take it the parents don't exactly push her toward academic achievement.”

“Her mother took off when she was young. Left them both. Since Dell is three sheets to the wind most of the time, she barely has a father. In a lot of ways, I don't blame her for leaving.”

“I remember that he was a big drinker even before I moved away. We used to see him stumbling out of the Red Lion on Friday nights after the football games let out.”

“Not anymore. He sticks to The Watering Hole. I'm pretty sure Chuck Kingsley tossed him out of the Lion for good after he started a brawl there a few years ago.”

Dell Lawrence pounded the glass with his fist, a blast that caused the startled patrons to look up. Mary Giovanni left the counter to shoo him off, but Dell had stormed away before she reached the door.

“That's not a man you want to get on the wrong side of,” said Evan.

“Too late for that. He hates everyone in Storberry.”

The hum of conversation rebuilt as quickly as it had ceased.

As Janet Barrister stalked out of the café with her husband in tow, the tops of the buildings across Main Street turned golden, and shadows spread eastward like spilled ink.

“I guess you know my story. What brought you to running the public library in Storberry?”

“There were other options; all of which would have paid more, but none were anything I could envision myself doing for more than a few years. At the end of the day, if you aren’t happy in your work, no amount of compensation will ever be enough.”

“Words to live by.”

“I chose the library because it reminded of me of my own town’s library. I figured I would stay a few years and wait for something better to come along,” Renee said.

“But you ended up falling in love with the town?” he said, with his inflection suggesting it was a familiar story.

“A little too predictable, isn’t it? But I really did. I like the people here, the countryside is gorgeous, and I could not be more content with my work.”

“I saw the new addition when I first came back to Storberry.”

“The young reader's wing?”

“Yeah. How on earth did you get the town to cough up funds for new construction?”

“When I came to Storberry, I wanted the library to have closer ties to the town. Every town loves their school. So I established a scholarship fund for high school seniors. I also made it a point to donate extra copies of popular books to the school on a regular basis to keep the library fresh in the community's mind. That, and lots of volunteer work added up to a lot of brownie points.”

“That's all it took?”

“A little honey goes a long way toward attracting the worker bees.”

As he sipped his coffee and nodded in understanding, Mary Giovanni put the final touches on a strawberry cheesecake for the display case, which she placed next to a lemon meringue pie. Two more patrons exited, and the peripheral murmuring diminished. The young couple at the next table held hands and discussed an upcoming vacation in Florida. Holding a shopping bag from Jo’s Dress Shop, a woman hustled past the window. There was no sign of Dell Lawrence or his daughter on Main Street.

“Your tea is getting cold.”

“You're right,” she said, taking a long sip. “We should finish our drinks before Mary convinces us to try the cheesecake.”

“It looks good.”

“It is good. Which is why you don't want to order it. You'll be back for more tomorrow, the next night, and the night after that. Pretty soon you'll be shopping for clothes in the plus section.”

They laughed, and he noticed how comfortable he felt with her. A soft warmth emanated from her, like a woodstove on a winter’s eve. For the first time in the several months since he had returned to Storberry, he felt at home.

They talked for another ten minutes and finished their drinks. Mary brought them their bill and invited them to come back more often, and Evan thanked her and left a generous tip on the table.

“We should do this again,” he said.

“I'd like that.”

“Can I walk you to your car?”

“Sure. Just avert your eyes from the cheesecake on the way out the door.”

The sun descended toward the horizon in carmine fire. Shadows blanketed Main Street as the warm glow faded.

He recognized her hatchback half a block down the street. Two cars crawled past like army ants, Doppler shifting as they buzzed through the green light at the intersection of Main and Blakely. The sidewalks were empty, save for a few last minute shoppers who hustled between storefronts.

He walked Renee to her car and glanced southwestward. In the space between the buildings, he could see the hill forest cloaked in growing murk. As its shadow stretched charcoal gray down the hill to just short of Becks Pond, he shivered involuntarily.

“Are you looking at Liberty Cemetery?”

“No...actually I was looking at the forest.”

“Ah. You mean the haunted forest.”

“The kids in town still think it is haunted?”

“They do. Every town has a haunted something or other. A house, a cemetery, a hospital. In Storberry the kids think the forest is haunted.”

“They may be right.”

She looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

“Don't tell me you are afraid of boogeymen too?”

“We all have them, do we not?”

“We do. Is the haunted forest your boogeyman?”

He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes never leaving the hill forest. He sensed something was about to happen, as though the air was alive with energy like it was before lightning struck.

After a few seconds the smile returned to his face.

“I enjoyed myself tonight.”

“Me, too,” she said, one eyebrow lifted as she contemplated his reaction to the forest. She rummaged through her purse and found a pen and a small piece of paper. “Let me give you my phone number.”

She jotted the number quickly and legibly, as only a person who spends a good amount of time writing can. He produced a business card with his home number on it.

“And here is mine.”

“Very professional!” she said. “Good thing you had one of these. I was going to have to write your number on my hand.”

“Like in high school?”

She kissed him on the cheek before she could decide if it was a good idea or not and thanked him for the tea.

Shopkeepers flipped their signs over from YES, WE’RE OPEN to SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED. The final shoppers drove off, leaving the traffic signal at the corner of Main and Blakely to cycle between its three options above an empty street.

She climbed into her car, and he closed the door for her. As the engine purred, she gave a final wave and backed across the abandoned blacktop. He waited until she was safely on her way.

Then he gazed up at the forest again. The sun had fallen to the horizon, and only the tips of its tallest trees flared with oranges and reds. The forest’s entrance was utterly black and forbidding.

As he stood amid the growing silence, an unwanted memory resurfaced, and his eyes grew haunted. He prayed that he would not dream tonight.

Two

The Storberry police department sat in a single-story brick building on Court Street near Jensen Road, a block east of Main. From its sidewalk you could see the public library to the north, where Renee Tennant had returned on her way home to shut off the lights and lock its doors.

Two small, seldom-occupied jail cells resided in the back of the building. The cold reality of their iron bars were somewhat offset by the humor of the WRONG WAY road signs screwed to the cell doors.

Just as the sun dropped below the horizon, a bell jingled, and the door to the Storberry police department closed. A portly, graying man behind the front desk shook his head and sighed. Art Stults had more paperwork to do, thanks to the now departed Dell Lawrence.

A small RCA television behind the counter displayed a spring training baseball game between the Atlanta Braves and the San Francisco Giants. As Dale Murphy began rounding the bases after a home run, Art hoped against hope that the Braves might be decent this year.

The missing persons report stated that Katy Lawrence, age 17, had not been seen in five days. A decade's observance of Lawrence disappearances informed Art that she would return home in two to nine days, about as long as it took her to run out of new beds to sleep in. She had never been gone longer than two weeks, and this time would be no different. But there was protocol to follow, and what little manpower Storberry had at its disposal had to be allocated to her safe recovery.

The bell jingled again, and Art looked up to see Greg Madsen pulling his bike through the front door. Madsen's shift had finished an hour ago, but the chief never ended his day until his rounds were completed.

“Evening, Chief.”

Wheeling his bike behind the counter, Greg asked, “Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

“I thwarted a couple murders. Solved the energy crisis. Should I start on Middle East peace?”

“Another night in the life of the great Art Stults,” Greg said with a laugh.

“I was paid a visit by Dell Lawrence. I’m surprised you didn’t bump into him on your way in.”

“Thankfully I didn’t. Let me guess. Reported his daughter missing?”

“Your deductive abilities are what make you a fine chief. Sir.”

“Elementary, dear Stults. Elementary. It won't take long to find her.”

“No, sir, it never does.”

“Especially this time. I saw her a few hours ago walking into the Red Lion.”

“The Lion? No doubt frequenting the places her father isn't allowed in.”

“Shit, that’s what I’d do.”

“I'll call Chuck to see if she is still there. If she isn't, he probably saw who she left with.”

“You want me to hang out awhile in case we need to make a house call?”

“Nah. You head home, Chief. I can cover this one.”

“Okay, Art.”

Greg Madsen pushed his bike to his desk near the back of the office. As he grabbed his car keys and headed out the door, Art opened the phone book and punched in the number for the Red Lion Tavern. Producing a buzz of white noise amid the television clamor, fluorescent strip lighting cast the office in cool white tones.

Chuck Kingsley answered after two rings.

“Lion.”

The clink of glasses and loud chatter nearly overwhelmed Chuck's voice. It sounded as though half of Storberry was inside the tavern.

“Chuck? Art Stults here.”

“Hey, Art, what can I do for you?” said Chuck, struggling to hear Stults over the racket.

“We seem to have misplaced someone. Did the Lawrence girl come through your place today?”

“Yeah. About two or three hours ago. I didn't serve her if that is what you are asking.”

“No, I know you wouldn't, Chuck. Apparently, she hasn't been home in five days, so Dell came in huffing and puffing that we need to find her. Had to file a missing persons report on her.”

“I wish I had known. I woulda called you right away. She didn't stay long, though.”

“You happen to see who she left with?”

“Nobody. She talked to a few guys at the bar, but that's it. I don’t think the fish were biting today. She left alone.”

“Gotcha. Say, Chuck, if she comes back can you give us a call, and try to keep her around until we can get someone over there?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, Chuck.”

After Art jotted a note about his call with Chuck Kingsley, he radioed the only patrol car making night rounds to keep an eye out for the Lawrence girl. On the television, a young pitcher named Glavine was shutting down the Giants.

Darkness butted up against the glass door to the parking lot.

Art Stults settled into his chair and threw his feet upon his desk. He hoped it would be a quiet night.

Three

Standing far enough back into the darkened living room so as not to be seen, Donna Kingsley peered through the split in the curtains. The sidewalk along Maple Street slept in shadow under the deepening blue of twilight.

She had long since covered dinner with a sheet of plastic wrap and stuffed it into the refrigerator. It was fifteen minutes after dark when her son approached the front steps.

It wasn’t unusual for Tom to arrive late on a Friday evening. Sometimes he spent hours at the library lost in a book or writing a term paper on one of the library’s new word processors. Other times he worked with the school technology club or ran the scoreboard at school athletic events. But that wasn’t the case this time. She knew he had been with the Barrows girl this evening.

As Tom Kingsley opened the front door and placed his fishing rod in the closet, Donna materialized out of the gloom. Tension slithered through the air like a live wire, and he knew instantly that his best bet was to keep the conversation short and disappear to his bedroom as soon as possible.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, moving for the stairs.

“You’re quite late,” she said, and he stopped at the bannister. “Dinner is in the refrigerator if you intend on eating tonight.”

“Sorry. I lost track of time.”

“There isn’t much point to asking what you have been doing all afternoon, is there?”

“I was at Becks Pond.”

“With that girl again?”

“Jen and I have been friends since we were kids.”

“That’s my point,” she said, hands on hips. “I’d hoped you would have grown out of it by now.”

“Grown out of what? Being friends?”

“She’s hardly just a friend Thomas.”

He bristled. She only called him Thomas when she disapproved of his actions.

“Don’t tell me you spend time with her because you want her friendship.”

“What does it matter to you if she is more than a friend?”

“What matters to me is that you are a smart boy. Next year you are going to have your choice of any university in the country. A girl like Jen Barrows is never going to leave Storberry. Is that the sort of girl you wish to associate with?”

“We aren’t even dating.”

“But you aren’t content with just a friendship. You wish there was more. Isn’t that correct?”

“I’m old enough to choose my own girlfriends, Mom.”

“You are old enough to make good decisions too.”

Her words stabbed at him like tiny daggers. She could be so condescending when she argued.

“Dad likes her.”

“I’m certain your father wants more for you than any girl in this town has to offer.”

“Is this the way it’s going to be from now on?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Will you be choosing my date for the prom next May?”

“That’s enough, Thomas.”

“Are you going to live in the same dorm with me in college so you can choose my friends there, too?”

“Don’t raise your voice to me.”

“I didn’t.”

The kitchen stove fan hummed, and the aroma of baked chicken and onions wafted through the downstairs. The tension eased, like a bow string returning to center. She wrung her hands, her voice softer now.

“Tom, I know you don’t want me running your life, and I don’t intend to. Your father and I have always done everything we could do to support and encourage you. You’re so close now. We don’t want to see you throw your future away.”

“Have I ever once gotten into trouble or done anything to embarrass you? Have I not made the honor roll every semester? Mom, sometimes I don’t know what you want from me.”

He turned away and ascended the staircase.

“Aren’t you going to eat dinner?”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

Tom crossed into his bedroom, shut the door, and sat upon his bed with his back against the wooden headboard. The quiet that followed carried a great weight, and he was lost in his thoughts amid the silence. There was the muffled tick of the hallway clock and the call of a robin from without. Somewhere below, he thought he heard his mother sob.

He buried his face in his hands. Brushing the hair away from his eyes, he momentarily wondered what it would be like to catch a ride out to Macon Park and throw back beers with the upperclassmen. Wouldn’t his mother throw a tizzy if her prodigy stumbled through the front door smelling like a brewery, painting the porcelain with a Technicolor yawn? Perhaps that was what was needed—a wake-up call to elucidate what many kids did to rebel. Something. Anything to back her off.

Through the bedroom window, the deep azure glow of dusk spilled surreal light across the wooden floorboards. He didn’t bother to turn on the desk lamp next to his bed.

After a moment he pushed up the bedroom window and let the evening air pour into his room. The night smelled clean—of fresh-cut grass and rich soil. A light breeze pushed against the drapes, and they danced softly with the varying wind. While crickets sang from the backyard hills on the southern side of Maple Street, he lost himself in the nocturnal scents and sounds.

He lifted the screen and leaned his head out the window, feeling the breeze caress his face. The Barrows’ home was visible from this position. He could see Jen’s bedroom light reflected in a yellow splash on the backyard grass. She was still awake.

He studied the elm tree outside his second-story window. The closest branch was no more than a foot away and probably thick enough to support his weight. If he risked the climb, he could be under her window in minutes. If he asked, would she sneak out into the night?

His eyes followed the upward slope of the backyard, past the garage and flower garden, to the copse at the property border. Beyond the copse stretched the meadow and past that the hill forest.What roamed within its woods? Bears, coyotes, wolves, or something else?

He thought of the stale, acrid smell of its interior. The pervasive feeling that he was being watched from within. The memory was a cold hand on the back of his neck.

Tom shut the screen.

He turned on his reading lamp, and the night scene out his window disappeared into featureless black. The Old Man and the Sea beckoned him, and Tom turned to his book to free his mind from thoughts of dark pursuit through the trees.

Four

The night in Storberry is void of sound and light.

Most people lock themselves away in their homes after the final light of day is extinguished. Activity is confined to The Watering Hole and the Red Lion. The streets are silent and empty.

The void of sound is in the sidewalk where there are no couples holding hands and no shoppers hustling for last-second items. No car horns honk, and nary an automobile is seen. The birds have gone silent, and somewhere in the far distance a lone dog barks but does not receive an answer. There is only the low hum of street lamps.

The void of light is in the storefronts, which do not flash neon the way they do in the big city. At the Sweet Nothings Café, Mary Giovanni has long since departed for home. The red OPEN sign is turned off at the hairdresser shop next door, and the doors are locked by the cold steel of a dead bolt. The traffic light reflects ovals of red, yellow, and green on the cool pavement of Main Street, but there are no vehicles to follow its commands.

At Jo's Dress Shop the lights are off. In the silence of its walls, one might hear the echo of girls excitedly shopping for prom dresses from hours earlier. In the store window mannequins in contemporary clothing stare lifelessly into the night, perhaps wishing for freedom, but the bolts are thrown here too, and there will be no escape tonight.

The darkness surrounds the Barrows home on Maple Street, where Jen Barrows lies in her bed listening to the muffled tones of the downstairs television. No monsters haunt her from without tonight, and soon she will sleep.

Five houses away, Tom Kingsley has forced the darkness to recede from his bedside, but it pools in the corners like a waiting tiger. His mind wanders, and he is in the forest again.

At the Moran farm, the dark void seeps into Randy Marks' skin like pluff mud. It clings to his insides, stifling and hot, and he lies sleepless in the night. The pitch of the night is absolute, and he replays the death masks of Calvin and Sue Marks, like moving pictures of the Grand Guignol.

On the northeast side of Storberry, the Last Stop gas station is quiet. There is no foot traffic inside, and there are no vehicles at the pumps without. Candy, beef jerky, and loaves of stale bread wait silently on the store shelves for some unsuspecting customer to pay a 25 percent markup. A tiny black and white television on the counter plays the same baseball game Art Stults watches at the police station. Fake security cameras at the counter and the pumps record nothing.

The Last Stop was nothing more or less than what its name claimed it to be: the last chance for fuel before the speck on the map that was Storberry gave way to miles and miles of wilderness.

While restocking chocolate bars at the front counter, Jeff Branyan had Katy on his mind.

Where is she now?

None of your damn business.

Is she safe?

She can take care of herself.

Who is she with? Will she be there when I get home?

Nary a customer had visited in the last hour, and he had little interest in the exhibition baseball game on the television. He had two hours of shift time remaining, which may as well have been two weeks considering how slowly the seconds ticked by.

The store interior had an antiseptic white look to it, not so different from a doctor's office

(or an insane asylum)

and was well-lit by strip lighting strung above four neatly stacked aisles. The owner, Craig Peterson, saw to it that the floors were buffed daily regardless of foot traffic. The white tiled floor gleamed and reflected shelves of junk food like images from a parallel universe. The brightness often gave him headaches. As he rubbed between his eyes, he could feel the beginnings of a doozy.

Several varieties of beer were displayed behind sliding glass doors at the back of the store. Whenever he opened the doors, cool air would roll out from behind the glass like a polar front, sometimes condensing against the warmer air to form a miniature cloud.

Usually by now he would have turned down at least a few underage would-be drinkers carrying doctored driver's licenses. No parties tonight.

Sounds from the baseball game carried indifferently in tin tones. As the second hands of the wall clock ticked silently, he could see his reflection in the glass doors of the beer display at the back of the store.

A panicked thought entered his mind. What if I'm not the only one inside the store?

He tried to shrug off the thought, but it persisted like an itch that he couldn't scratch. The last customer, a little old lady with a penchant for scratch-off games, had come and gone around 8 pm. Because the door opened to a chime, he would have heard an entrant even if he hadn't seen him.

Except from the storeroom.

And hadn't he spent considerable time in the storeroom, bringing out stock, breaking down cardboard boxes, and sometimes just sitting and thinking? Thinking about

(Katy)

nothing.

Sure. Someone could have slipped inside unnoticed while he was in the storeroom. But nobody would bother sneaking into The Last Stop. Except for a

(maniac with an ax)

shoplifter.

Peterson carried a gun, but he did not trust his employees enough to keep one on property. This was Storberry, after all, not Richmond. Which meant Jeff had nothing to defend himself with.

He carefully walked along the front counter, perpendicular to the four aisles. In the aisles he saw...

Not a whole hell of a lot.

There's someone behind an end cap.

Which end cap?

You have a one in four chance to guess correctly, sucker.

Movement at the periphery of his vision flashed spectral in the sliding glass doors. There had been something. Or maybe it was just his imagination. His pulse quickened.

He circled behind the counter and searched for something he could defend himself with. Cigarettes. A box of receipts. Hit'em with the friggin cash register, tough guy! Nothing.

A wrench.

He grabbed the wrench. Good enough.

As he circled out from behind the counter, he watched the glass at the back of the store for signs of movement. The belief grew within him that he had seen something. Someone watched him—he could feel it. He turned in a full circle, his lips parched and the wrench held at the ready.

He propelled himself into a sprint down the center aisle. At any moment, he expected a figure to spring from behind the end cap. Holding a bloody knife. Swinging an ax. Cocking a shotgun.

He reached the end cap and turned to his right, wrench held above his head. In the split second it took for his mind to register the empty aisle, he swung 180 degrees and prepared to lay waste to the intruder.

But there was nobody behind him.

While his reflection stared stupidly back at him in the storeroom window, he exhaled, and for the first time in the last several minutes, he felt thankful for the fake security cameras which did not record his antics.

He returned to the front counter, feeling a little more dimwitted with each step. He placed the wrench behind the counter where he had found it.

If he didn't keep busy, he would drive himself insane. The outside sidewalks hadn't been swept this evening, so he grabbed a push broom from the corner. Fresh air sounded like a pretty good idea, too.

Maybe it'll make your brain grow, Einstein.

When he stepped outside, the evening air had cooled noticeably, and the deep blue of twilight had settled in the western sky. The stars were bright to the east, shining back at him like glistening diamonds on black felt. He could see the red barn of the Moran farm, the tallest structure on the east end of Standish, around the bend in the road to the north. The barn was illuminated by the cool glow of the half moon, which made the sides appear ashen.

Jeff used the push broom to clear the dust off the sidewalk in front of the store entrance. After that he refilled the windshield cleaning solution and rinsed off the squeegees. He checked his watch to see that only two minutes had passed. The streets were silent, and he could hear distant music from a country and western band at The Watering Hole. He thought he could use a beer.

Mosquitoes and moths darted into the lamp lights over the pumps and ricocheted off of the glow. The light pooled out several feet past where cars would park, then dissipated toward the back corner of The Last Stop. It was here that Jeff missed the movement in the shadows. He never saw Dell Lawrence coming.

Jeff's head exploded with pain as Dell crushed him from behind, the overhead lamps tumbling past his vision like a ride on the county fair's Tilt-A-Whirl. Another punch thundered into the back of his skull, and he fell to his hands and knees.

“You fuckin' my daughter, boy?”

Dell kicked him in the side and the wind went out of his lungs. His ribs buckled, and he screamed in pain. A kick to the head rolled him over, but Jeff saw only a blur of lamp light and the vague shape of someone standing over him.

“She's seventeen!”

A strong hand gripped him by the shirt and pulled him to his knees, and a closed fist smashed against his face. As Jeff tried to cover himself, he realized that he could not raise his arms. The pain in his middle made every breath agonizing, and now panic gripped him as he realized there was something seriously wrong with his ribs.

“You son of a bitch! You think you are better than my family?”

Dell reeled back, and another punch slammed Jeff just above the jaw. The blurred images in front of him spun wildly. He felt himself being lifted off the pavement.

Dell threw him into the pumps. The newly-filled windshield cleaning solution containers crashed to the ground around him. The last thing he felt was the end of the squeegee jammed into his ribcage. A final moment of panic—

What if he douses me with gasoline?

The thought faded to black. The void of sound and light enveloped Jeff Branyan. He drifted into unconsciousness.

Five

The depth of liquid night is absolute at 3 am. Long before the first signs of the coming dawn wash ashore in the eastern sky, the people of Storberry sleep off their days.

They dream, too. Some fantasize of successes they could not hope to achieve in their waking hours. Some remember a past romance. Still others see departed loved ones again but wake confused by their messages, which seem as impossible to grasp as the will-o-the-wisp. Some are haunted by the real-life monsters which pursue them through their sleep: the inevitable bank foreclosure, fields stricken by drought and flood, company downsizing, cancer.

A few, especially the young, flee from creatures in the dark and cower as their closet doors creak open. The Boogeyman is real, but he's only visible to the unfettered imagination of a child.

Jeff Branyan's dreams are disjointed and full of fury. At once he is capsized in a hurricane, ocean waves crashing against him and threatening to pull him under. The sea growls and roils. White caps raise high, displaying rows of jagged teeth, and the salty maw closes about him.

He is face down in the grass, vaguely aware that he is in his football gear. The crowd is screaming for him to get up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a man holding a wooden bat above his head. The bat crashes toward his skull, then the scene switches again.

He is alive, but barely so in the intensive care unit of Armstrong General Hospital on the west end of Jensen Road. There is no telling if he will wake in a few hours or in a few weeks, and for now his dreams will continue.

Evan Moran dreams, and he is young again. Becks Pond sparkles as though lit by a million underwater flashbulbs, and the day is warm under the Virginia sun.

There is no cemetery, only the rolling meadow of bluestem and a kaleidoscope of summer flowers. It would be good to stop here, to lie in the tall grass and decipher the shapes of soft cumulus clouds as he likes to do on lazy summer afternoons. Here is a man shooting an arrow. Here is a dog leaping, or maybe it is a rabbit. And here is a heart shape.

But he is drawn away.

The forest edge appears at the end of the meadow as though a blanket of fog has suddenly lifted to reveal its presence. The good feelings disappear. He knows he should turn back, past the pond toward the safety of the neighborhoods. But his feet move without him, and the forest draws near like a camera zoom.

Now he is standing in the forest.

He is too deep inside the woods and can't remember how he arrived here. He turns in a circle but sees nothing except trees. Thin beams of sunlight break through the dark every so often, giving shape to the huge trees and leafless brambles which block each exit. The forest floor smells of filth and disease, like a bog which has sat too long and gone bad.

Shadows shift at the edge of his vision. His skin crawls, and soft footsteps approach from somewhere ahead. He knows who comes, for Evan has been here before.

He spins in panicked circles, but the trees and thorny brambles close in. He hears a sickening laugh, a child’s laugh, and his heart freezes. Red eyes burn through the darkness.

Evan screams in his sleep and awakens to find the bed sheets drenched in sweat.

The Storberry Police Department is more active than it should be at this time of night. Art Stults' hope for a quiet evening disintegrates the moment a patrol car finds Jeff Branyan beaten and bloodied in front of The Last Stop. The early morning shift arrives, and Stults’ eyes are heavy from lack of sleep, but he has too much on his plate and will need to stay longer.

He knows Dell Lawrence is responsible.

Another officer had brought Lawrence in for questioning, but there was no evidence to hold him and no witness to the beating. Until the Branyan kid awakes, there will be no definitive answers. The smug look on Lawrence's face had made Stults want to tear off his badge and dole out his own form of frontier justice. That had been five hours ago.

At the end of East Avenue, six trailers lay quiet in a hummock-ridden dirt lot. In the second row, Dell Lawrence is asleep. There are no regrets for what he did to the Branyan boy, but Dell’s sleep is troubled, too.

The trailer was empty when he arrived home, just as he knew it would be. He had hoped Katy had returned and that she had forgiven him again, but silence had greeted him instead. The sink was piled high with unwashed dishes. Beer cans lay scattered about the trailer floor.

As he collapsed on his daughter's cot, hands resting behind his head, he could still smell her perfume in the bed sheets, and he longed to see her again. He stared at the ceiling, knowing that something was different this time. Something was wrong.

For a long time he lay awake, thinking about the mistakes he had made. The way he screamed at her. How he abandoned her through neglect, no different than the bitch that had left them both. At least he had stayed. As shitty a job as he had done, he hadn't run away without so much as an explanation.

The nagging fear that she may not return this time gripped him. Finally he drifted into sleep.

In his dream Dell is searching the streets for Katy. A sky of slate stretches across the horizon. A gentle breeze builds to a gale, rolling out of the forested hills to the southwest. The wind carries the stench of carrion, and Dell fears that something terrible has happened.

He checks the Red Lion and The Watering Hole. The bars are empty.

He runs faster along a deserted Main Street. He knows where the boy lives. He kicks in Jeff Branyan's door but finds the bedroom vacant. The shower is running, steam pouring out of the bathroom like fog over marshland. Cautiously he approaches, but a screaming terror inside him makes him flee what hides unseen in the fog.

He turns back, descending the stairs two at a time and is surprised to find the sun has set during the short time he had spent in Branyan’s apartment.

He is running, faster now, through the southwest side of town, following a beaten dirt path that takes him from Maple Street to Becks Pond. The night air is cool, and a full moon reflects in silvery light off the water.

Dell sits for a moment by the water. The sound of crickets fills the night.

A shrill scream breaks the calm. The pond has disappeared, and now he stands in the dark. It takes him a moment to realize he is at the forest edge.

Despite his disorientation he is sure the scream came from deep within the trees. He walks forward into the forest, ignoring the voices in his head warning him to turn back.

He stops and listens, but there is only silence.

Was it Katy’s scream?

Footsteps approach out of the darkness, and leaves and small twigs crackle underfoot. Dell's fear overwhelms him, and he begins to back away.

The steps grow closer, and he turns to run. He breaks through the tree line into the meadow, away from the forest, away from the dark presence.

He stops and listens.

Nothing.

From the darkness of the forest, the cry of a little girl's voice haunts him.

“Daddy.”

Six

As she stood inside the dark room where no one could see her, the stench of urine and antiseptic cleaning solution filled the air, making her sick to her stomach. This is where people come to die, she thought to herself.

The odor brought back the memory of watching her grandmother die years ago. It had been a simple broken ankle, she recalled. An easy fix despite the brittle bones. But the diseases which haunt the halls of Armstrong General Hospital like silent reapers had found her grandmother, and soon her lungs had been suffocated by pneumonia.

Only immediate family was allowed to see the boy, but she had crept past the orderly making his rounds and the nurse who fought a losing battle with the sandman at the main desk.

Leaning on each other for support, his parents had fallen asleep in uncomfortable looking plastic chairs outside his room. She moved on tiptoe past the parents, opened the door without so much as a creak from the hinges, and slipped inside.

The metronomic beeps of his life monitor cut through the white noise produced by the low hum of machines and air conditioning. The awful smells from the hall were stronger here.

A cry built at the back of her throat. Not because she loved him—she certainly did not, though she admitted to caring—but because this had been her fault. Perhaps she cared because he treated her decently. He had a good heart, all things considered, and he didn't deserve this.

Katy Lawrence leaned her back against the smooth wall and slumped to the floor. Someone was badly hurt because of her, and it was too much to handle. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Don't you dare die,” she whispered.

Jeff Branyan's face was covered with splotches of purple and red, which formed grotesque mounds, like the surface of an alien planet. His breathing was assisted by respirator, and she could hear him wheeze. Wires were attached to his body—so many wires, fixed to him by pieces of white tape.

She could not believe her father would go this far. But he had. And ultimately, it was all because of her.

Footsteps approached from the hall. Her eyes searched the dark room for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to conceal herself. A cracked door a few feet away offered her potential refuge, and she darted inside to find herself in a shared bathroom. A locked door blocked access to the neighboring room.

She crouched down and held the safety bars near the toilet, listening as the orderly from the hallway went about his business. She spied him through the crack in the door, writing numbers on a clipboard. The man was dressed in green scrubs and looked young—probably in his twenties or early thirties.

The orderly turned to leave, then he stopped outside the bathroom door.

Does he know I'm here?

Katy's heart thumped in her chest. She could feel the man's presence on the opposite side of the door. Could he feel hers? At any second the door would swing door open and he would have her.

She could hear the muffled beeps of the machines. Somewhere down the hall, a man coughed a phlegmy cough.

The orderly pushed the door shut, and the sound of footsteps faded down the hallway.

Sitting quietly in the gloom, she noticed for the first time how confined the bathroom was, much taller than it was wide. There was barely enough room for her to squeeze between the toilet and the side wall, and the confined space made her claustrophobic.

She pulled herself up and carefully opened the door. She was alone in the room with him once more.

Her eyes had fully adjusted to the dark. The green numerals of the digital readouts illuminated Jeff Branyan's body in an alien glow. Thick bandages covered his midsection.

Shockingly, he looked strong, and she allowed herself to believe that he would pull through. If he didn't, her father would be looking at a murder charge.

The son-of-a-bitch deserves to pay.

As she moved closer and watched him sleep, it seemed impossible that they had been together half a day ago. His breathing seemed easier now.

She understood how little she meant to him. The attraction had been physical, not emotional, but lately there had seemed to be more than just a physical attraction. Something she hadn’t expected.

He made her feel...safe.

But as long as she was around, he would never be safe. Now she looked upon what she had brought down on him.

Jeff Branyan's body began to waver, drifting into a blur, as tears welled up in her eyes. Katy placed her hand on his arm.

“I'm so sorry.”

Chapter Three

The next morning, the sun returned with the promise of hope on the eastern horizon. The talk in the barbershop, the donut shop, and Mary Giovanni’s café centered on the terrible beating that had occurred in front of The Last Stop Friday night. There wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind as to who had administered the beating.

It was Saturday morning, and it promised to be another beautiful spring day. The Virginia sky was ocean blue, with just a hint of wispy cirrus to add character. Greg Madsen had planned on a morning run before coming on duty at 10 a.m., but he came in as soon as the office informed him that Jeff Branyan was awake. The remainder of his morning would be filled with frustration.

Katy awoke on a padded couch in the hospital lobby, unaware that Jeff had awoken an hour prior. Her back ached, her hair was mussed, and sleep had crusted over her eyes. It took her several seconds to remember where she was, and as she lay concealed by the backrest of the couch, Greg Madsen hastened through the lobby toward the elevator without seeing the missing girl.

Greg found Jeff groggy but lucid. He hadn't seen a thing. He had been attacked from behind and knocked unconscious before he could put up a defense. He confirmed what Greg already knew—that The Last Stop security cameras were fake.

No memory of what happened. No physical evidence. No recording. No witnesses.

No shit.

Greg would send an officer to grill Dell again, but there was no use for it. Unless Dell was stupid enough to brag about the beating over a few beers, they had nothing on him. Dell Lawrence was a drunk, a piece of trash, a terrible parent, a horse's ass. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid.

By mid-morning Madsen was back on his bicycle,and the fresh air lightened his mood. A steady stream of cars crawled toward the town center.

He began his rounds on Court Street, circling the block. The police bike turned west at the library onto Washington Street, south on Main, east on Jensen, and then north again on Court. Downtown was active, as the residents of Storberry took advantage of the warm Saturday.

When he stopped outside the library, Renee Tennant had a cardboard box of books in her arms. She had been in Storberry about the same length of time as he but wasn't a lifer. She was college-educated, ambitious, and not so tied to the town residents that she turned a blind eye toward a wrongdoing for fear of alienating herself. He valued her opinion.

“'Morning, Miss Tennant,” he said.

“Good morning, Chief.”

“Can I give you a hand with those books?”

“I've got'em, but if you could pop the trunk on my car, that would be great.”

Greg opened the hatchback, and Renee slid the box into the trunk, taking care not to crush a flat of tulips near the back.

“Looks like you are ready for spring,” he said, nodding at the tulips.

“Can’t wait to get these in the ground. Best colors I’ve seen in years.”

“Hey, while you are out and about, can you do me a big favor?”

“Sure thing.”

“Can you keep an eye out for Katy Lawrence? She's in the wind again. I just saw her yesterday, and wouldn’t you know it, her father reported her missing a few hours after.”

“Sure. I'll look for her. Speaking of which, I was at the café yesterday with Evan Moran and we saw Dell at the window.”

“Dell Lawrence,” he said with disdain. “How did he look to you?”

“He looked...irritated. He literally punched the window before he left, like he was angry at one of us. It got Mary Giovanni's attention, but he was gone before she could chase him off.”

“That's interesting, because someone put Jeff Branyan in the hospital last night.”

“Branyan? The kid who played football?”

“The quarterback. That's the kid. Works over at The Last Stop these days. He was outside the shop last night when someone hit him from behind. Beat him pretty bad. No witnesses, though.”

“I hope he is going to be all right.”

“He's awake over at Armstrong. Broken ribs, busted nose, nasty concussion. Tough kid. Doesn't remember a thing about who did it though.”

“You think it might be related to Katy Lawrence?”

“I know she has been seeing the Branyan boy.”

“And maybe Dell doesn't like him?”

“More likely he doesn't like anyone who is seeing his daughter.”

“Seems hard to believe that anyone in town would do something like that. Even Dell.”

“He's always had a temper. I've had him in the cage a few times for fighting. But as far as I know he's never done something quite this violent. He's on our radar, though.

By the way, how is Mr. Moran doing with the farm?”

“I think he is settling in now. He has Randy Marks helping him.”

“That's real good. Make sure you tell him to look me up. The first beer is on me.”

“I will. And I'll let you know if I see Katy.”

“Thank you kindly, Renee.”

“See ya, Chief.”

As he chained his bike to the rack in front of the library, he watched her drive off, the air above the blacktop rippling in waves. The sun burned down on his shoulders.

“It’s too early for this kind of heat,” he said to himself.

While he walked his beat on Main Street, foot and vehicle traffic increased through the town center. Shop-keepers pushed weekend sales to attract customers. A few set up tables for their wares on the sidewalk.

And the unnatural heat continued to build.

It suddenly occurred to him that Katy Lawrence might try to visit Jeff Branyan in the hospital. He stopped at the corner of Main and Jensen and radioed the station to call the hospital. He wanted the staff to have a photo of the missing girl and to watch closely for her on Branyan’s floor.

As of 11 a.m., nobody had seen Katy Lawrence.

Two

“Shit on a stick!”

Rory Dickson removed his old white beach hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The 64-year-old Navy retiree had kept his diminishing hair military-short until this year, when he realized that genetics were kicking his ass and he might as well shave the darn thing bald. He was a big man, a shade over six foot, and physically fit. And superannuated according to his wife, whatever the hell superannuated meant.

He rather liked being the groundskeeper for Liberty Cemetery. It kept him outside in the fresh air for most of the year, and there was never a supervisor telling him how to do his job. His wife, Evelyn, worked him harder at home than this, and this job paid more than Evelyn did. As for the morbid nature of burying his neighbors, Dickson was a pragmatist. Somebody had to do it. Eventually someone would put him in a tidy box and bury him six feet under. Neighbors helping neighbors.

He had tackled persistent weeds in the past but nothing like this. A day prior he had first seen the mass of saplings invading the southwest corner of the cemetery. The growth was so thick that he had originally thought it to be a rogue ivy cover.

He had lowered the deck on the riding mower to cut the saplings to the ground, no matter how loud their protest. The thick wooden stems had clanged against the underside of the mowing deck, as if his head was stuck inside a calypso drum. He had mowed them until they were microscopic stumps in a sea of grass.

But here they were again, as if he hadn't cut them at all.

Now they spread down the gentle slope, springing up amid thick grass like camouflaged insurgents. A cluster had formed over three newly-dug graves. Two maple saplings stood particularly tall twenty yards down the hill, as if taunting his inability to contain the advance.

He considered mowing them down again, but a lot of good that had done him so far. A large dousing of weed killer wasn't the answer either. It might burn the grass and piss off the environmentalists. Then he would have a real frigging mess on his hands.

As he fixed his hat so that it blocked the sun from his forehead, he remembered how easily his face and head always burned in early spring, and he’d be damned if he was going to end up looking like a ripened tomato over this mess.

The ham radio on his hip was tuned to an AM band station out of Virginia Beach, which said that today's temperatures would hit the upper 70s along the beach and the upper 80s inland. He guessed it was almost that warm already.

Maybe this warm spell is causing the vegetation to go haywire.

Rory ran the ham radio network from a cubicle in the back of the Storyberry Police Department. The network was activated several times per year, mainly for severe weather situations. When the phone lines went down in high winds, ham radio provided a reliable means of communication for emergency crews. Volunteer operators on the network provided storm damage reports to his post, which he in turn relayed to the police and fire department so they knew where to best allocate resources.

Earlier he had passed the time listening to the morning ham radio roll call. Today the signal traveled well, and he had heard people check in from South Carolina, Georgia, and northern Maryland. For now he contented himself with news from the coast while he decided what to do about the runaway saplings.

He had experienced overseas combat for a brief period during World War II, and developed a sixth sense of recognizing unseen danger. It was rare that his senses had activated since the war’s end, but here under a placid blue sky he felt an unshakeable feeling of danger.

He flicked the radio off.

The wind whispered through the meadow below, carrying the faint growl of motors grinding up Blakely Hill.

He was alert now, the strange overgrowth forgotten. His muscles tensed, and his eyes scanned the horizon. He was certain he was being watched.

As the tall grass reflected off the waters of Becks Pond, their image wavering across the wind rippled surface, he thought that the grass could have potentially concealed a skillful enemy, as could have the headstones or the lone mausoleum down the hill. But he didn’t think anyone was hidden in those places.

He turned to the forest.

The noon sun exposed the first layer of trees, but the growth deeper inside the perimeter was cloaked in shadow. Tree tops danced with the wind.

His skin crawled as he recalled the heightened sense of awareness he had felt when enemies were concealed nearby. Damn if he didn’t feel it now. But that was crazy.

Why would anyone hide themselves in the forest outside of the cemetery boundary?

The breeze built to a sudden gale, keening through the tree tops like a train whistle. He gripped the beach hat to his head before the wind ripped it away. The front-line of trees swayed as though laughing.

Towering trees threw samaras to the wind, which helicoptered toward him like enemy aircraft. Rory blinked and looked between the forest and the invasive saplings overtaking the southwest corner of the cemetery. His intuition told him that he was missing something important, that there was a larger issue than the saplings taking root in his graveyard.

The wind faded to a gentle breeze, and the front-line stood rigid like guards at the gate. No enemy had materialized. His mind was playing tricks on him.

As the seeds spun down around him, he sighed. More overgrowth to deal with. He would be battling the saplings all summer if this kept up.

Three

The ancient air conditioner came to life with a harsh rattle, which caused an older man reading the new copy of TIME to glance upward, half expecting the ceiling to collapse on him. The blowers shook momentarily in spasm, then they settled into a hum, as they spread dust and cool air over pocked oak tables that were largely devoid of readers.

The after lunch crowd at the Storberry Public Library was slow, even for a Saturday. Solitary footfalls echoed off the walls. Pages rustled like autumn leaves in the wind.

As the sounds of the library reverberated off the ceiling and faded, Jen Barrows wheeled a book cart between brown wooden cases which stretched toward the ceiling. Renee Tennant had returned an hour ago, but one person was more than enough to handle the meager workload.

When the returns were put away, Jen opened the 1960-1969 steel cabinet microfiche drawer of STORBERRY HERALD archives. The films were contained in small cardboard boxes labeled by month. She followed the chronologically-ordered boxes until she found the spring of 1967. She removed four boxes from April through June and retreated to the microfiche viewer in a small cubicle near the back of the library.

She fed the April microfiche film to the take-up reel and flipped on the light to reveal the April 1st 1967, edition of the HERALD. Scanning over the front-page stories, she cranked the reel. Pages of print flew across the screen like images of the world seen from a merry-go-round, making her dizzy.

“Working on a school project?”

Jen jumped out of her seat. She hadn’t heard Renee approach from behind.

“Sorry,” Renee whispered, and they both laughed.

“I’m checking on an old story about a boy who supposedly went missing in the spring of 1967.”

Renee raised her eyebrows.

“Sounds a little morbid. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the haunted forest, would it?”

“Actually, it does. Why?”

“It came up in a conversation yesterday. What happened in 1967?”

Jen leaned forward, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Everyone knows the stories about people who went missing over the years in the forest. About how some came back after they died.”

“Ghost stories.”

“Yeah. If you have been to a sleepover in Storberry, you have heard every story at least once.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Well, most of them happened a long time ago, too long ago to look them up. But there is one. A boy who disappeared in the spring of 1967. Supposedly.”

“And you are trying to find out if he was a real person?”

“Something like that.”

“Let me guess. The boy still haunts the forest.”

“That’s the story.”

“I’m intrigued. Would you mind if I looked with you?”

“Have a seat.”

As Renee carried a wooden chair from a nearby cubicle, Jen wound the microfiche forward. Scanning the front page stories, Jen did not expect to find anything. And for a long time, she didn’t. Stories about Vietnam, Martin Luther King, and violent protests. Ads for stores she had never heard of.

Then halfway through the month, she found a headline—

SEARCH FOR MISSING BOY

By Sandra Rudlock

Staff Reporter

Emergency personnel and volunteers are searching for Brian Nedson, age ten, of Storberry. The boy has been missing for 24 hours according to the Storberry Police Department. He was last seen in the vicinity of the forest which begins at the southwest corner of town, and stretches approximately ten miles toward the North Carolina border…

Renee gave Jen a surprised look.

“So there really was a boy who disappeared in the spring of 1967. That doesn’t mean the forest is haunted, though.”

“I suppose not.”

Renee considered Jen her favorite student worker at the library. She knew the girl to be level headed; street smart as well as book smart. What had provoked her to research the origins of a Storberry campfire tale?

The front door swung open, and the man who had been reading TIME exited the library. Only a few people remained. Someone cleared their throat near the back wall.

Jen cranked the wheel again, and history moved across the screen. Continued scans of the April archive brought a pall over them. Daily headlines told the tale of continued searches, distraught parents, and searchers who could find no sign of the missing child.

By the end of the following week, the boy was assumed dead. The stories moved from the headline to the back pages, until a funeral ceremony was performed in late April to lend the community a sense of closure.

“Well, that was uplifting,” Renee said, sitting back in her chair.

“If it was a happy ending, it would probably be a pretty crappy ghost story.”

“Good point. So tell me what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something must have happened to get you researching legends.”

Jen sighed.

“This is going to sound really, really stupid.”

“Try me.”

“Okay.” Jen ran a hand through her hair and nervously twirled a curl with her fingers.

“Yesterday I was fishing at Becks Pond with Tom Kingsley.”

“Sounds good so far.”

“We took a walk. I’m not sure we really knew where we going, you know? Just sort of walking and talking about stuff.”

“Sure.”

“And we wound up in front of the forest, right at the tree line. I admit that it creeps me out a little. But Tom…Tom really gets freaked out by the forest. So I thought I’d have a little fun with him.”

“Uh-oh.”

“It wasn’t a big deal. We dared each other to go to the edge of the darkness. It was about a one minute walk. That’s all.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“When we got there,” Jen said, pausing to find the right words, “I felt like someone was watching me, like they were right there with us. Tom felt it, too.”

“Go on.”

“We heard something coming through the trees, so we ran. It was coming after us, but by the time we made it to the pond, it was gone.”

“The forest is full of animals.”

“It wasn’t an animal. I’m sure of it. I swear I heard footsteps behind us. I’ve never been that scared.”

“It sounds like it was scary. You really shouldn’t be in the woods by yourselves.”

“Believe me, I’m not going to try anything like that again.”

“That’s good to know.”

“When I got home I started thinking about all the stories we used to tell each other about the people who disappeared in the hill forest. I don’t know anymore. Maybe there is something to it.”

“That reminds me of something a friend of mine said. Maybe I should get the two of you together. Let me know if you find anything else.”

Renee patted Jen on the shoulder, and as she left the girl to the archives and made her way to the front desk, she could hear the fading whir of the reel, and her own footfalls echoing through the stacks.

The afternoon heat built, pressing against the brick façade. The air conditioner convulsed to life, and the ceiling shook.

Four

The afternoon sun was relentless, creating shimmering waves of heat over the blacktop like a mirage. As foliage blossomed like time lapse, giggling children sprayed one another with garden hoses and leaped over sprinklers.

The central school ball fields hosted a youth league baseball game, where parents and grandparents cheered as young children smacked baseballs off a tee. They laughed and shouted instructions as the neophyte players ran the wrong way around the bases.

Lawnmowers roared to life across Storberry, and those pushing them celebrated the activity that they would be cursing by late May.

At Becks Pond, a small group of boys leaped off the wooden pier into the water and skimmed rocks across its surface. Summer served notice of its unseasonably imminent arrival.

Liberty Cemetery was quiet. Rory Dickson had abandoned his battle with the samara in favor of a cold beer on the west side of town on his newly-finished deck.

A young couple knelt next to a grey headstone. They paid their respects to the woman’s grandfather—a man named Beaufort, whose inscription read “Dat’s All Folks!”

The woman puzzled over the three saplings, which stuck out of Beaufort’s plot like arrows from a felled prey. Didn’t someone maintain the grave sites? Growing rapidly but with diseased leaves and ugly black splotches, the saplings were the strangest looking she had ever seen. They were sprouting everywhere but were most numerous in recently-dug plots.

The couple finished their business and departed quickly, neither certain why they felt a growing sense of uneasiness on a pristine afternoon.

As the sun warmed the soil across Storberry, roots spread in response. Renee Tennant’s tulips bloomed in splashes of magenta, pink, and deep red. The newly-sown seed of the Moran farm awoke with the small beginnings that would yield a summer harvest. The death of winter was supplanted by the promise of growth and hope.

Beneath the sod of Liberty Cemetery, the invading growth extended sinuous black tendrils. They choked out grass and weed and left barren gray spots around their stems. The tendrils dug through the loosened soil like worms through rotted apple flesh. The roots reached the wooden boxes and licked at the surface, searching crevices for a way in. The ones which penetrated sought out flesh and bone. They transmitted their path to the remaining roots and enclosed the decayed remains in depraved cocoons.

The tendrils pulsed with life. Diseased growth sprouted across the cemetery. Energy, neither seen nor heard, was emitted. The forest watched and waited for nightfall.

Jeff Branyan sat upright in his hospital bed. His ribs screamed whenever he moved too fast, as though someone was sticking knives into him. He was groggy and medicated, and his head felt like a vise was being tightened against it.

He didn't have a mirror, and he didn't want one. He knew what he must look like. The pained expressions on the faces of his parents told him as much. They had gone to dinner and left him alone with his thoughts.

His doctor had declared he was stable. It was amazing, really. How his body had sustained so many injuries and fought back this quickly seemed a minor miracle. There was no point to his staying in intensive care, and the doctor planned to move him to a standard room by sunset.

He stared at the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and recalled his interview with Officer Madsen. Madsen had known who had done this to him. He just wanted some proof. Jeff had known too. He hadn't seen a face, but he had known just the same.

As a doctor and two nurses raced past his door toward someone who was far worse off than he was, the heart monitor beeped with incessant monotony. His hands curled into fists, and the machine pulsed a little faster.

He would heal faster than the doctor expected and would be out of this place before anyone believed possible. He just needed to bide his time.

When he got out, he would kill Dell Lawrence.

Five

The books hit the main desk like a gun blast. The explosion bounced off the walls of the Storberry Public Library, echoing through its corridors. Heads shot up from desks within the cavernous main room like meerkats hearing the first rumble of thunder. Having had her back to the desk as she filed returned novels onto a rolling cart, Renee Tennant jumped out of her chair.

Janet Barrister leaned over the desk and cleared her throat, as though doing so was necessary to get Renee's attention.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Barrister. Looking to check these out?”

“I would think not.” Her voice hissed like a cornered snake. “I wish to speak with you about these...books, Miss Tennant.”

“Certainly. If you would follow me back to my office, I—”

“No!”

Janet Barrister's reply carried enough vehemence that two guests gathered their supplies from a nearby table and crept from the main room, hoping to avoid the woman's attention.

“We will discuss this here and now, so that everyone may hear. This is business which concerns all who wish the best for Storberry and its children.”

“I don't understand—”

“These...books, if you dare call such drivel literature, have no place in my library or in my town.”

The books were fanned out across the desk, like overturned hands at the poker table. There were two romance novels, both popular with the teenagers. Renee also noticed a horror novel she didn't recognize, which depicted a scantily clad woman being chased through a dark forest by a man with a knife. At the top of the heap was Cujo by Stephen King.

“What I want to know is what you were thinking, depositing such trash into my community.”

“I'm sorry Mrs. Barrister, but three of these four books are on the New York Time's best sellers list. I would venture to guess that those three are in every library in America—”

“What may be acceptable for a godless country is not acceptable for Storberry, Miss Tennant. What do I care for what people in New York, or Boston, or Los Angeles consider acceptable? Places where students murder their teachers and each other, where there are more places to obtain narcotics than there are places of worship. Does the light of God not shine down on them, so that He does not see what crimes they commit? Do they escape His judgment because a school board cares not for morality? Is that what you wish to bring us, Miss Tennant, from the big city college you attended? Filth?”

“Ma'am, I—”

“This is where it begins,” she said, pointing a bony finger at the splayed novels. “If we feed our children poison, do they not become ill? It is people such as you, Miss Tennant, who are destroying what little good there is left in small towns. It is you who choose to bring these corrupting influences to us. Well, I for one will not stand for it any longer. I will not sit idly by, while the children of Storberry are forced to read stories of families being torn apart by rabid dogs—”

“Nobody is forced to read—”

“Nor was Eve forced to bite the apple, Miss Tennant.

“I will remind you that I have a great many friends in this community. A public library requires public funding. Remember that. If you wish to keep your precious funding, I suggest you remove this trash. Send it back to your big cities. Keep my town clean.”

A balding man with thick glasses slipped silently from the room, his footfalls whispers of prayer for Janet Barrister not to turn on him next. Her words, spoken several seconds ago, still reverberated through the stacks like the shrill cry of a tea kettle.

Straining to compose herself, Renee stood taller, her hands trembling at her sides hidden behind the wooden desk. She breathed deeply and lowered her tone. Her eyes met Janet Barrister's, reflecting the woman's contempt as though mirrors.

“There is such a thing in this country as the right to free speech. And a separation of church and state. You don't have the right to choose for others what they can and cannot read.”

“Don’t you tell me—”

“I, too, have gained a great many friends in Storberry, Mrs. Barrister. The expansion of the library is a reflection of the town's support for what I do here. And that includes allowing our readers to choose what literature they wish to engage themselves with.”

Janet Barrister's eyes narrowed. She leaned forward, her face just inches from Renee's. She grinned through clenched teeth.

“Hide behind your rights for as long as you wish, Miss Tennant. You cannot hide for eternity. Those who are corrupted may be forgiven in His eyes. But those who willingly corrupt others must answer for their actions and pay a steep price. Remember that, when you are cowering behind your precious rights.”

Janet Barrister wheeled about and exited the library. Renee stood silently, mouth agape, with a reply stuck at the back of her throat.

The roiling anger morphed, rising out of the pit of her stomach to where it became stuck at the top of her chest. Her throat tightened, and suddenly she was a teenager again trying to get a word in edgewise with her parents.

Everyone in the library had heard the argument, and now they all looked at her. She breathed deeply again and tried to fight back the tears which pushed against the backs of her eyes.

“The show's over,” she rasped, glaring back at the onlookers.

Heads quickly lowered toward open books and magazines. She sighed. She didn't mean to take her anger out on them.

After a moment she said, “I'm sorry,” though it wasn't clear that anyone had heard.

After she gathered up the offending books and placed them on the return cart, she proceeded toward her office at the back of the building. She could feel their eyes following her, burning like lasers into her back.

The tiny windowless office was neatly organized. Her desk and chair sat to the side, with a small filing cabinet underneath. A framed bachelor's degree from West Virginia University hung on a bare side wall to the right of the entry door.

Regarding the degree for a moment, she wondered if she should be doing more with her life than charging five cents per day for overdue returns. Why was she wasting time in another small town? Escape was but a short drive down route 16. There were other prospects, other opportunities.

A second chair faced her desk, for the odd occasion on which someone brought a concern to her, or more commonly, for when she interviewed prospective student help.

There came a soft knock upon the door. Jen Barrows waited in the doorway.

“Yes, Jen?”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she said, exhaling loudly. “Come on in and have a seat.”

Jen slid the wooden chair forward a few inches and sat down.

“I didn't mean to eavesdrop.”

“You weren't eavesdropping. The entire library heard what she had to say. Heck, I bet Twain, Hawthorne, and Storberry proper heard too.”

“You aren't going to remove those books, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“But what if she really does know people who could take away your funding?”

“I'm not afraid of her, and you shouldn't be either.” Renee leaned forward and met Jen's eyes. “Here's something I want you to take away from all of this. The people who are most set in their ways are usually the first to fail. Those who keep an open mind and adapt end up ahead in life. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now let's forget about her.” Renee leaned back, and her lips curved into a smile. “A little bird tells me that you are still seeing a certain boy, one who thinks very highly of you.”

Crimson rushed into Jen's cheeks.

“A little bird, huh?”

“Well...I don't need to tell you how quickly rumors move through this town.” Renee grinned, and her eyes lit up. “So tell me. I'm so excited for you!”

“Tom's just a friend. Really.”

“Sounds to me like he is more than a friend.”

She rolled her eyes. “He's sweet. But it's not going to go anywhere. In a year he's going to graduate and go to a really good college. He won't even remember this town.”

“And what about you? Aren't you going to go to a really good college?”

“I haven't thought about it much...”

“You should.” Renee leaned over the desk toward her. “You're a very smart girl, Jen. Have confidence in yourself. I want to see you do more than take a few courses at a community college. You have the grades.”

“I guess so...”

“I know so. So this weekend we're going to sit down and go through some course catalogs. Will you do that with me?”

“Sure.”

“But we need to get started on this. Graduation is only fourteen months away.”

“I know...”

“Jen. Look at me. You have the intelligence to succeed. And you have a strength inside of you that will carry you through the difficult times that everyone faces. I can feel it. Have confidence in yourself.”

“Okay,” she said, her blush now strawberry red.

“If he likes you, and you like him, it will work. Nothing else matters. This weekend. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Six

Katy Lawrence shielded her eyes from the late afternoon sun, which poured out of the west like the high beams of a semi. They would be looking for her by now, so she avoided the traffic of Main Street and made the trek west out of downtown.

Her legs tired as she climbed Blakely Hill. She had walked all day, purposely avoiding the places she knew they would expect her to visit. The Red Lion was off limits. Besides, she wasn’t looking for company.

She had considered Jeff's apartment—it was the only place where she had felt safe lately, and he often left it unlocked—but it was too risky. The police might search the apartment, and so might her father.

She had seen Jeff awake and surrounded by his family during a risky trip to the intensive care unit. It had made her feel warm inside and relieved, but only momentarily. She remembered that she was responsible for getting him into this mess in the first place. So she had slipped down the back stairwell before anyone recognized her.

She was through crying, though regret festered in the pit of her stomach.

There was nowhere left for her to go, and so she wandered until she realized the only alternative she had was to leave town. She had an aunt in Hopewell who might help her out with some money and a place to stay. If she could get to Winchester Road, she could hitch a ride out of town. Any destination would do.

Katy continued up Blakely, the newly-sprouted leaves of elms and oaks creating a shaded tunnel which cooled her skin. Sparrows sang within the branches. Grackles congregated along the telephone wire.

The hill wound north into a sharp curve before ending at Maple Street. She was drained and numb, wandering without purpose like an emotional vagabond, when she saw the beaten path winding upward from the juncture of Blakely and Maple into the meadows which paralleled the backyard hills.

As she followed the path southwest into the meadow, where the westering sun made the tall grass and wildflowers appear warm and inviting, the trail beckoned her back to a place where she had once found comfort. The wind sent rippling waves across the grassy ocean. The air was thick with wildflowers, and her sundress flapped in the breeze.

She reached Becks Pond and found it unoccupied. She sat on the pier and dangled her legs above the water, her dress soaked with sweat and clinging to her body. It had been thirty-six hours since she had showered and changed clothes.

She surveyed her surroundings—nobody in the cemetery, no shouts from kids making their way up the hill from Maple Street.

She crouched in the grass and slipped the weathered sundress over her shoulders. A peek through the grass confirmed she was still alone, and she dived into the pond. The water was cold, still holding the memories of winter along its bottom. It took a moment for her body to adjust before she found the water temperature agreeable.

The water was clear along the top and cloudy along the bottom. She controlled her body movement to avoid kicking up the murk below. The pond refreshed her, and she began to feel that better days were ahead. If only she could put her father and Storberry behind her.

The meadow still appeared empty, but she wasn’t about to press her luck. As the water poured off her bare skin in sheets, she grabbed hold of the pier and pressed herself upward and out of the pond.

Water evaporated off her skin in a buffeting wind, which spread gooseflesh across her body. She wrapped her arms around her upper body to maintain body heat and waited for the power of the sun to dry her. Then she pulled the sundress over her head, leaving her sneakers off for now.

Soft, cumulus clouds morphed against a sea of blue. They reminded her of lazy summer days when her worries were few.

Had things ever been good?

They hadn't. She had only been too young to realize how bad things were.

As she lay back with her arms behind her head watching the clouds change, waving bluestem caressed her bare skin, and the smell of barbecue carried up the hill from the backyards of Maple Street. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt at peace. She closed her eyes and the world became a serene mixture of oranges and pinks. Transient clouds cast moving shadows against her eyelids.

Becks Pond had once been a favorite place for her—an escape hatch from reality. She had avoided the meadow whenever other children were playing, for even then they could be cruel to her with their taunts. But when it was empty, it was idyllic. If there was one place she would miss when she was finally free of Storberry, it was Becks Pond. She drifted toward slumber, safely concealed in the tall grass.

Memories surfaced like developing photographs—her father, on an occasion when he was sober and lucid, pushing her on a bicycle with training wheels down a buckled sidewalk; reading a report on President Lincoln in front of Miss Allen's second grade class, beaming with pride, before teachers started to look at her differently; a woman who she could barely remember holding her close and telling her that she loved her...

A tear formed at the corner of her eye, ran down the contour of her cheek, and dried in the meadow breeze.

Why did you leave me, Mommy?

She drifted into dream.

Seven

The southwest flow meandered out of the Gulf of Mexico into Storberry. Though the afternoon heat was past its apex, the increasing humidity provided a preview of the coming summer. The moisture encouraged mosquitoes to awaken and feed. Preventing the warm temperatures from falling much in the waning sunlight, the stifling humidity guaranteed that window box air conditioners would rattle and hum across the town tonight.

Erin Kent pulled her rusty Subaru onto the asphalt shoulder at the corner of 16 and Jensen. She leaned against the car and looked into the setting sun, a bloody ocean in the west. The town appeared exactly as she remembered it.

It seemed that she had been running forever. She had traveled from state to state, worked a menagerie of temporary jobs and racked up a stack of unpaid medical bills. Scattered among it all was a vague blur of disreputable men who had treated her poorly.

There had once been happiness for her here, but it had been so long ago that she could not recall quite how it had been. She fumbled with the pill bottle in her pants pocket, twisted the cap past the safety lock, and popped two red and white capsules into her mouth before she could spill them into the ditch. She glanced at the prescription—

TAKE TWO CAPSULES BY MOUTH AT BEDTIME

DO NOT EXCEED TWO CAPSULES IN 24 HOURS

As she swallowed her fifth and sixth capsules of the day, she shook the bottle and estimated she had enough medicine to get her through another five or six days, and no refills.

Then what?

She stuffed the bottle into her front pocket.

The tremors and thoughts of violence lessened as soon as she swallowed the pills, much faster than the medication could reach her bloodstream. She was lucid enough to understand the medicine was a crutch, but she needed it now more than ever.

It was thirteen years ago that Erin Lawrence, as she was then known, had left her husband and daughter in the middle of the night.

Dell had known something was wrong with her for over a year. She had stopped eating, and her body trembled for no apparent reason. She flew into violent rages, smashed her fists into walls, and hurled glasses against kitchen cabinetry at the slightest upset. Dell had regressed, unable to support her. As his drinking increased, he began spending more time in bars than he was at home.

Erin hadn't comprehended what was happening to her. The women around town whispered she was losing her mind, but what did they know? Her doctor wanted her to undergo studies at a center in Raleigh, but she feared his real intention was to have her institutionalized.

The nightmare reached a crescendo in Richmond on a September evening.

She had come to the city on a job interview and stopped at a mall near her hotel. Shortly before closing time, she made her way through the darkened parking lot. It had taken her a long time to find her car. The anxiety of searching for her vehicle in an unfamiliar city had set her nerves on edge.

When she finally began to pull out of the lot, her hands were gripped to the steering wheel like vise clamps. She was near the lot exit when a man in a pickup barreled toward her from the passenger side.

The truck’s high beams had been like an oncoming train in the passenger side window. There was the blare of a horn, and then the pickup sideswiped her. The jarring force knocked her head into the driver side window.

The truck hadn’t relented. It pushed the car for several more seconds, tires squealing and smoke billowing.

The man had exploded out of the cab, his face red as a tomato. He had screamed at her that it was her fucking fault, and that he was going to teach her a lesson. She could still smell the liquor on his breath and see the sweaty hair matted against his forehead. He was going to kill her. Had he seen the look in her eyes, he would have retreated to the pickup and disappeared into the night.

She burst out of the driver side door. A mask of rage distorted her face, causing the man to take a step backward toward his truck.

A switchblade appeared in her right hand. The blade popped out with a sharp click, like a Jack-in-the-Box. Later she would not remember where she had obtained the knife, though she had found it weeks ago on the east side of Spruce, lying on the sidewalk as though it were Excalibur waiting for her to draw it from stone.

Before the man could react, her right arm swept across his vision and found his throat. He froze, like a cartoon character just realizing it had run off a cliff. An awful crimson streak appeared across his neck. He gasped, and blood flooded down his chest.

As his eyes filled with disbelief, he slumped toward the pavement, mouth moving but unable to speak. He made choking sounds and coughed out blood.

As though she were a spectator in a macabre dream, her arm moved on its own. She remembered the helplessness in his eyes as the knife plunged into his shoulders and chest. As the blade struck flesh and bone, torrents of red splattered across the side of the truck.

The blade disappeared with a click of the thumb.

She rushed back to the car and drove to the interstate. The reality of what she had done slammed into her with such force that she nearly fainted. It was all she could do to keep the car on the road.

She recalled a rain storm and traffic jam on I-95. There was no other memory of the trip home until she arrived in Storberry.

Erin now knew what she was capable of. Would the next time be Dell, or Katy?

The next day while her daughter napped and her husband was away at work, she packed essentials into a duffel bag and slipped it behind the bushes outside. She ate dinner with her daughter, the sadness of knowing it would be the last time she saw Katy boring a hole through her.

She retired to bed after Dell returned. Watching the clock until he was sound asleep, she lay with one eye open. Shortly after midnight Dell was snoring and mumbling something indistinguishable. She had slept in her clothes, and he had been too drunk to notice.

When she pushed herself out of bed as quietly as she could, the mattress squealed, and Dell muttered again. She froze. Several seconds later, he was snoring again.

As blue moonlight drifted through the living room bay window and spread down the hallway, she could hear the electrical hum of the refrigerator. A lone car passed by, and its beams traveled across the window. The pitch of its engine fell, and the car faded into the night.

She crept into her daughter's room to kiss her one last time.

She slipped out the front door. It locked behind her with a kind of cold finality.

The outside world lay obscured by tears as she grabbed the hidden bag. She walked four miles to Jensen and Route 16 in the pit of night, alone in the dark, but without fear for her safety. Erin Lawrence no longer cared whether she lived or died. All was lost.

As she hitchhiked from 16 to nearly twenty miles west on Winchester Road, she eventually caught a ride with a man traveling to Lexington. The ultimate destination was not important, as long as she was too far away to hurt her daughter.

For the next thirteen years she drifted, changing names to escape creditors and to stay a step ahead of her past. The Richmond murder went unsolved.

Now she had returned, Storberry shimmering before her like the ghost of an old friend.

What exactly was the plan? Did she really think she could show up on their doorstep and everything would be forgiven? There might be another woman now, a real mother to Katy.

She had found their address in the phone book, and that was where her ill-conceived plan ended.

The first step was to find lodging for the night. As she followed 16 to Jensen, reversing the route she used to walk out on her family, dark storefronts stared back at her with indifference. A quarter mile before Main Street she pulled the Subaru into the parking lot of the Pink Flamingo Hotel. She had no bags to carry in.

At the front desk, a disinterested young man named Clark Samson waited on her. He grumbled something about overnight shifts and lack of sleep. She checked in as Jody Rogers and paid with a fake bank card.

Eight

The blood-red sun disappeared below the horizon. It left a spectrum of striations in its wake, which began as vermilion over the forest and faded to gray at the zenith. Light slipped away.

Greg Madsen stopped his bike on the corner of Jensen and Main and watched the woman with no bags walk into the Pink Flamingo. He didn't recognize her, but there was something about the way she kept her head down and avoided eye contact that made him suspicious. He waited until she had entered the building, then he copied down the Virginia license plate number of her car and radioed Art Stults to run a check.

Mary Giovanni bolted the front door to the Sweet Nothings Café. The evening smelled of summer—humid with a rich earthy scent on the wind. As she looked forward to a glass of wine on her back deck and a good book to keep her company, a sudden wind gust off the hill caught her off guard, and she dropped her keys. She bent to pick them up and surveyed the sky. The clear blue of twilight revealed no clouds, but the atmosphere felt like a compressed spring. The tension reminded her of how it felt before a bad storm.

Benny Marks, the spitting image of his brother but ten years younger, pedaled furiously along Court Street. He had stayed too long at Mike Bailey’s house, and now he raced against the coming darkness. His legs pumped like pistons, the 10-speed Schwinn speeding through the building gloom. The wind from his forward speed felt cool on his face. A car beeped as it passed him on his left. In the distance he could see the lights of the public library.

He knew there was no hope to make it home before sunset and that his parents would be worried. He had tried to call them from Mike’s house, but all the phone had done was ring and ring. A gust of wind struck him from the south, as though he had passed parallel to a wind tunnel. The bike wobbled, and he had to jerk the handle bars and shift his weight to keep from crashing. Then he heard what sounded like a train approaching from the south. But that was impossible because there were no tracks in the area.

The lights flickered inside Armstrong General Hospital. Jeff Branyan had been moved to a regular room and seemed to be recovering well. His doctor said he had a few broken ribs and a concussion but that he would fully heal. Trying to find something interesting to watch on the tiny black and white television bolted to the wall across from his bed, Jeff saw the signal go out. He pressed the remote control but every channel was snow and static.

In the hallway a young female nurse talked to a cute orderly. She was building up toward asking the boy for a date when the window at the south end of the hall rattled. There came a loud moaning sound from without, and the southern wall groaned like a dying animal. The nurse had a panicked look in her eyes.

“Jesus. Was that the wind?”

At the Moran farm, General repeatedly reared up and paced the pasture perimeter. While Randy Marks stroked the colt's mane, General bolted away and acted skittish. Evan Moran heard the commotion from inside the house and came to help.

They were confused. General was spooked, but by what? Evan searched the shadows for signs of a predator—maybe a bear had come out of the meadow. There was enough cover in the surrounding fields for a large animal to conceal itself.

Meadow grass beyond the pasture waved in silhouette as a stiff breeze fell off the southwestern hills. Nothing moved within its camouflage. If a predator was out there, Evan couldn't see it.

He could see the dark outline of the forest against the burgeoning western twilight. The forest was always there, staring back at him. He thought of the blackness within. And red eyes.

Panic gripped him, though for the life of him he could not put a face to his fear.

“We need to get General into the barn. Padlock the doors. Something is out there!”

There was urgency in Evan's voice, and Randy did not question him.

A great wind screamed down from the hill forest, its roar like a jet engine. The pasture fence shuddered against the force. They shielded their eyes from dust and debris caught in the gale. Then the wind intensified, and a vile roar swept across Standish Road toward the barn. Randy looked questioningly at Evan and saw terror in the man’s eyes.

They sprinted for the barn and lunged to the ground, shy of the entrance, as the fury hit. A plank ripped past Evan’s vision, nearly clipping him in the head. It struck the side of the barn like a shotgun blast and wedged into the wood. Behind them they heard General’s agonized squeals.

At the Red Lion Tavern, Chuck Kingsley told Dell Lawrence that in no uncertain terms had his daughter visited his establishment that day, and that Dell needed to get his ass out of there before the bouncers threw him out. Dell cursed and threatened that Chuck Kingsley would regret crossing him. He shoved the front door open and walked outside.

If he found that Kingsley knew something about Katy, he would put that asshole into a hospital bed next to the Branyan kid.

There hadn't been rain in the forecast, so Dell was surprised by the way the weather was acting. A stiff breeze picked up out of the southwest. It knocked the hat off the head of an older man jaywalking and blew dirt into Dell's face. Rubbing the stinging grit from his eyes, he cursed again. As the gale built, he thought of Katy.

Is she caught in the storm?

He began to worry.

Greg Madsen didn't like the way the wind had intensified. Certain a spring storm was about to blast the town, he remained perplexed that there weren't any clouds in the sky. As he biked off Jensen onto Main, he saw Dell cursing at the door bouncer in front of the Red Lion. Greg knew he needed to diffuse the situation before Dell did something stupid.

He had turned his bike toward the scene when the wind exploded down Jensen and Main. The force threw him from his bike and smashed him to the concrete. A metal garbage can ripped across the road. It missed his head by inches and crumpled against a light pole with the sickening sound of metal screeching against metal.

The wind felt like a tidal wave crashing against him. As he tried to get to his hands and knees, the storm forced him to the sidewalk. The roar of freight trains filled his ears. All around him was chaos— windows shattered; people screamed as the wind hurled them across the pavement; he saw the traffic light at the intersection of Jensen and Main rip off the line and hurtle through a second story apartment window.

He was sure he was going to die, but then the wind was gone as quickly as it had come. He heard it scream like a banshee down Jensen toward the east end of town. Loud pops echoed in the distance— electrical wires were exploding.

The storm, or whatever it was, would have caused extensive damage to the more densely-populated east side of Jensen, and people might be injured in the streets. He radioed Art Stults to raise every available unit and to call the county for backup.

Nine

Twilight broke in the eastern sky, and a great fire burned below the western horizon. A throng of mosquitoes and moths congregated around the streetlamps above Maple Street, addicted to the yellowish glimmer.

Tom Kingsley had just walked Jen Barrows home. Her parents were out for Saturday night dinner and would not be back until late, and the lights were dark inside the house.

He noticed she had avoided talk of the forest today, which didn't bother him, since he had preferred to forget the incident too. What concerned him was how nervous she had become with the setting sun, as though her confidence had perished with the fiery orb.

Her sense of humor had vanished, and that was most unusual for Jen Barrows. She eyed every shadow warily and jumped at the slightest movement beyond her vision. There was a quiver in her voice when she spoke.

The wind had been acting fitfully, alternating between stifling calm and sudden gusts, which whistled through the trees and shook loose insects from the overhead globes.

They both felt a growing dread, which neither could place. He would not leave her alone tonight.

Tom knew his mother wouldn't approve of him being alone in a house with Jen. For that matter, he figured that Jen's parents would too have concerns. But better to let everyone have their concerns than to leave her alone and have something

(like what?)

happen.

The front door to the Barrows' home was unlocked, and that was not at all unusual in Storberry where most everyone knew most everyone. A darkened hallway greeted them beyond the front door. Jen flipped the light switch on the wall and chased the shadows into the adjoining rooms.

She laughed nervously.

“Now what?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Watch something on TV?”

“Sure.”

She patted him on the arm and led him into the living room, then bent over a glass end table to turn on the lamp. The incandescent bulb flickered once and filled the near corner of the living room with a yellowish-white glow, revealing a blanket-covered couch and an umber shag carpet. She hurried to the far end of the couch and turned on the second lamp. The living room filled with light.

The glow from the shaded lamps did not carry far. The light made visible most of the dining room and kitchen, but was engulfed by pools of darkness along the back walls. Tom followed her to both rooms while she turned on additional lights. Now the lower floor was lit up like a landing strip. She sighed in relief. No dangers had presented themselves.

She could see Tom staring up the dark staircase leading to the second floor. Anything could be concealed in its darkened passages. They both understood that there would be no solace until each and every room was checked. But that meant proceeding into the dark.

He had skeletons in his own closet, though most of those were confined to the hill forest. He had rationalized his way past his fear of monsters under his bed when he was a child, but the forest...well, that remained an itch he could not scratch. As the shadows from the upper landing spilled down the staircase in a murky river, he could not shake the feeling that the hill forest and his present sense of dread were interconnected.

He had no explanation for the chill running down his back. Something was wrong under the building twilight. He had felt it in the wind and in the setting sun. A tension, like static electricity, pulsed all around them.

He gave her a look of reassurance.

“I'll go up the stairs with you. We'll turn the lights on, check all the corners and under all the beds. It won't take a minute.”

“And then popcorn and TV?” she asked, trying hard to mask that she was a bundle of nerves about to come unraveled.

“Then popcorn and TV. Let's just get it over with.”

As she double-locked the front door, pulling on the handle to confirm it was secure, an alarm sounded from deep within Tom’s mind.

What if someone is in the house? How will we escape?

He stood to her left and flicked the wall light switch at the base of the stairs. The first landing illuminated.

She placed her hand in his, and he looked at her. He believed that she was only holding his hand to chase away her fears, but that didn't stop his heart from thumping. He wished he could hold her hand under different circumstances.

He looked up the staircase to the darkened upper landing. It was just darkness, he reasoned. There were no boogeymen. No skeletons with rattling chains. No wide-eyed clown dolls come to life, crouched in the closet gripping the butcher knife gone missing from the kitchen. Once the lights were on they would see there was nothing to fear.

But there are real life murderers, he thought. Rapists. Pedophiles.

Sometimes crazed people do hide in your home and descend upon you out of the dark. There were real monsters on the TV news, flesh and blood. They cut you into pieces and hid you in refrigerators. They made ornaments out of your bones, which they hung in Wisconsin farmhouses.

She hears them at night in the crawlspace of her garage.

He inhaled deeply. No matter how terrified Tom was, he would not let her see. He held her hand and they climbed the stairs. One step at a time. As he twisted his neck to watch the upper landing where the light ended, they rounded the bend of the first landing. Staring up into the shadows, he paused, listening for any sound that signaled danger.

It was quiet upstairs, except for the metronomic tick of a wall clock. The tension grew with each tick, as though a pulley had wound a cord toward its breaking point. She gripped his hand tighter and they climbed another step.

Then one more.

Then another.

They were one step below the landing when gooseflesh spread across his skin. It took every bit of his will to keep from turning and running, and as his heart pounded like thunder, he found his right hand gripping the wooden bannister until it squealed. His vision cut through the gloom, expecting something to rush from the shadows.

He listened.

Just the old clock ticking.

Through her open second story window came the groan of creaking wood and the shotgun snap of a plank breaking. It came from outside, from the crawlspace above her garage.

Then the wind came shrieking off the hill.

Ten

When Katy Lawrence opened her eyes to thickening twilight, she sat up quickly and looked across the field. Terror gripped her until she remembered where she was.

How long have I been asleep?

The sun had set behind the tree line, and the dim blue of twilight cloaked the meadow. The lights from Maple Street were obscured by the copse at the top of the neighborhood. In minutes the meadow would be in total darkness.

She was in trouble. She should have walked to Jensen an hour ago to find a ride out of town. Where would she sleep tonight? Could she find her way back to town in the dark? If only she had put off rest a little longer.

But she had been exhausted, physically and emotionally drained from the last two days. If she hadn't rested, she might have collapsed.

Placing a hand over her growling stomach, she realized that she hadn't eaten since she’d spent her last few dollars on breakfast at the hospital cafeteria.

Safety existed at the hospital—it was a good place to sleep when there was nowhere else to go. Family and friends of hospital patients often slept in the lobby or in waiting rooms. If a nurse or orderly saw you curled up on the couch, he or she just assumed that someone you knew was hospitalized. Nobody looked at you twice.

If I can find my way to Main, I can walk to the hospital in about an hour and a half.

She would find a quiet, safe waiting room. She could begin her journey out of town after sunrise and have an opportunity to check on Jeff one last time.

The meadow was alive with the chirping of crickets, and an owl hooted from the copse. The low croak of a bullfrog came from down the slope to her right, helping her get a sense of where the pond was within the dark sea of meadow grass.

An unusual breeze picked up from behind her. The forest provided the hill meadow with a buffer from westerly winds, but this wind seemed to come from directly over the tree line. As she waited for raindrops to follow, she noticed that the sky was clear, with a growing number of stars flickering to the east.

As she started down the slope through the tall grass, she stumbled over hummocks and snagged her feet in knotted overgrowth. Footing was treacherous after dark, and the last thing she needed was a sprained ankle or twisted knee.

From the sounds off the pond and the slope of the meadow, she determined that the beaten trail was to the northeast. She had walked the trail a hundred times but never attempted to locate it in the dark.

Should I bear left and risk traveling the copse so I can get to the backyards above Maple Street?

Getting back to civilization would make her feel safer, and she could find a garage or shed to conceal herself in until dawn. She had done so a few times before when she was desperate. The problem was that the copse was thick and the slope considerably steeper toward the neighborhood. She couldn't safely traverse the slope in the dark.

As Katy walked onward, darkness thickening by the minute, she knew that she should have found the trail by then. It may have been to either side of her, but she was blinded by chin-high meadow grass.

Twilight had traveled to the eastern sky. As the moon lay hidden behind the forest, leaving the meadow in total darkness, she began to panic.

The familiar night sounds of Becks Pond were far behind her. She stopped and turned, looking up the slope. The meadow looked the same to her in every direction. She was lost.

Turning again, she took note of the sharper slope in front of her. If she was correct, the neighborhood was a fifteen or twenty minute walk in that direction. She stood and stared, trying to force her eyes to cut through the gloom. The night revealed nothing.

Then she perceived slightly darker shadows up the slope to the northwest, most likely the tree copse. She was out of options. She needed to risk the copse and hope for the best.

Katy moved cautiously forward, her hands outstretched before her, searching blindly for branches or bramble. She kept her weight back on her heels and shifted her gait so that she moved at an angle which better kept her balanced. There were pitfalls in the form of grass clumps, rocks, and holes, and she stumbled often.

A pricker bush caught her right calf, and she yelped as the thorns tore her skin. She backed away and pulled the dried stems off of her. She could feel thin rivulets of blood trickling down her ankle.

The tall shadows grew nearer. The copse was just ahead. If she could safely make her way through the thick grove, the lights from the houses would guide her.

Suddenly the wind struck with a guttural roar off the meadow's crest.

The force blasted Katy from behind and slammed her into the earth. Her instincts took over, and she covered her head with her hands, as dirt and stone pelted her back and legs. Wind-driven debris stung her exposed skin like a swarm of hornets. She screamed in terror and confusion.

Earth clumps ripped over her head with the power to crush bones and snap necks. Meadow grass whipped and snapped, tearing welts into her exposed skin.

The fury ceased as abruptly as it had begun. She could still hear herself screaming as the shrill banshee swept toward the center of town.

She lay on her stomach, panting and gasping for breath. Her body ached all over, as if she had been struck by a runaway vehicle. There were lacerations spread across her arms and legs in a bloody spider web pattern.

Pushing herself to her hands and knees, she ignored the stinging pain of skin being stretched. She felt relieved that she had no broken bones. As she looked to the sky in wonder and saw stars sparkling against an endless quilt of black, she couldn't reason through what had caused the wind. And then she remembered that she was still lost in the dark meadow.

As her legs turned into rubber bands, and her equilibrium warred with a bout of dizziness, she turned slightly and began to edge sideways down the hill. She kept to a slow pace despite an overwhelming urge to see neighborhood lights.

The meadow was silent. It had been so since the wind abated. She expected the insects and night birds to revisit their songs, but the only sound was the crunch of twig and grass under her sneakers, as she struggled to maintain balance.

The silence troubled her. Her eyes shifted left and right, trying to slice through the gloom. She saw the faint outline of tall grass and the tree copse. All else was black.

The copse was the length of a football field. When Storberry was first settled, the tree line had extended to the bottom of the hill. In 1942 Maple Street was paved, and new construction had immediately commenced. The trees were leveled along the hill to tempt new home buyers with large, open backyards.

Marking the edge of the backyard property lines, the copse grew without human intervention until the thick meadow grass took over near the crest. In daylight it could be traversed in several minutes. In the dark, it was slow and treacherous. The overgrowth crowded together, and low hanging branches snagged clothing and whipped at skin. Katy knew this, and she kept her forward arm bent in front of her eyes for protection.

Rich with the scent of humus and pine, the interior was choked with dead trees rose that from the earth like hideous skeletons. Boughs were arms that threatened to snatch her off the ground.

Nothing moved inside. Brush and fallen branches snapped underfoot. As she concentrated on making steady progress down the slope, she tried to ignore her growing anxiety that she was in danger.

She walked for several minutes in the gloom as branches whipped at her skin, and patches of bramble tore at her sundress. The possibility of stepping into an animal trap occurred to her. It wasn't likely that anyone would place traps this close to the neighborhood, but one could never be sure.

If I step into a trap, I’m finished.

Now she watched the ground for hazards. It slowed her progress, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

She should have broken out of the trees by now. There was a growing dread that she had become lost, but that was unlikely. Provided she kept moving down the slope, she would walk straight into the backyards of the neighborhood. Even if she had miscalculated so badly that she missed Maple Street, she would arrive in town near Standish Road in short order.

A vile sound from beyond Katy's vision froze her in place. It sounded like a laugh.

As her heart pounded, she could feel blood pulsing through her temples. She was sure someone was watching her, observing her descent through the trees, waiting at the edge of the backyard for her to walk into his grasp.

Straining her eyes against the black, she scanned the horizon.

Nothing. Only silence and the skeletal sentries of the tree copse.

She remained still for another minute. Noise had a tendency to echo against the trees inside the copse, often distorting its sound. She was no longer sure of what she had heard. She was famished and injured, and her mind may have played tricks on her.

She cautiously moved forward. After two steps she stopped and listened.

Still nothing.

Another two steps.

Silence.

Resuming her slow descent, she was comforted by the return of chirping crickets. They began a few at a time, then the song swelled all around her in the night air. She took small comfort in knowing that she was not the only thing alive inside the trees.

The way forward appeared less dark. When tree silhouettes became stark against what she perceived as growing gray beyond, she hoped that she was near the end of the copse. She contained her optimism, not daring to rush through the overgrowth.

Finally, the first sign of civilization appeared through the dense tree line. Thinking she saw a flashlight bobbing up the hill toward her, she paused, recalling the laughter she thought she had heard. The light went still when she stopped, then activated again with her movement. Of course, it wasn't a flashlight. It was just a street lamp above the roofs.

I’m almost out of the copse. I’ll be safe once I reach the neighborhood.

She continued the steady descent, planting her front foot sideways to ensure balance. With each step forward the horizon became clearer, and now she could see three more street lamps along Maple Street. The warm glow of incandescent lighting through residential windows welcomed her like lighthouse beacons, and she could discern roof outlines.

As Katy broke into the backyards of Maple Street through the border trees, houses sat in a row at the bottom of the yards, beckoning her forward with their promise of safety. Her thoughts returned to getting a good night's sleep and starting her final journey out of town tomorrow morning.

She recognized some of the houses. The Barrows' home was straight ahead—a two-story, cobalt under the night sky. The first floor flooded with light, while the top floor slumbered in silent darkness. A paint-chipped garage was off to the right. She recalled that it had an upper floor or crawlspace, but that wouldn’t help her. She had played with Jen Barrows a few times during grade school and recalled that the upper floor was boarded shut.

She liked Jen. She was one of the kids who had treated her kindly after her home life fell apart. Katy considered knocking on the door and asking Jen to lend her some clothes. Jen would have helped her. She would have given her something to eat and drink, too. Katy was sure of it. But asking was out of the question.

A retaining wall of layered stones circled the back of the garage. Blooming flowers and ornamental grasses rose up, creating an area of concealment that she might use for sleep. She preferred a garage or shed to keep the mosquitoes off of her.

For the first time she noticed that the boards over the back window to the crawlspace were torn free, but the window was several feet off the ground with no way to climb to the ledge. Light mist clung to her skin like sticky, wet clothing.

She had stopped behind the garage when the stench hit her. The odor, which was of carrion and decay, seemed to come from everywhere and once and reminded her of dead animals along the highway.

The insect songs had stopped again. The only sound she heard was the ghostly cry of a fire engine’s siren somewhere on the east end of town.

Katy turned and looked up the backyard toward the tree line. Her eyes had adjusted to the residential lighting and could no longer cut through the shadows which spilled down the hillside.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Suddenly she realized that she was not alone.

The retaining wall behind the garage was all that stood between her and the safety of the Barrows’ house. No more than a short run, if it came to it. But the back reaches of her mind warned her not to step forward.

The ghostly silhouettes of the retaining wall fauna regarded her in silence. Something was out of place. As her mind raced to process the shapes and shadows, she felt a pall descend on her.

It looked like a dead tree. A full two feet taller than her, it was frozen in time with its wretched boughs stretching through the night air. But it wasn't a tree. Its shape suggested something else, almost human. Her mind screamed at her to run.

Then it moved.

It came out of the camouflage with alarming quickness, crashing at her through the brush. A scream perished at the back of her parched throat, as the dim light revealed the nightmare scene. It was huge. Seven, maybe eight feet tall. Its vermilion eyes were wide with hunger.

She turned to run, but a clawed hand gripped her arm and wrenched it from its socket. Pain seared through her body, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

As it lifted her off the ground, her legs and uninjured arm beat at its body with no effect. Her legs kicked uselessly as it held her suspended with inhuman strength. It was crushing her. Hearing her bones crack like cap firecrackers, she drifted into unconsciousness.

Her eyes closed before the hideous face came into the light. Its maw opened to reveal two fangs as incisors extending below its lower lip.

The fangs tore into her carotid artery, and torrents of crimson poured out of her. Her body quivered.

Its thirst was unquenchable. It lapped at her blood and tore slabs of meat away from her neck.

Her body shook violently and finally fell limp.

It breathed deeply and smacked its blackened lips, feeling strength returning to its body.

The wail of the fire engine grew soft in the distance. A dog barked, and a lone vehicle traveled east on Maple Street, unaware of the macabre scene behind the Barrows’ home.

The monstrous figure carried her lifeless body into the shadows to feed.

Eleven

Rory Dickson had just sat down on his backyard deck on Randolph Road when the chaos started.

Settled seven houses south of Mary Giovanni, the beige-sided ranch home was bordered by a meadow of wild grasses and small ponds. His wife Evelyn had just finished roasting a duck, and the air was fragrant with cooked onion. As dusk settled on the western horizon in swatches of burnt orange, a brilliant magenta kissed the underside of wispy cirrus.

While the deck boards creaked under the rocking chair, he lifted the beer bottle to his lips and drank contentedly to the flawless sky.

The ham radio in the adjoining dining room rested on a cherry wood chest, despite Evelyn's insistence that he move it to the basement. It was turned on perpetually in the unlikely event of an emergency, though Evelyn always turned the sound off while Rory was at work—the darn thing interrupted her soaps. Tonight it crackled with the occasional burst of static, like lightning on an AM radio signal, but otherwise remained inactive.

He had just finished his first beer and was dreaming about the second when the radio came to life. An agitated voice shouted something about wind damage on the southwest side of town. It made no sense to Rory, and he was about to chalk it up to a stupid prank when a second voice overrode the first. There was extensive damage to downtown—a plate glass window had exploded on Main, and people were injured in the street.

The voice of Pete Cutler came next, which caused Rory to cringe. Cutler was a good man, but he often overreacted during emergency events. Cutler was frantic, claiming a tree had crushed the roof of his garage and that someone needed to contact the National Weather Service to tell them to issue a tornado warning.

The idea was ridiculous. There were no fronts or storm systems in the area. Hell, there wasn't a cumulus cloud in sight.

He couldn't allow Cutler to force the weather folks into issuing an erroneous warning, but he wanted to see for himself. As he bolted off the deck around the side of the house, he found a clear view of the southwestern edge of town. The sky was serene, yet he could hear wind roaring in the distance like a faraway freight train. The sound seemed to pour off the hill forest a few miles to the south, down Jensen toward downtown.

Rory couldn't understand what was happening, but he knew he would be needed to run his post at the police station immediately.

When he entered the house, the ham radio signal went dead. He grabbed the radio and identified himself with his ID.

“This is Rory Dickson. Can anyone hear me?”

There was only the low hum of static.

“Repeat. This is Rory Dickson in West Storberry. Do you receive?”

Again no answer.

Evelyn's face was strained with worry when she came into the dining room. While she wrung her hands and looked back and forth between her husband and the radio, Rory checked the cables running out of the back of the unit and ensured it was powered. He scanned for additional frequencies but could not find an active signal.

“What's happening?”

Evelyn feared something terrible had occurred.

“Don't know. I should get to the department. We may have lost the tower.”

“From the wind? There isn't even a storm out there, Rory!”

“Hell, I know that. But I heard the wind out there. There isn't a goddamn cloud in the sky, but I heard it.”

He fumbled for his keys and stuffed his wallet into his jeans pocket.

“Call them first. See what's happening before you rush out there like a fool.”

He knew she was right. He needed to know where the damage was and if any roads were impassible. It was senseless to drive blindly into the coming darkness without a plan.

He moved to the kitchen with Evelyn following behind him. He picked the touch tone phone off of its wall base and pressed the speed dial for the police department. Rory put the phone to his ear and listened. He heard nothing.

He pressed the reset button and dialed the phone number manually this time but was again met with silence.

“The phone lines are down.”

Twelve

The south window of the Storberry Public Library had imploded half a minute earlier. Shards of glass littered the floor and were embedded into bookcases, like bullets.

Renee Tennant emerged from under the front desk near the eastern doors with her mind spinning through the possibilities.

Are any of the student workers still in the building? Have the last of the guests departed the library, or is someone still here? Is anybody seated at the quiet study table under the south window?

As she ran for the south wall, the sound of her footfalls echoing hollow, she dreaded what she might find. The glass had blown in with such force that it would have torn through skin and bone alike. She was aware of small pieces of glass stuck in her hair. The glass had missed her eyes by mere inches.

“Is anyone hurt?”

Her voice reverberated off the walls without answer.

She sighed in relief when she saw the empty study table. A wooden chair lay shattered against the end of the bookcase. A large chunk of glass had fallen through the table and stood embedded in the wood like some sort of insane statue. She imagined what the scene would have looked like had someone been at the table. Part of the ceiling was exposed, and insulation dust floated in the air like a swarm of gnats. The dust irritated her lungs, and she began to cough.

Looking between the stacks for signs of life, she ran through the empty library. She checked the young reader’s wing and verified that the bathrooms were unoccupied. Again she called out to anyone still in the library. She silently uttered thanks that people had found better things to do on the picturesque evening. Then her stomach lurched as she imagined all of the people who had been outside, exposed to the violence.

Renee had returned to her desk when she heard the soft cries of a child from the outside the library. She grabbed her car keys and purse and exited the building down the concrete steps to the sidewalk. She saw two huge uprooted oaks splayed across Court Street, creating a street blockade between the library and the police department.

As a procession of emergency vehicles raced eastward on Jensen, their shrill screams falling in pitch as they crossed her vision, she heard people crying near the corner of Washington and Main. Distant horns blared, like cattle.

The cries came from around the corner to her right.

“I hear you. I'm coming.”

She followed the cries to the Washington Street library entrance and found a young boy with red hair and freckles sprawled on the sidewalk. The wind had ripped him from his bike, and he had landed a few feet from the glass entrance door. His knees and elbows were scraped, but she could not see any sign of broken bones. The boy's eyes were wild with fright and confusion.

“It's okay, it's okay,” she said.

The boy hugged her hard, and his shoulders shook from sobbing.

“My name is Renee. What's your name?”

“Benny,” he said, crying into her shoulder.

“Can you tell me your last name, Benny?”

“Marks. Benny Marks.”

“Marks? Do you know a boy named Randy Marks?”

“Yes,” he said. There was relief in his eyes. “He's my brother.”

“That's good, Benny. Randy lives with my friend, Mr. Moran.”

“At the f-f-farm.”

“Yes, that's right. He lives at the farm with him. Are your parents around?”

He shook his head.

“They're home.”

Looking up the side of the building, she saw that they were directly under the broken window. Two large pieces of glass hung off the pane. They could fall at any moment.

“It's not safe here, Benny. We need to get you up. Can you move?”

“Uh-huh.”

As she helped him to his feet, he winced. There were purple bruises on his body, but he had full mobility of his arms and legs.

“Does anything else hurt real bad, like your ribs? Or your neck?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Good. Let's get you inside and call your mommy and daddy.”

He leaned on her for support for the first several steps, and then he got his sea legs and walked on his own up the library steps. As she watched his face, she marveled at Benny’s resemblance to his older brother. Same eyes, same freckles, same boyish features. More sirens echoed through the town, some distant and some close.

The ceiling lights were on as she led him into the library. Renee was relieved that the power still functioned, at least on this grid. The boy's sobs dwindled to the occasional sniffle.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I'm not sure. I guess it was just a bad storm.”

“It didn't rain.”

“It didn't?”

“There weren't even clouds.”

Renee had lived through enough Virginia storms to recognize the fierce winds that had struck town. The boy was probably scared and confused.

But he had said that there were no clouds in the sky, and come to think of it, she hadn’t heard a rumble of thunder or raindrops hitting the windows. None of it made sense to her.

She sat Benny in her chair behind the front desk. She picked up the phone and was about to ask him for his phone number when she realized there was no dial tone. She pressed the hang-up button repeatedly. The receiver was dead.

“The phone isn't working,” she said. “But I can drive you home. Where is your house?”

“Randolph Road. Near the car place.”

“Near the big car dealership?” He nodded. “Okay, Benny. I know where that is. Let's get you home.”

She hung her purse strap over her shoulder, and he followed her down the front steps. Her hatchback was parked in the small Washington Street lot which served the library and the flower shop next door. There were pieces of glass from the library window on the car hood, and a tree branch was wedged underneath the driver side door. Otherwise the car looked unscathed. Cursing under her breath, she yanked the branch out from under the car and unlocked the doors.

Ensuring Benny was safely seated, Renee started the car and headed west on Washington Street. The traffic light at the intersection of Main and Washington was out. Green, yellow, and red flashed concurrently, reflecting off the blacktop in a blurred kaleidoscope of confusion. She edged the car into the intersection; and when she saw the road was clear, she turned left onto Main.

An ambulance with flashing lights was parked on the right side of the street. Emergency workers loaded an old woman with gauze wrapped around her leg onto a stretcher. A man with mussed hair and a dazed look on his face stumbled down the west-side sidewalk like Frankenstein’s monster.

She saw Greg Madsen stringing police tape around a block of sidewalk where a plate glass window had exploded on the eastern side of the street.

“I’m going to pull in here for a second, Benny.”

She brought the hatchback into a parking space near Madsen. Looking curiously at the young boy in the passenger seat, Madsen waved to her.

She leaned out the window and asked, “Got any idea what happened?”

“None,” he said. “Not that I’ve had time to think about it. It all hit the fan at once.”

“It had to be some kind of freak storm, right?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy. Rory Dickson knows some of the weather folks, but he isn’t answering his radio. Tower must have gotten hit.”

“That’s interesting, because I tried to make a call, and it sounded like the phone lines were down, too.”

“The lines are up around the station and the library, but they may have taken a hit further down the road. Shit, I hope the telephone exchange building didn't get nailed.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not yet. But eventually, yes. We’re still trying to get an idea about the amount of damage and injuries. Once we know what we’re up against, I’m sure we’ll need volunteers to check on people, clear the streets of debris, and such. If you are headed out Evan’s way, I could use him and the Marks boy.”

“Speaking of which, I have his brother with me. He was thrown off his bike in front of the library, but it looks like he is all right. I’m trying to get him home to his parents.”

“I thought that was Benny Marks.” He leaned over and waved to the boy. “You doing okay, sport?”

“Yes, sir,” said Benny.

“We’ll get you home to your folks as soon as we can, but right now the west end of Jensen is impassable. There are trees on the road, and live high tension wires on the ground. As long as your mom and dad stay inside, they’ll be just fine. So you don’t need to worry about them. Can you be a brave boy and keep a watch on Miss Tennant for awhile?”

“Sure.”

“What about the northeast side?” she asked. “If I can get to the Moran farm, I can get Benny to his brother.”

“I don’t have reliable information on the east side yet, but the word is that Standish is open down toward the Last Stop,” said Greg. “Take it slow. It’s hard to see debris in the road now that the sun is down.”

“Thanks, Greg. If I can get out there, I’ll see that Evan and Randy check in with you.”

Renee pulled out and reversed her direction on Main Street.

The darkness encroaching on Main was interrupted by regular intervals of light pooling under street lamps. Shattered glass sparkled on the sidewalks, like glittering gems. When she reached Standish, she turned right to see that the traffic lights were functioning at the first two eastbound intersections, a good sign.

“We’ll get you to your brother in a few minutes.”

Benny stared at the blur of traffic lights. The low hum of the engine soothed him, and his eyes began to droop.

“Go ahead and rest. I’ll get you there.”

Chapter Four

As Renee Tennant pulled her car into the Moran farm driveway, the moon perched over the top of the hill forest, casting an eerie glow across the battered town. The hulking barn was gray along its southern and western walls in the moonlight. The front was obscured in shadow, its windows blank eyes.

One of the barn doors stood askew, but the house appeared to have escaped damage. Lamp light through the windows spilled in yellow tones onto the lawn.

Benny was fast asleep in the passenger seat, and Renee thought it best to let the boy rest.

When she exited the car, she gasped at Evan Moran in the barn doorway. His face was ashen, and there were white bandages wrapped around his forearms. As he turned and walked out the back exit of the barn without acknowledging her, Randy Marks met her at the top of the driveway, a cloth wrapped around his head. A tinge of red marred the cloth.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

“It’s not bad. Just a cut,” said Randy.

He craned his neck toward her car, a look of stunned disbelief on his face.

“Is that my brother?”

“Yes. He was blown from his bike in front of the library. He’s fine. Just a little scared. I tried to bring him home, but the roads are closed up that way.”

Home.

He felt a cold dread wash over him.

“My brother will be safe with me.”

“Let him rest for a second. He could probably use it. What happened to Evan?”

“General didn’t make it. Mr. Moran is taking it pretty hard.”

“My God.”

“Part of the fence ripped out of the ground when the storm hit. It went right through him. At least it was quick. He didn’t suffer.”

“Evan must be devastated.”

“He’s out back burying General in the field. I told him to wait until tomorrow, but he wants to do it now.”

“Why don’t you go back and help him finish. The quicker it gets done, the sooner he’ll come around. I’ll bring Benny inside.”

Randy hesitated, and for a second Renee swore she saw desperation in his eyes. Then he blinked and appeared to gather himself.

“There are blankets in the closet. Just put him on the couch. I’ll check on him after.”

Renee opened the passenger door and carefully removed Benny. He stirred when she lifted him, then settled back into slumber.

“Randy?”

“Yes, Miss Tennant?”

“What happened to the town?”

“I reckon it was just a bad storm.”

“I never heard thunder.”

He paused and considered what she said.

“No, ma'am. It didn’t thunder here either.”

“Benny says there weren't any clouds in the sky.”

Randy’s eyes were fixated on the hatchback the Tennant woman had parked in the driveway. Had she left the keys in the ignition? The freak storm had been a blessing in disguise. Nobody would be digging up Calvin and Sue Marks with everything gone haywire. If he could just get Benny out of her arms and—

Renee jumped as Evan emerged from behind Randy. There were pinpricks of crimson on his face and forehead, his skin pocked by wind-driven debris.

“That's because there was no storm,” Evan said.

“What are you talking about? If there was no storm, then where did that wind come from?”

She held Benny in her arms, the boy’s chin resting on her shoulder.

Evan didn't answer. He just turned and looked at the black outline of the hill forest at the edge of town, his eyes haunted and distant.

Two

The night enveloped Maple Street. Streetlamps dropped pools of light onto the road and sidewalk, and the darkness pressed their borders inward. Porch lights threw beacons into the night, and they were swallowed whole. Sirens rose and fell across the town, their piercing cries like wails of terror.

The dark presence towered above the girl in the hidden seclusion of the Barrows' garden. Already, her tremors had begun. Skin regenerated where slabs of flesh had been devoured, and bite marks disappeared.

She would wake soon.

As a dog barked down the street, straining against its chain, its owner shushed it. The dog persisted, and when the man could no longer bear the sound, he yanked the dog into the house. He cussed at it, but the dog ignored him and scampered to the dining room window, where it barked at the backyard with greater ferocity. The man shook his head and wondered why he owned a dog at all.

Maple Street sat unaware. Light poured through residential windows, like searching eyes. But the eyes did not see what stalked behind the houses.

Tom Kingsley did not know how to console Jen Barrows. He distracted her with jokes, but her body shivered as though stricken with hypothermia. She was impounded by her own superstition, vulnerable and flailing against the cold steel bars of a cell.

As they sat together on the living room couch, he realized that he had been frightened, too.

It is funny how the mind can change a narrative to something it can more comfortably sleep with. He was no longer sure of what he had heard. Events and sounds mixed together, blurring memories. It was preposterous to believe he had heard Jen’s monster breaking out of the crawlspace. It wasn’t rational.

While the smell of buttered popcorn wafted through the downstairs, he left her for a moment to grab two bowls out of the kitchen cupboard. He filled each with popcorn and grabbed two plastic cups and a bottle of Coke.

“I'm hungry. Let's eat,” he said as he entered the living room.

As her eyes drifted to the front door, she saw that the lock was set on the door knob and that the top bolt was in place. Sirens wailed along the south and east sides of town.

The brunt of the storm had missed Maple Street, though Tom remained convinced that the sound of wood planks snapping in the crawlspace had been caused by the wind. Jen reminded him that they had heard the planks snap before the wind started. He had no answer for that.

“I hope my parents are okay,” she said.

“They're fine, Jen. You said yourself that they wouldn’t be back until late. It’s going to take longer if the roads are closed. At least they were out of town when the storm hit.”

Her eyes started to look more lucid, and her body steadied. He knew she would come around once she realized that her family was safe.

She picked at the popcorn and poured herself a drink, and the cola foamed to the top of the cup and fell back before spilling over. Tom sat back against the couch, and she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Just don't leave me alone tonight,” she said.

“I won't.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. I'll stay with you, no matter how long it takes.”

Her hair caressed his skin like strands of fine silk. Feeling warm inside, he realized that he had never been so close to her, and it meant more than he could express that she trusted him to watch over her.

He felt a little guilty as he imagined where this might lead, alone in the house. He wanted to kiss her and to tell Jen how he felt about her, but he knew this wasn't the time. What if she told him that she felt the same way about him? Could he believe that she meant it and wasn't clouded by the temporary frailty of her emotions?

He carefully put an arm around her and held her close. His hand brushed at her face, feeling the damp residue of tears drying.

“There's nothing to worry about.”

“I know,” she said, but he didn't think she meant it.

He clicked the remote control, and the big tube television flickered to life on the opposite side of the room. The screen was covered in snow. He scanned through the channels but found no signal.

“Cable must be out, too. At least the power is still on,” he said.

The thought of the power going out, plunging the house into darkness, sent a chill down her back. There were candles and matches in the glass cabinet in the dining room. She thought that she should get them out now, just in case.

“Why don't we watch a video instead?”

“Okay,” she said.

She pushed herself up from the couch and opened the doors to the entertainment center. She cringed at the large selection of horror movies – Halloween, Friday the 13th, When a Stranger Calls. She liked a good scary movie as much as anyone, but not tonight. She picked out Sixteen Candles and popped it into the VCR.

While the movie previews started, she retrieved two candles and a pack of matches from the dining room cabinet. Then she went into the kitchen and opened the basement door. When she flipped on the light switch, the shadows retreated down the staircase, and she grabbed a four battery flashlight off the shelf. The metal flashlight took 'C' batteries and felt heavy in her hand.

When she pressed the button to confirm the batteries were fresh, a beam of light sufficient to land a small aircraft reflected off the kitchen cabinets. Satisfied she had covered all bases, she returned to Tom in the living room.

“I think you are adequately prepared for all eventualities,” he said, as she placed the flashlight and candles on the end table.

“Shut up, Tom Kingsley.” She sat next to him and turned up the volume with the remote. “One of us has to be prepared.”

There came on a knock on the front door. It caught them by surprise. He guiltily slid a few feet away from Jen, wondering if her parents had returned early.

“I’ll see who it is,” he said.

As he walked to the door, he wondered who would be knocking on the Barrows’ door after dark with so much trouble occurring across town.

Jen grasped the flashlight and considered the feel of its solid mass in her hand. The business end of the flashlight would make a reasonable weapon if it came to that.

Tom unlatched the bolt and opened the front door. Donna Kingsley stared back at him through the screen door. She was smoking. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mother with a cigarette.

“Don’t you think you should come home now, Thomas?” Donna looked past Tom to the empty rooms downstairs. “I don’t approve of you being here when her parents aren’t home. What will people think?”

“That’s why I’m here, Mom. With everything that’s happening in town, I didn’t think she should be left alone.”

“Aren’t you chivalrous?” Distaste was on her face. “I want you home in ten minutes.”

“Then she comes and stays with us until her parents get home.”

“I think Jen is a big enough girl to stay alone for a few hours.”

Jen appeared next to Tom, holding the flashlight.

“Good evening, Mrs. Kingsley,” she said.

“Good evening, Jen. I was just telling Thomas that I don’t think it is right for the two of you to be in the house alone together. I’m sure your parents wouldn’t approve.”

“Yes, ma’am. I asked Tom to stay with me. He knew you were expecting him to come home, but I didn’t want to be alone with everything going crazy tonight. This is all my fault. I’m really sorry.”

“Even so, you know how people talk. It doesn’t look right for the two of you to be in there, doing who knows what.”

“We were just watching a movie and making popcorn. I promise that’s all we were doing.”

“That’s all, Mom,” he said. “It’s just until her parents get home. Which should be soon if the roads into town are open.”

Donna sighed.

“All right. I don’t feel comfortable with this. If your parents are angry I won’t be able to help you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand,” said Jen.

“Thomas, I want you home as soon as her parents get back. And I want you to check in with me after the movie is done.”

“I will, Mom.”

“And you had better not be up to anything other than watching the movie. Understood?”

“I understand.”

“Yes, Mrs. Kingsley. And thank you for letting Tom stay.”

Donna Kingsley eyed both of them, and as she turned back toward her house, Tom closed the door and latched the bolt with a loud pop. He smiled at Jen.

“I can’t believe she let me stay.”

“My God. She really hates me, doesn’t she?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“I totally think she does.”

“She just gets that way. Don’t take it personally. I don’t.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Jen shrugged her shoulders and carried the flashlight back to the couch.

“You look like you are disappointed that you didn’t get to hammer someone with that ridiculously huge flashlight of yours.”

“Like I said, Tom Kingsley – one of us has to be prepared.”

“Up yours.”

“Watch yourself. I know how to use this thing.”

While they sat side by side, Molly Ringwald dealt with the reality of her family forgetting her birthday. Tom and Jen munched on popcorn and snickered at the television, while the screen cast blue tones against the walls, like breakers against a beach.

He was relieved that she was back to her old self.

Three

Rory Dickson fought his way to the police department through a maze of reroutes, fallen trees, and downed live wires that hissed sparks like dragon fire.

When he finally arrived, there was nobody more relieved to see him than Greg Madsen. As far as the young chief was concerned, Dickson was the unofficial second-in-command in Storberry. Madsen relied on him most in times of trouble, and this was one such time.

Dickson had a no-nonsense approach. He hadn't attended college, but he had a master's degrees in common sense and street smarts. Possessing the ability to make clear-headed decisions when others were panicking, he was at his best under pressure.

It had been five years prior on a sultry May afternoon that Dickson had shown his chops. The sky had been full of clouds, which built like battlements in the western sky. A tornado watch stretched from central Virginia into the Carolinas. Madsen had known the odds, that a tornado the width of a football field inside of a watch that covered three states was a veritable needle in a haystack. Even if ten monsters touched down, the odds of his town getting hit were less than winning the state lottery.

He had felt a sense of foreboding, nonetheless, and at precisely 2:18 pm, the impossible happened. The ham radio network had spotted a tornado four miles outside of town, barreling toward the heart of Storberry. And it wasn't just a tornado. It was a half-mile wide monster with a maw choked full of dirt, trees, and roof tops. Its forward path was taking it directly at the central school, where buses were lined up like cord wood preparing for school to release.

Hundreds of children were going to be caught in a fury of glass and debris spinning at 200 mph. The consequences were unthinkable.

Back in those days the nearest NOAA emergency weather radio station was broadcast out of Norfolk, nearly fifty miles away. In clear weather, the signal was rife with static and had a distant quality, as though transmitting from another dimension. In stormy weather, you couldn't pull in the Norfolk signal if your life depended on it, which was the case on this day. The weather radio in the principal's office of the Storberry Central School lost the Norfolk signal during lunch and never emitted an alert tone. The school had no idea of the whirling monster headed its way.

While Art Stults tried to call the school, the tornado targeted the phone lines at the edge of town with a precision military strike. While Stults banged on the receiver, trying to summon a dial tone through blunt force, Dickson swung into action.

He had less than two minutes, he figured, to prevent catastrophe. Two minutes to inform the school, and another three to five minutes on their end to usher a few hundred panicked students back into the building and into the lowest corridor.

In those two minutes he expertly utilized the ham network, the only working communications in all of Storberry, to present the danger, map out the projected path, and determine the network member closest to the school. It had been Pete Cutler. Madsen would be damned if Dickson hadn't kept Cutler calm while barking out clear orders.

Two minutes later to the second, Culter was in the shadow of the buses informing a frenzied female monitor in her first year of teaching of the imminent danger. Within five minutes of his arrival, as lightning burnt a five-foot wide hole in the school parking lot as though a missile had exploded, over 200 hundred students were safely crouched with hands over heads (which was also the recommended safety position for a full scale nuclear attack) within the school's lowest corridor.

Less than 100 yards from the Belleview housing development on the west edge of town, the tornado bounced twice, belched out the remnants of a barn silo like it was an angry child's toy, and dissipated into thin air as though a magician's illusion. The danger was over, though nobody had forgotten the heroic command of Rory Dickson.

When Rory's truck pulled into the police station lot on the south end of Court Street, the police chief was waiting for him. He could smell something burning on the wind as Madsen waved him down. The chief confirmed the obvious, that he could not obtain a signal on the police station’s amateur radio. As far as Madsen could ascertain, all communications were down. The chief suggested they use the police truck to reach the radio tower at the east edge of town.

As they dodged tree branches and power lines on Jensen, they encountered two elm trees crisscrossed over both traffic lanes. Greg took the truck over the curb, and they bounced their way around nature’s barricade. Candles burned in scattered windows where portions of the east end of Jensen were without power.

Greg worried about the potential for fires caused by the careless use of candles. If a blaze started on this section of Jensen, the fire trucks might not be able to fight through the mess until the house was reduced to smoldering ashes.

The night air was unnaturally warm for late March. There was the sweet smell of smoke on the wind, which reminded them of wood barbecue pits and the smell of residual smoke after a fireworks display. They would have found it pleasant were it not for the context.

Loud pops echoed from up the road. Greg knew what that meant, long before the telephone exchange building came into view. As transformers burst overhead, orange and white sparks rained down on the road’s shoulder. A fire truck pumped a steady stream of water into the exchange building interior. The fire was out, but it would be days before phone communication could be restored.

The amateur radio tower was bent toward the earth in submission to the elements. The metal twisted around itself and broke at the midpoint, like a shattered futuristic soldier.

“Shit,” said Rory, though he had expected as much.

“I won’t even ask you what it would take to get a new tower up,” Greg said.

“Good. Don’t. I couldn’t order one anyhow with the phone lines down.”

“Do you realize Storberry has no communication with the outside world right now?”

“The post office is still open.”

“Very funny. Aside from driving to the nearest town for help, I have no way to contact anyone.”

“The county will send people here to check things out if we can’t be reached, right?”

“That’s the interesting part. It’s not like we got hit by a line of thunderstorms. Whatever happened to us only happened in Storberry. Who’s to say anyone knows we got hit at all?”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“You’re right, though. If nobody can contact us, they’ll send a sheriff’s vehicle to check on things. Eventually. And I can't wait until eventually.”

“Do you have any idea what the hell happened tonight?”

“I really don’t. Some sort of freak wind storm? I’ve lived in Virginia most of my life, and I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“I could hear the damned thing all the way out on Randolph Road. It was screaming down the hill. It gave me shivers just hearing it.”

“I've heard of thunderstorms which produce wind damage with hardly any rain or lightning.”

“Well, whatever it was, it made a hell of a mess. And it damn well nearly cut us off from the rest of the world.”

As Greg wiped the sweat from his brow, he slapped at a mosquito buzzing at his ear.

“The first thing we need to do is get the roads cleaned up. That will make it easier for the utility crews to do what they need to do.”

“And keep the looky-loo's off the streets,” Rory said. “They'll just get in the way.”

“Right. I'm going to need a team of volunteers. People I can trust. I can count on you?”

“You know you can.”

“I'd like the Moran guy, too.”

“The farmer?”

“I hardly think that guy is a farmer,” Greg said. “He's been enough places in life that he knows how to prioritize. He isn't gonna cry about getting his business up and running first. He'll understand what needs to be done.”

“I'll see if I can round him up. We could really use the amateur radio network to organize this shit.”

“What's done is done. As soon as we get the roads cleared and the phone lines up, we'll get you the funds for a new tower. In the meantime I'll get all of the volunteers walkie-talkies, to heck with the regulations. They won't help us radio anyone from the outside, but they'll keep us in contact around town.”

“That'll do.”

As the buzz of chainsaws joined the eerie wail of sirens, car horns honked in concert from the town interior.

Greg was convinced that a small team of volunteers working with the emergency crews could have the town back to normal in a few days.

But something else worried him as he surveyed the town lights to their west. There was something more dangerous than live wires creeping within the dark. He could feel it. What that danger was, he couldn't say, but a growing disquiet urged him to find a way to reach outside help. And fast.

Four

The television in the corner cycled through channel after channel of static, the screen engulfed in a blizzard of dead signals. Bill Barrister grunted and flicked the power off with the remote control.

“Now why on earth would the cable be down on a clear night like tonight?”

Janet Barrister watched him over the edge of her coffee cup.

“Just as well. Nothing but trash on that thing.”

“Well, I was hoping to watch the ballgame.”

“Hmmph.”

He dropped the remote to the coffee table.

“Something bothering you tonight, dear?”

“Dropped by the public library this afternoon. Do you know what vile detritus passes for literature these days?”

He rolled his eyes and felt for the remote control again. Maybe if I try one more time the cable will be working again, and I can watch the ballgame in peace.

“Do tell.”

“Lunatics attacking teenage girls with axes. Rabid dogs mauling children. Tell me, Bill. Do you think God smiles when He sees His children reading such pestilence?”

“Perhaps you should bring it to the attention of the librarian, Miss—”

“Tennant. Miss Renee Tennant.”

“That's her. Saw her the other night when we were out at the café, didn't we?”

“Indeed.” She spat. “I brought these books to her attention. Do you know how she justified these books being in our library?”

She didn't wait for him to reply.

“By telling me how popular this rubbish is in the big cities. Well, that's not how we do things in Storberry. We—”

“We try to be neighborly. Isn't that God's Way?”

“Do not invoke His name in defense of some strumpet with big city ideas who is corrupting our town.”

If I just press the red button, the television will turn on, and the magic fairies will have coated the cable wire with pixie dust, and I can watch the ballgame. Then maybe she will shut up.

“Of course not, Dear.”

“Then I expect you will be by my side next Sunday at Saint Anthony's. I mean to bring this to Father Crosi's attention. It's time decency had its day in the sun again. And time for Renee Tennant and her sort to be eradicated from Storberry.”

“I concur,” he said, no longer hearing her.

He snatched today's Richmond Times-Dispatch from the coffee table, rattling the pages until he was certain that she believed him absorbed in world affairs.

A crease at the top of the curtains over the living room window revealed the coming of nightfall. The eastern sky was deep blue, the beginning of twilight. As she returned to her knitting and he to the sports pages, a hush fell over the two-story house. It was in this silence that they heard distant sirens, rising from the east side of town.

“That's odd. That's the second time we've heard them in the last ten minutes,” she said.

“I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.”

He rattled the pages again.

But the sirens increased and grew closer, now a musical cavalcade of various emergency vehicles. He recognized them all. Ambulance. Police car. Fire truck.

I hope the pizza guy can get through.

“It sounds like they are near the end of our road, Bill.”

He folded the paper in his lap. Two sets of sirens, and the cable is dead. That was typical during spring storms, but he hadn't heard thunder. The panicked response of the emergency vehicles worried him. Something serious must have happened.

“Maybe I should take a drive down the road to see what happened.”

“Oh, no, you won't. You aren't leaving me here alone.”

“It would just be a moment—”

Seeing her eyes flare, he knew not to argue the point further. He sighed and unfolded the paper. It was odd, he thought. If it had been a bad accident, the sirens would have congregated toward one portion of town, but the prior sirens had emanated from the town center, and currently they spread west to Randolph Road.

“The Giovannis might know what is going on. I'll give them a call.”

She picked up the phone and was met with silence in the receiver. No dial tone. No beeping to indicate a problem with the line.

“Well I'll be. The phone is out too.”

A pounding on the front door broke the hush. She jumped in her chair, and her knitting tumbled to the carpet and unraveled like a spilled bowl of spaghetti. A dead silence followed, as though to emphasize their solitude amid the building darkness.

“Who would be knocking at this hour?” she asked.

Her lips quivered. It hadn't been a knock at all, but a pounding, as though something demanded entry. She was thinking about ax murderers, demons, and the literary monsters she had meant to run from the town.

“I'll see who it is—”

“Don't!”

He sat down again, and as his eyes locked on the door, the only fortification standing between them and night, his mouth went dry. Was there anything in the house to defend him with? A kitchen knife perhaps?

I shouldn't grab a knife. It will just alarm her more. I'm sure it's nothing—

Something smashed against the door, and for a split second a thin strip of blue gloaming was visible between the jamb and the door as the wood buckled inward.

Bill Barrister rose to his feet, hands trembling.

Sirens wailed from the south end of Randolph Road, building to a frenzy. He thought he heard distant screaming when the movement of chrome caught his attention. The doorknob turned.

Five

Mary Giovanni put down the glass of Merlot. She stood on the back deck of her brick two-story on Randolph Road and looked into the night. The ringing of crickets filled the air, loud enough to drown out the emergency vehicles inside town. The meadow grass beyond the backyard property line swayed in silhouette, while spring peepers sang from drainage ponds deeper within.

A sparsity of residences stretched away to the south, their windows like cat's eyes in the gloaming. The sky was alive with a million stars, but the night seemed unnaturally dark, as though a shroud blocked the starlight from reaching the ground.

She looked to the north toward her family's farm, where the silhouette of the silo loomed over the countryside like a tranquil giant. The farmhouse windows appeared as distant pinpricks of white.

She had never heard so many fire trucks and police vehicles on the road at one time. They seemed to be buzzing like worker bees between the town center and the far ends of Jensen Road.

What sort of wind storm strikes out of a clear sky?

She worried about the café. It was madness to try to drive to Main Street with so many road closures, so there was nothing to do for it tonight. If there was damage, insurance would cover most of it. The rest she would take care of herself, just as she always had.

Grabbing the Merlot, she slid open the glass door from the deck to the dining room. The smell of apple and cinnamon met her at the entrance, as leftover pie from the café reheated in the oven. She walked past the dining room table and entered a perfectly-organized kitchen with new laminate flooring. The clock on the microwave read 9:56 in digital green.

Mary slid the leftovers out of the oven and cut a generous slice for herself, then she carried it to the living room with her wine. She felt a little embarrassed to be eating dessert and drinking wine alone on a Saturday night. She was always so busy, she reasoned. There wasn't enough time in the day for starting new relationships. Maybe someone would walk into her café and sweep her off her feet, like in one of the idyllic black-and-white movies she liked. Or maybe he never would, and that would be just fine too. She enjoyed independence.

She didn’t worry about the town. Give us a few days to clean things up, and it will be like nothing ever happened, she thought. That's how things were done in Storberry. Neighbors helped neighbors, and you worked until you got the job done. You didn't form committees to study the problem. You fixed it and moved on.

Most of the town still had power. So what if the television wasn't working? She hardly watched the darn thing anyhow. Losing the phone was a little inconvenient, but it also meant that she wouldn't be disturbed tonight.

A little dessert, a glass of wine, and a book. Then sleep. Tomorrow was a new day, and there would be plenty to do. If the roads were open between Randolph and Main, she would check on the café.

She swallowed the last morsel of pie and put the dish in the kitchen sink. She looked out the back window, but her eyes had adjusted to the bright fluorescent lights and she could see only black.

Her reflection stared back at her. She had a few more gray hairs every year, but she felt as strong as she had in her twenties.

She wondered, how will I feel if I am still on my own ten years from now? If the reflection in the window knew, it wasn't talking.

She started to turn from the window when her breath caught in her chest. For just a moment, she swore she had seen a face in the window.

It occurred to her that anyone could be watching her from the darkness behind the house, and she would never see them. It was a disquieting thought, and presently she began to feel very alone in her little house on Randolph Road. As she strained her eyes against the glare, the only face she saw in the glass was hers.

The house took on a heavy silence that weighed on her. There was a master light switch for the kitchen above the counter. She eyed it with trepidation.

Something scraped against the side of the house. Her heart beat faster, and her eyes fought against the glare to no avail. She thought of the cherry tree on the back corner of the house. Had its branches grown long enough to brush against the bricks?

The master light switch seemed to be looking at her now, as though it dared her to plunge the room into darkness. What would she see at the window when she flipped the switch? She saw her right hand move toward the switch, as though she was watching a movie. The inside of her mouth felt like cotton.

There's nothing out there.

You wanna bet?

Her fingers twitched. Just a little farther.

It's like pulling off a bandage. Do it quick.

She pressed the switch. The click reverberated through the kitchen, and the room went dark. Contours began to emerge out of the gloom as her eyes adjusted.

There was no face at the window.

The vague outline of the meadow grass marked the back border of her property line. She found her hearing to be more acute without the light to distract her, and she listened for a recurrence of the scratching sound.

Leaning forward against the sink, Mary craned her neck at the window toward the silhouette of the cherry tree, its branches covered in blossoms. One branch extended toward the back wall, but it was impossible to tell from this angle if it touched the house.

I’ll trim that branch tomorrow, when it is light out.

When it is light.

As the microwave clock cast a green reflection off the laminate, she let out her breath and leaned back against the counter edge, feeling embarrassed.

Next you will be sleeping with the closet light on to keep the boogeyman away.

Beginning to worry, she thought of the dead phone line and wondered what she would do if a prowler tried to break into her house tonight. The Remington rifle was in the basement. She would sleep better if she had its protection nearby.

When she flipped the master switch on, the light hurt her eyes.

The basement door was chained shut at the back of the kitchen. She considered the pointlessness of chaining the door every night before bed. If a person went through the trouble of breaking in through the basement window, how would a flimsy door chain stop them?

She removed the chain and flipped the light switch at the top of the basement stairs. Wooden steps descended to gray concrete. A black pool of darkness spilled out of the laundry room to the left of the staircase. Fretting more, Mary wished there was a master light switch for the entire basement. Maybe Hansen Electric could install one for a reasonable price. They had done good work for her at Sweet Nothings. For now, her only choice was to walk from darkened room to darkened room, illuminating each one at a time.

She started down the staircase.

The old stairs creaked underfoot like mewling cats. The steps made a darn good alarm system, she realized. If someone broke in through the basement, she would hear them coming from every room in the house.

At the bottom she reached into the gloom of the laundry room and pulled the string on the overhead bulb. She saw the unloaded Remington hanging on the wall beyond the washer and dryer. There was a tool chest under the rifle, and here she found shells in the top drawer. She stuffed a handful into her pocket and pulled the Remington off the wall.

As a putrid stench drifted into the room, Mary gagged in repulsion. It reminded her of chunks of spoiled milk. She expected to find a dead rat or squirrel crawling with maggots in a corner, but there was no sign of a decaying animal. She peered behind the washer and dryer units and found strands of cobwebs hanging off the pipes like Christmas garland.

There was still the finished room at the back of the basement to check. She hefted the Remington over her shoulder and flipped the wall switch in the final room.

Brown wood paneling covered the walls. Boxes full of books and business forms were neatly arranged on a musty shag carpet.

She felt a breeze on her shoulder. On the far wall, she saw the basement window wrenched open, splintered and askew. Translucent curtains fluttered inward like an apparition. As a cold chill welled up in her chest, she fumbled with the shells and loaded the rifle.

She raised the sight to eye level and turned in a full circle, ready to fire at the first sign of danger. Blood throbbed in her temples, and her mouth felt parched as if she had swallowed a handful of sand. She knew she couldn't fire the weapon accurately until she steadied her hands.

She breathed deeply and then repeated. Her finger rested on the trigger.

“Whoever you are, I have a gun. Do you hear me?”

The horrid smell bled through the basement, growing stronger now.

“I'm giving you five seconds to walk up the stairs and exit the house. No questions asked.”

The quiver in her voice belied her boldness.

“Five.

Four.

Three.”

The curtains danced in the wind as though mocking her.

“Two.

One.”

She whipped about in another circle and verified that the room was clear, then she crept toward the open window, rifle readied. She cast nervous glances behind her.

There was a steel filing cabinet in the corner, tall enough for someone to hide behind. As her heartbeat quickened, she crept closer, feeling the night air from the window pouring down the back of her neck.

She swung the Remington around the side of the cabinet. There was nothing but shag carpet.

As she returned to the laundry room, her shadow and that of the Remington followed across the walls, lengthening absurdly in the incandescent light like funhouse tricks. She gagged at the fetid stench.

She swung the loaded rifle around the side of the standing freezer but still could not locate the intruder. The one remaining hiding spot was behind the water heater.

Anger boiled inside of her—someone had violated her home. She wondered if she would ever again feel secure within these walls.

Mary darted around the back of the water heater with a quickness unexpected from a middle-aged café owner. Still there was no sign of the intruder.

She lowered the rifle, and her shoulder reverberated with pins and needles.

It was likely that the intruder had come and gone, exiting the same way he had entered.

I’ll go next door to the Klines and ask if the husband will walk with me through the upstairs, just to be on the safe side.

As she ascended the staircase, the rifle hanging at arm’s length, an uneasy feeling that she had missed something nagged at the back of her mind.

She closed the basement door behind her and chained it, not stopping to consider the chain’s impotence against a real threat.

The glass door to the deck slid open in a whisper. The insects were chirring louder now, encasing the night in song. The boughs of the cherry tree reached toward her like grasping hands. The branches brushed together in the breeze, and she jumped at the sound.

The windows to the Klines’ house were dark. She felt self-conscious about knocking on their door and waking them but was sure they would understand given the circumstances. Then she noticed the empty driveway. When had they left? She hadn't heard their car pull away.

She really was all alone now. The towering silo to the family farm seemed a hundred miles away. The windows to their farmhouse had gone dark as well. A cold dread settled over her.

When she returned inside and slid the glass door shut along its metal track, the fear that she had missed something in the basement grew stronger. She had the urge to get in her car and drive—it didn't matter where to. Just get the hell out of Dodge.

On the kitchen counter was a glass jar of hot peppers she had canned last October.

The peppers...that I canned...

The realization grasped her like an icy hand touching her shoulder. The alcove under the stairs, where she stored her canning jars. She hadn’t checked the goddamn alcove. There was plenty of room for someone to...

The acrid smell from the basement reached her nostrils. Her throat went dry, tongue swelling in her mouth like a balloon. She grasped the Remington.

From beyond the basement door came the strained creaking of the basement stairs under heavy footfalls.

Six

Mary turned for the living room as the basement door exploded off its hinges. Her mind refused to believe what it had seen from the corner of her eye. It was of nightmares and beyond her comprehension.

She ran through the living room and yanked against the handle of the front door. The molding was splintered and deformed, the door warped shut.

Already the footsteps approached through the kitchen. The back exit to the deck was too far away, and she would never escape in time. The kitchen light painted a grotesque shadow growing against the dining room floor.

She took the stairs two at a time, her heart thudding in her ears. At the top of the landing she dropped the Remington. As the thud of footsteps in the living room shook the stair railing, she recovered the weapon and dashed for the bedroom, not daring to look at what stood at the base of the staircase.

Mary whipped the bedroom door shut. She turned the lock on the handle and fumbled with the hook and eye latch on the door. The wooden stairs groaned, stressed by inhuman weight. The intruder was halfway up the staircase.

As she huddled behind her dresser within the darkened bedroom, she glanced at the window. Her house was a tall two stories. It wasn't likely that she would survive the leap, but if it came to it...

There was a moment of quiet, and then the floorboards outside the bedroom door squealed to the point of snapping. The thing laughed.

Mary didn't hesitate. The gunshot exploded through the bedroom door. It left a gaping hole where the intruder’s chest should have been. She fired again, this time higher toward the thing’s upper body. The bullet burst through the wood and left a trail of splinters and dust in its wake. A great crash came from beyond the door, as though a heavy piece of furniture had dropped into the hallway. The floor shook beneath her.

The hallway went silent. While she reached into her pocket for more ammunition, Mary's hands shook, and two bullets spilled out and rolled across the wood floor. She stopped them with her foot and drew them in, then reloaded the weapon. At least the intruder was dead—

The door handle turned. It was subtle, but she was sure she had seen it move.

She fired the rifle.

And again.

The second shot blew a gaping hole through the center of the door, large enough for a small child to step through.

Her mouth quivered, seeming to speak words that only her mind could hear. She watched for movement through the opening. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, and dust motes fluttered through the holes in the bedroom door.

She shuddered in the gloom for what seemed an eternity. Only silence and the dull glow of lower floor lighting followed through the hole.

Someone must have heard the gunshots. Help would soon be on the way.

Mary crawled across the hardwood floor with the Remington clutched in her right hand. She reached the door and rested her back against it, but she couldn't bring herself to look through the hole. Not yet.

You killed an intruder before he killed you. That's all there is to it.

But what she had seen ascending out of the basement had been more than an intruder.

I have to know that it's dead.

You shot the thing four times. It has to be dead.

She dragged herself up to her knees. The living room lamps cast an eerie orange glow to the top of the staircase that was like hellfire. She looked through the hole and gasped.

The shape lay sprawled on its side in the bathroom with its legs extending into the hallway. It appeared to be a man, but it was too huge to be human. Eight feet tall, at least. A black cloak covered the body down to its calves. She rubbed her eyes. She swore the cloak had adjusted to the room brightness the way a chameleon adjusts to colors.

The thing’s chest did not rise and fall—it wasn't breathing.

Mary pushed herself to her feet, not daring to take her eyes off the shape. The smart thing to do was to make her move for the staircase, get out of the house, and drive until she found help. But she couldn't bring herself to move. The size of the man

(It is a man, isn't it?)

overwhelmed her with fright. If the thing moved, she was sure she would lose her sanity.

She reached for the door knob. Her hands trembled, and the brass knob rattled in her grip.

The shape moved.

Just a slight movement out of the corner of her eye. She was sure of it. Mary reached into her pocket and loaded two more shells into the Remington. One shot to the head, that's all it would take to be certain. She raised the rifle and sighted the side of its head on the bathroom floor.

The thing laughed, making a wheezing noise that sounded more animal than human.

Suddenly the shape rose—no, it seemed to float to its feet, as though lifted by invisible strings.

Its head towered to the ceiling. She screamed at herself to pull the trigger, but she couldn't move. The monstrous shadow stalked into the hallway, and the dim light reached its face. Its skin was a hideous crimson in the light. Two fangs jutted grotesquely out of the top of its mouth beyond its lower lip. And the eyes...oh the eyes...they glowed red and looked deep into her soul, hypnotizing.

She fired the gun without knowing she had done so. The bullet ripped through the thing’s shoulder, but it shook the gunshot off as though it had been slapped with a fly swatter and ambled toward the bedroom door.

Mary backed away and dropped the useless weapon. She fell against the back wall between the dresser and window. Perfume bottles toppled off the bureau and shattered on the floor.

The hallway floorboards groaned under the monstrosity's weight. The light disappeared through the hole as the thing butted against the door, and she was plunged into absolute darkness. As the thing pulled the wrong way against the inward opening door, the molding splintered and broke into pieces. The door flew off its hinges. The monster stalked into the bedroom.

If she was going to die, at least she could choose her own terms.

Jump out a two-story window, or be slaughtered in a nightmare?

She lifted the windowpane.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the cross on the wall. The symbol seemed to emit a faint glow. Otherwise, she may not have noticed it at all. She snatched the cross off the wall without thinking about what she was doing and noticed that it felt warm in her hand.

The bedroom floor creaked behind her. She was out of time.

She held the cross to her chest, not daring to turn around and face the horror. Her lips started quivering again. Her whispers were soundless at first, and then she was muttering aloud. It wasn't until several seconds had passed that she realized she was reciting The Our Father.

She could feel the thing’s breath on her neck, frigid and evocative of rotten meat. It hissed above her.

Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name...

Her body heated with conviction, and the chant grew louder.

...forgive us our trespasses...

Her trembling ceased. The floorboards creaked as it took a step backward.

...lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from EVIL!

She shouted the last word and turned to face the beast.

Mary held the cross at arm’s length in front of her, her fortitude driven by a voice deep inside her— a comforting voice that she did not recognize yet was strangely familiar. She repeated the prayer, her voice booming through the room with a force she couldn't fathom.

The monstrosity backed through the doorway and disappeared down the staircase. Its footfalls made muffled explosions on the steps.

She heard the front door being ripped from its hinges and then nothing but silence and the sound of her prayer.

Mary dropped to her knees and cried.

Seven

Benny was sound asleep on the couch with a knitted blanket drawn to his neck when the truck lights swept across the living room window. Evan got up from the kitchen table at the low rumble of the motor.

Randy, who had been seated at the kitchen table, dumbly tearing a napkin into pieces, heard the motor, too. He reacted like a caged animal, as if he were certain the vehicle was Greg Madsen's police truck.

How they could have found my parents' bodies so soon.

His pulse thumped in his head, throbbing and pounding until there were black spots in his vision. There was still time. He could slip out a back-room window and be gone before anyone noticed. He could make a run for it and—

Benny. I can’t leave him.

But the voice that carried from outside the house was not the police chief's. It was an older man’s—Rory Dickson, he realized. His pulse eased, but he knew the danger wasn’t over yet. Dickson was Madsen's right hand man.

Would Madsen send Dickson in his place?

Evan recognized the burly man stepping from the truck. The two weren't acquainted, but he knew him by name.

“Evening,” Rory said.

He shook Evan's hand at the front of the driveway.

“Mr. Dickson.”

“None of that Mr. Dickson crap, please. Makes me feel old. Just Rory.”

“What can I do for you, Rory?”

“Checkin’ to see how you folks made out tonight. Anyone hurt? Any damage?”

“Randy Marks' little brother got scraped up near the library. Just some bumps and bruises. He's inside resting right now. I’m trying to figure out how to get him home, but it sounds like the west side of Jensen is impassable.”

“Yep. The juncture of Jensen and Randolph is going to be a bitch to get to for a while. I came down from the other end onto Standish. Barely made it past the live wires. Trees down everywhere.”

“Are the phone lines down? I can't get a tone.”

“It's not just the lines. The whole damn exchange building went down. I wouldn't begin to guess when service will be back.”

“I have to do something. I can't just let his parents think he is hurt or worse out in that mess.”

Rory scratched his head.

“Talkies. I got one in the car from Greg Madsen. Which reminds me, I got one for you too.”

“Me?”

“Madsen has me gathering up folks who he thinks he can trust to help get the town under control. People who can keep their cool.”

“Well, I don't know what qualifications I have for a situation like this, but I'll help any way I can.”

“Oh, you'll do just fine, Mr. Moran.”

“Evan, please. Mr. Moran makes me feel old, too.”

Rory leaned back, laughed, and clapped Evan on the shoulder.

“Evan it is, then. Why don't you tend to the Marks' boy while I radio the police station? See if they can't get a cruiser close enough to his house to get word to his parents.”

“Give me a minute to get changed, and I'll be right out.”

“I'll be here.”

Evan started for the door and stopped when he noticed headlights moving east on Standish. The lights drifted from side to side like an amusement park bumper car ride.

“Jesus,” Rory said, turning to watch the car.

As the car careened erratically across Standish, it swept into the oncoming lane and barely escaped skidding into the culvert. The driver righted the car and slowed at the sight of the Moran barn. The car stopped, as though the driver was considering where to go next. It started to inch forward and then swung left into the farmhouse driveway.

The two men shielded their eyes from the high beams as the car came to a stop. Evan wondered if the driver was a child or a drunk, the way the car had careened across the road. He was more surprised when Mary Giovanni stumbled out of the car, whey-faced and confused. Her eyes were wide with a faraway look that seemed to travel past them.

“Mary?” Evan whispered.

The two men shared a bewildered look as they approached her. When her knees buckled, they grabbed her by the shoulders and draped her arms over their necks to keep her upright.

“Let's get her inside,” Rory said.

Rory and Evan eased Mary up the steps. Renee opened the door for them, watching Mary with unease.

“Randy, take Benny into my bedroom,” Evan said.

Randy picked his brother off the couch, and Rory and Evan laid Mary in the boy's place.

“What's wrong with her? She looks like she is in shock,” Renee said.

Mary's breathing was shallow and quick. Her eyes were distant and glassy, as though covered by strips of plastic wrap.

“Don't know,” Evan said. “Cover her with a blanket.”

“Mary, it’s Renee Tennant. Can you hear me?”

Mary nodded vacantly.

“You're safe now, Miss Giovanni,” Rory said. “You just rest some.”

“Maybe we should give her some water,” Renee said.

“No. Not until we make sure that she isn't going into shock. Evan, take her shoes off.”

While Evan worked the sneakers off Mary's feet, Rory stretched her shirt collar to loosen it. When Evan straightened the blanket, Mary reached into her pocket to retrieve a small, gold cross. She clutched it to her chest until her knuckles turned white. Renee raised her eyebrows and looked at Evan.

“Let's give her a few minutes to rest,” Rory said.

They gave Mary space. After a few minutes, her breathing improved, and the color returned to her face. The low drone of the refrigerator carried out of the kitchen. Red lights flashed across the window as an emergency vehicle followed the curve around Standish onto Spruce.

“I don't think it is shock, but she came mighty close,” Rory said.

“Mary, what happened?” Evan asked.

Mary's eyes darted among the members of the group. Her mouth moved silently, as though she could not recall how to form words.

“Easy now,” Rory said.

“Th-th-there was a break-in at my house tonight,” Mary said.

“Oh, my God!” Renee exclaimed.

“I thought I heard suh-someone outside the house. When I went to the basement to grab my rifle, I found the basement window open.”

Renee nodded and put her hand over Mary’s.

“I thought I’d checked the entire basement. But I forgot the…the alcove. Under the stairs. It must have been in there the whole time,” she said.

Her eyes trailed off, wide and faraway.

“It was in the basement?” Rory asked. “Like an animal?”

“I thought it was a man,” Mary said.

As Mary’s breathing quickened, Renee’s eyes flashed at Evan’s.

“It chased me upstairs. I shot it. Five, maybe six times but it..it wouldn't die...”

Rory looked at Evan doubtfully, but Evan watched Mary with growing intensity.

“I know what this sounds like. That I have lost my mind or that I had some sort of nightmare. But I know what I saw.”

Mary's face was an awful pallid again, like the cream on top of plain yogurt. Her mouth trembled but the words had stopped working for her again.

“It's okay, Mary,” Renee said. “We're here. You're safe now. Take your time.”

Her hands wrapped around the cross in a death grip. She breathed deeply and the trembling gradually lessened.

“It wasn’t a man. It was too big to be a man. Its head…it touched the ceiling. I couldn't hurt it. And...”

As Mary trailed off into whispers they could not hear, her eyes pleaded with them to believe.

“You were dreaming,” Rory said.

“It was no dream,” Mary said. The harshness in her voice shook them. “And it was no drunken hallucination either.”

Renee patted Mary's arm and told her that everything would be all right, but the woman would have none of it.

“Its eyes weren't human. It was looking…looking right through me. I could feel it inside me.”

The forest engulfs me in blackness. There is no light, no sound, no life. And I see the boy. Its bloody eyes seeking and hungry.

As Evan's nightmare welled up inside of him, the conglomeration of its memories froze him in place. He could feel the stagnant, stale air within the gnarled overgrowth. He could smell the fetid decay, like spoiled food.

In a way that neither could explain, Mary and Evan were momentarily connected. He believed Mary, and their eyes met.

“This was the only thing that made it stop.”

When she held the cross in front of the stunned group, the room light caught its dull, worn surface, and it glimmered more brightly than the ambient illumination should have allowed. They all saw it, then immediately put it out of their minds. All except for Evan.

Shadows stirred at the edge of the room light. Randy stood against the hallway wall, listening to the hushed tones of their voices. It would be so easy to slip away now. He might not get another chance. But he could hear the soft sounds of Benny's breathing in the next room. He wouldn’t leave without his brother.

“I can't even tell you the last time I went to church. And before tonight I couldn't say that I believed in God, let alone Evil.”

She could see the looks on their faces. Their denial. All but Evan, whose eyes burned with intensity.

“Please, Renee. You know me better than anyone in this room. You have to believe that what I tell you is true.”

“I believe that you believe,” Renee said, her eyes doubtful and questioning.

“That's not enough,” Mary said. She was angry now. “I'm not superstitious. I'm not even religious. If you had seen it...If you had seen its eyes...its face...”

“This isn’t going anywhere,” Rory said. “I know you don't want to hear it, but you had a goddamn nightmare. And a right nasty one at that. It obviously scared the hell out of—”

“It was no nightmare!”

Renee tried to console her, but Mary pushed her away in anger.

“For how many years have you all known me? Have I ever said anything which led you to question my sanity? Do I lack the lucidity to tell the difference between reality and a dream?”

“No,” Renee said, and Rory nodded in agreement.

“If you don't want to believe me, then come with me to Randolph Road. Come see the bullet holes. Come see the doors ripped from their hinges and try to explain how I could have done it myself. Come and see, if you don't believe.”

Mary swung her legs off the couch. Rory placed his hands on her shoulders to keep her still. She pushed them away and stood before them.

“It won't take but fifteen minutes. Take me there. Now.”

“The roads are too dangerous,” Rory said.

“The roads are the least of our concerns if that thing is still out there. Drive me there, and let's be done with this ridiculous inquisition.”

Rory looked at Evan.

“What do you think?”

“I think something happened out there. And I think the sooner we figure out what happened, the sooner we can decide what to do about it,” Evan said.

Rory sighed.

“Right. Wake the boy, and we'll all go together. Nobody stays alone ‘til we figure this out.”

Evan poured himself a glass of water in the kitchen. His hands were trembling when Renee appeared and shut the door behind her. Water dripped from the faucet, solitary and hollow.

“You know something that you're not telling us,” she said.

She searched his face, and he looked away.

“It was something Mary said. When she talked about the eyes. Everyone looked at her like she had lost her mind. Everyone except you, that is.”

He shook his head and gazed through her, past the walls, across the threshold of dream and reality.

“You’ll think I’m insane, too,” he said.

“Try me.”

His face contorted, and then he was stricken with the same chill as Mary had been, hearing the words in his mind but unable to pull them to his lips. As her eyes softened, he believed he could tell her anything.

“1967. I was ten years old when a boy disappeared in Storberry. He hadn't been the first. We all knew the stories of people disappearing into the forest on the edge of town. But he was the first that we knew. He was a classmate. I even sat behind him in Miss Butler's math class.”

“Nedson?”

“Yeah, Brian Nedson. How on earth did you know that?”

“You're not the only one in this town interested in ghost stories. One of my student workers—”

“It's no ghost story,” he said, and his eyes were windows to a fiery landscape. “He was as real as you and me.”

“I'm sorry. That's not what I meant—”

“You don't disappear into the forest and come back a few months later with a few scrapes and bruises. Especially if you’re ten years old. Hell, we all knew he was as good as dead after a few days.”

“What does this have to do with Mary's story?”

“First week of September, two days before school started. I was coming home from a friend's house on the south side of town. It was getting late, so I decided to cut through the edge of the forest to save time. I knew it was a stupid idea. But I was thinking about not getting home until after dark and getting grounded. So I just did it.

“You have no idea how thick and dark that forest is until you get inside of it. And by then it’s too late. I lost track of the sun. I panicked when I should have just stopped and gotten my bearings. Next thing I know I'm running in a circle and seeing the same fallen tree, the same bramble, the same everything. And it's getting darker.”

“Jesus, you must have been terrified.”

“I didn’t think I was ever going to find my way out of there. I was going to die in that place. And then I heard footsteps through the leaves. That should have scared me even more. I mean, no one goes into that forest at night. But I'm thinking it's a hunter or something, and I start yelling in the direction of the sound.

“Then there is this awful smell, like road kill or rotten meat, and the whole forest goes still.”

As Evan paused, unsure if he wanted to continue, the quiet murmur of conversation followed through the door. Renee put her hand on his arm, dread creeping up her back like a black spider.

“I see this…kid…stumbling at me through the trees. It's too dark to see his face, but he gets closer and it's him. It's Brian Nedson.”

“How could you be sure?”

“I went to school with him for five or six years. His face was plastered on signs all over town for an entire summer. It was him, all right. And I'm thinking I've found Brian Nedson, and I'm going to be some sort of hero. He's smiling at me, like he knew I would come for him all along.

“I just want to turn and run, because something's wrong. It's him, but it isn't him. He's got this ear-to-ear grin, like I just walked into a trap. I want to run. But I'm too scared. I can't move. And I see his eyes. His eyes. They aren't human. They're like burning coals…or blood. He's right in front of me, and I finally snap out of it and run.”

Evan’s body trembled. His stomach roiled in nausea.

“I ran and I ran, until I couldn't breathe. Somehow, by dumb luck, I just ran out of the forest into the meadow. I didn't even look back. I just kept running until I was home and in bed with the covers over my head. And I've never gone near that forest since.”

“Evan, you were only ten. I'm sure you were terrified of being lost, and your imagination—”

“I didn't imagine anything. I know what I saw, and somehow I think I know what Mary saw, too. I know how insane it sounds. I don't know what happened to this town tonight, but I think the forest has something to do with it.”

“Evan—”

“You asked me what I knew, and I told you. I don't expect you or anyone else to believe it. Let's not say anymore.”

Though Renee couldn’t bring herself to believe that Evan was accurately recalling his nightmare in the forest, she found herself buried in the deepest pit of fear she had ever known.

“Evan, why did you really come back to Storberry?”

“We're going to Randolph Road. Then you can all decide for yourselves.”

Eight

As Jen slept next to him on the living room couch, Tom drifted into dream.

It was a strange dream, the kind that demands attention yet produces no obvious explanation.

He was seated at his desk in Mr. Arrington's world history class, and the stale smell of chalk hung in the air.

A girl stood at the front of the class with her back to the empty rows. As he squirmed in her chair, her fingernails raked down the chalk board, and the irritation threatened to drive him into madness.

He wondered why they were the only two people in the room. No classmates, no teacher. Two thin strands of dusty light washed over the big oak teacher's desk. Tom could tell by the light's bloody streaks that the day drifted toward extinction.

He screamed for her to stop, and she raked the chalkboard again. Then her head started to slowly turn. He knew this girl. If he could just see her face. If he could just see—

He awoke with an unshakable chill. For a moment he thought he heard the sound again, as the vapors of dream evaporated into the ether, but there was only the hiss of static from the television.

Jen's head rested on his shoulder. The videotape had long since ended, and the television screen was filled with snow that danced across the walls like swarming wasps. As he rubbed the grit from his eyes, he wondered how long they had been asleep. The clock on the wall said it was after midnight. Where were Jen's parents?

Suddenly he was gripped by panic. His mother would be furious with him for not checking in with her. He was surprised she wasn't pounding on the door. Certainly she was at home—anger approaching the boiling point.

“Jen.”

When he shook her gently, she moaned and rolled over on the couch in a ball. She wore a contented smile, and as her chest rose and fell with each relaxed breath, he thought she looked like an angel.

He didn't want to leave her alone, for he had promised her that he would stay by her side. But he didn't want to wake her. It was better that she rest.

He whispered, “I'll be right back,” and covered her with a blanket.

He was careful not to wake her, but when he pulled on the door the hinges creaked. She mumbled something in her sleep.

He waited in silence until he was certain she hadn't awoken, then he closed the door behind him and slipped into the night.

The night smelled of freshly-cut grass, with a hint of smoke from somewhere on the east side of Storberry. A gloom lay heavy upon the neighborhood. Streetlamps shed pools of ivory at regular intervals, and treacherous murk waited at their borders.

As luck would have it, the one lamp between the Barrows' home and his had failed. It hummed overhead and flickered between black and dim.

The lights were doused inside the houses, except for two distant beacons of life at the end of the block.The growl of chainsaws emanated from the center of town.

The sidewalk drew away in the distance, like a perspective painting, fading to black at the midpoint. Trees overhung the walkway, like hulking monsters. Thick shrubberies were hiding places for the unseen.

The nagging feeling that something was dreadfully wrong with the night struck him with force. Something terrible, something unthinkable had happened. His skin crawled.

As he watched the shadows for signs of danger, his vision failed to penetrate the black. A troubling thought occurred to him.

If a person wanted to commit murder, the perfect time would be in the dead of night when the police were occupied across town, and the lines of communication were crippled. A night like tonight.

There were four houses between his residence and Jen's, and Tom counted each of them as he passed.

He watched darkened windows, half-expecting to see the wide eyes of a lunatic smiling down at him, while his neighbors lay chopped and mangled in their sleep. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and he kept counting.

Houses passed in the pale cobalt of moon glow. The two-story Kingsley home emerged from behind a clump of poplars. The short walk had seemed to last for an eternity, and Tom exhaled for the first time in a long while. No matter how angry his mother was with him, he was safe.

Once I explain that Jen's parents are still missing, she will understand.

The lights were on inside his house, and a soft illumination at the front door emanated from the back of the house, probably from the kitchen. As he grasped the brass knob, he found that he door was unlocked.

When he entered the hallway he thought he smelled something burning in the kitchen. It was the aroma of meat, something vaguely familiar and harsh. He began to worry that his mother had started to cook and fallen asleep while waiting for him to come home.

“Mom?”

The kitchen door was closed at the end of the hallway. Donna Kingsley never closed the kitchen door, preferring to keep the walkways open.

A sliver of light spilled from underneath the door, reflecting off the hardwood and fading at Tom's feet.

“Mom? Are you in there?”

No answer. He felt the same chill he had felt in the hill forest and on the darkened second landing of the Barrows’ home

He plunged into cold terror, something black and viscous. Fearing what lurked beyond the door, he stepped closer.

The door seemed to draw nearer, as though he were seeing it in a dream. He saw his hand extend outward, the light around his sneakers growing brighter.

Then the door was in front of him.

“Mom?”

As his hand reached for the door knob, he didn't want to touch it, fearing the brass would scald his skin. The sinister glow engulfed his feet to his ankles and flickered wickedly in white and orange.

An inner voice urged him to turn and run. It begged him not to open the door, but his conscious mind saw the flicker and screamed FIRE!

He grabbed the knob and leaned into the door. The hinges, rusted from disuse, issued an owl's screech.

Light flooded out of the kitchen. Donna Kingsley stood in a bathrobe at the sink with her back to him. She stood slicing carrots on a chopping board. While the fluorescent fixture hummed over the sink, a large pot boiled on the stove, the gas burner wrenched to its highest setting. Orange and blue flames crawled out from under the pot and licked at its sides. The pot water roiled over and caused the flames to snap wickedly.

“Mom? Why didn't you answer me?”

She dropped the knife into the sink and peered into the darkness beyond the back window. For several seconds they stood in silence, and the silence pressed upon him with such weight that he felt he must speak or lose his sanity.

“I'm sorry, I—”

She wheeled around to face him. What Tom saw caused him to fall back into the wall. His mouth quivered, his body paralyzed.

A young girl’s face stared back at him. Her skin was impossibly perfect, like porcelain. He recognized the girl’s face from a picture taken of his mother during her teenage years. The kitchen appliances reflected in the windows against a background of night, yet she was not in the reflection. He rubbed his eyes, and the woman with the doll’s face stalked closer.

Then her face seemed to waver, as though a mirage. Her skin became parched and dilapidated. Grotesque sores and scabs covered her face and arms, as though she had been horribly burned. Donna Kingsley watched him through red, hateful eyes.

“Thissss! This is what happens when you lay with your little whore!”

She cocked a scalded finger at him, and a vile grin spread across her lips; lips that blistered and oozed a putrid substance that reminded him of burst acne. Her mouth opened to reveal two teeth at the top of her mouth, sharpened to points—fangs.

Tom thought he must be still asleep, lost in the worst of nightmares. He was still next to Jen on her living room couch, and at any moment she would shake him by the shoulder, and the horror would be over.

Water boiled over the edge of the pot, and the fire hissed like a cornered snake. The flame burst higher in an attempt to free itself of the burner's confines. It touched the metallic edge of a napkin holder before settling. Another inch, Tom thought, and the paper would catch. Then the wallpaper, then the entire kitchen.

“Loooook what you did to your mother, Thomassssss.”

The thing that once was Donna Kingsley stepped toward him. As his heart raced in his chest and pounded in his ears, his stomach lurched, and he vomited onto the linoleum.

She laughed and drew closer.

“I don't tolerate messes, Thomas. You. Will. Cleeeeaaan this messssss.”

She was one step away when he broke free of his paralysis. He spun left and lunged out of the kitchen, feeling bony fingers brush past his hair. As he slammed the door shut and wedged a door stop under the bottom, she cackled from the kitchen, like egg shells cracking. Her shadow shambled toward the door and cast darkness where light fled past the threshold.

He stood transfixed. The door knob turned slowly, and then it began to rattle as it was wrenched and twisted.

Donna Kingsley pounded the kitchen door, which bowed and buckled from her unnatural strength. The wood groaned, and flickering light poured out through its sides. The door would not hold for long.

Tom rushed up the staircase and reached the top landing as the wood splintered below. He turned into his bedroom as the kitchen door burst open and cracked against the side wall. He heard her feet shuffling across the hardwood.

Swishhhh swishhhh swishhhh.

He threw the bedroom door shut and turned the lock on the knob. He leaned his back against the door and looked for something...anything...that he could use to defend himself, but there was nothing.

The thick bough of the elm tree out his window beckoned him. He crossed the bedroom floor and wedged the window open. The warm, moist night overtook the stale air. His hands fumbled with the release locks on the screen as the sound of Donna Kingsley's footsteps climbing the staircase drew nearer.

“Time to take your punishment, Thomassss!”

The release locks clicked and the screen shot upward. In his panic he had forced the screen out of its tracks. It stood askew, with precious little room to squeeze his body through. He would never reach the bough without full mobility on the window ledge.

The top stair groaned. She was close.

An absurd thought crossed his mind: How do you kill a vampire?

The logical portion of his brain tried to suppress the thought, but the depths of his mind, the instinctual segment, poured forth like a dam burst. And then he was sifting through mythos.

A cross.

You are a pragmatic atheist. There are no crosses in your room.

Holy water.

Garlic.

A wooden stake through the heart.

Swishhhh swishhhh swishhhh.

She was outside the door. Tom's heart raced. Throwing open the top drawer of his dresser, he tugged against it until he ripped it off of its tracks. Clothing tumbled outward, and he smashed the drawer against the floor.

The wood cracked. He raised the drawer and smashed it again to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door knob turning. He smashed the drawer again. The crack of the wood was louder this time.

“Mommies know what bad boys do behind locked doors. I'll cut it off and feed it to you, Thomassss!”

Tears streamed down his face. He slammed the drawer against the floor again, and it shattered into pieces. The door shook with insanity.

“I'll tear it off and feed it to your whore!”

Tom groped through the pieces until he found what he sought. A side joinery had split down the middle to a jagged point. He hefted it, and it felt sturdy in his hands. He hoped it was sturdy enough.

There came the sickening clamor of wood splitting and nails ripping out of the wall, as Donna Kingsley tore the door off its hinges. She stood in partial silhouette between the hall light and the darkened room.

As she stepped into the bluish moon glow and doddered toward him, her vile cackle sent gooseflesh crawling up his back.

He brandished the joinery piece. Her eyes centered on the makeshift weapon, filled with disdain.

“What a messsss you've made of your room. Mommy's here to clean it now.”

He swung the board and hit her flush across the shoulder. He heard the sickening sound of brittle bones cracking, like stepping on peanut shells. Part of him just wanted to back her off and to find a preposterous reconciliation, as though she were in a drunken rage, and the next morning would bring sanity and forgiveness.

She was unaffected by his impotent swing.

“Tsktsk”, she hissed, as if he was a young boy who had spilled his milk.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

The tears came harder and rendered his mother in multiple blurs before him.

“YOU did this to ME!”

She lunged.

He reacted on instinct and thrust the jagged edge forward. She impaled herself on the tip. It ripped through sinew and plunged out of her back in a grotesque geyser of blood. She thrashed on the stake, her insides tearing apart.

Donna Kingsley's shriek was inhuman and malevolent, something between a wolf's howl and a baby's scream. Tom tried not to think about the sound and concentrated on holding his grip on the joinery as she writhed like a fish out of water.

Warm ichor poured down the stake, and the thrashing gradually lessened.

It took two minutes before she went still, and when she did she uttered a cry...a human cry...that reminded him of the woman who had held him when he was frightened and sang him to sleep when he was sick.

When he released the stake, she dropped to her side with the wood hideously wedged through her heart. She gazed up at him, and her eyes showed shock and a lack of understanding. He tried to wipe the gore from his hands onto his shirt and collapsed against the remnants of the bedroom dresser.

Her eyes faded from bright red to her natural brown. They begged him for forgiveness. As her mouth moved silently, her breath came in wheezing gasps. He urged her to close her eyes and rest.

“It's okay, Mom. It's okay,” he said.

His voice cracked. His shoulders convulsed, and he wept.

“It's over now.”

Then her chest stopped moving, and her eyes froze on his. The desk clock read 12:36 am when Donna Kingsley passed.

Nine

Jen Barrows screamed in the doorway to Tom's bedroom, and then she ran to him and hugged his shoulders, trying not to look at the macabre scene before her. His eyes were dazed, and he appeared to look through her at another life in a different time.

“My God, Tom, what—”

She saw the pool of blood and gristle that oozed out of Donna Kingsley, like an animal that had been spit out the back of a thresher. Steam rose off the gore, and it produced a stench that reminded her of decaying fish in brackish water.

She nearly regurgitated before she saw Donna Kingsley's face, all scabbed, blistered, and only vaguely human. The shock froze her stomach into a block of ice. She saw the razor-like fangs between Donna's parted lips, and the world as she knew it lost all sensibility.

She turned to him in the hope that he could somehow explain the incomprehensible, that he could convince her again that the sun would rise in the east, that there was still a wall, crumbling though it may be, between reality and the realm of nightmares. But there were no answers in Tom's eyes. He struggled to awake from his own night terror.

They sat in silence until remembrance pulled him back from the threshold.

The kitchen. The fire.

He grabbed her by the hand and rushed her down the staircase. The sweet smell of burning paper met him at the lower landing, and wisps of smoke drifted along the ceiling. The kitchen door hung off its hinges, while the queer odor of cooked meat mixed with the burning smell. Tom wondered again what his mother would have been cooking at midnight.

“Wait here,” he said to her at the kitchen entrance.

The flames had browned the edges of the napkins, which billowed acrid smoke. He reached for the napkin holder and cursed when it scalded his hands. He rushed to the sink and ran a dish towel under the faucet, then snatched the napkin holder with the soaked towel and dropped it into the sink. It hissed on impact with the wet chrome.

As she watched from the threshold with horror and incomprehension in her eyes, he turned off the burner and the roiling water eased.

He ran the faucet on its highest output until the smoldering was doused.

It wasn't until then that he looked in the pot.

At first his mind tried to convince himself that he was seeing a bloated cabbage, or an overcooked slab of meat. Then he saw strands of skin peeling off the object, floating to the bubbling surface in repulsive tendrils. The hair could have been corn cob silk if he wasn't sure it was human.

It bobbed and twisted in the slow boil. Its bloated face turned to meet his with sunken eyes. He collapsed to the floor, and she ran to him.

His lips moved soundlessly. He wanted to tell her not to look, not to go to the stove, but the words would not form for him.

It was too late. She already screamed in repulsion.

Within the steaming water floated the severed head of Chuck Kingsley.

Ten

Benny Marks yawned from the backseat of Rory Dickson's truck. He was wedged between Renee and Randy, his head laid against Renee's shoulder. Evan rode shotgun alongside Mary, who was cramped in the middle with Rory driving.

As the truck followed a funhouse maze of obstacles along Standish Road, whole trees lay across the pavement, their roots exposed like dirt-crusted tentacles. Shingles lay scattered across the road, and rusted nails stuck into the air, daring the soft tires to test them. On more than one occasion Rory had to take the truck over the sidewalk to pass the obstructions.

When he radioed Greg Madsen with the walkie-talkie and gave the police chief a synopsis of the street debris, Madsen told him that the damage was even worse on the south and east sides of town. Standish would remain a minefield until tomorrow afternoon, when the chainsaws were expected to work their way across town.

The power still operated on the west end of Standish, indicated by the scattered glow of incandescent lighting that dotted the street and produced evidence of life continuing. Yet most of the streetlamps were dark, shattered by airborne debris, as though the wind had dive bombed the light sources with strategic strikes. When Rory's memory drifted oddly to the cemetery, he remembered the seeds helicoptering down from the trees like enemy aircraft breaking out of the canopy. The connected thoughts quickened his pulse.

The truck was a half mile from Randolph Road when Rory pulled over to the right and stopped in a parking place marked by a white rectangle. He threw the truck into park but kept the motor running. The engine produced a low rumble that vibrated through the seat cushions. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he studied the darkened roadside.

“Why are we stopping?” Renee asked, leaning forward in the cab.

“I thought I saw something,” Rory said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

There were fewer residences on the west end of Standish. They were parked directly across from a white one-story house obscured by trees. Just ahead on opposite sides of the street were two parking lots. The right lot housed the unlit windows of a drug store and video rental outlet, while the left lot held a modest strip mall anchored by a grocery store.

Maples and hundred-year oaks towered to either side of the road, blocking the light which tried to seep out of the strip mall.

“I didn't see anything,” Evan said, his vision centered on the shadows spilling across the front yard.

Mary's calm slipped away silently, like water through cupped hands. Remembering the heavy footfalls moving up her basement stairs. Her eyes grew wide, and she relived the terrible chase.

“Where?” asked Renee.

“I saw someone move behind the trees,” Rory said. “I'll be damned if it didn't look like one of my neighbors—Bill Barrister.”

“What would he be doing out in the dark this far from home?”

“Hell if I know. Shit, it probably wasn't him.”

A hedgerow lined the sidewalk fronting the house. As pools of blackness spilled down from the trees and along the hedges, Rory cranked his window open. A light breeze whispered through young leaves. He could smell residual smoke from the fires, but it had lessened considerably in the last two hours. It seemed the emergency crews had the situation under control.

“Greg, you there?” Rory asked into the radio.

Soft static followed for a few moments, and then Greg Madsen's voice replied.

“I'm here, Rory. Over.”

Randy jumped back at the tinny voice of the police chief, as though he had touched an exposed wire. He had a desperate urge to sink into the seat, fearing Madsen could peer through the radio and see the guilt on his face.

“I almost hate to ask this question. But have there been any reports of looting in town?”

“In Storberry? I doubt it. No reports have come my way, but then again we've been swamped.”

“Any general mischief? Break-ins?”

“Negative. There are a lot of gun owners in those houses. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. That's a pretty good deterrent for someone looking to take advantage of our situation. Why do you ask? Have you seen anything? Over.”

“Probably nothing, Greg. I thought I saw someone run into the trees on Standish near the grocery store when our headlights approached. I'm probably just getting jumpy. Over.”

“I'm sure there are a few folks out there that shouldn't be. Looky-loos and the type. I wouldn't worry about it. But if you see any trouble, let me know. Over.”

“I'm headed out to Randolph to check on the Giovanni place. There may have been an intruder earlier.”

“Oh shit. She didn't get hurt, did she?”

“No. She's with us right now. Shaken up, as you might imagine. We're going to check things out.”

“Thanks, Rory. I can't get a black-and-white out there right now. Every resource is working OT. But I want to know what you find, okay?”

“Will do. Over and out.”

Rory searched the shadows, a feeling of disquiet building in his chest. Anyone could be hiding within the trees or beyond the hedgerow. There was a shotgun under the seat, but he knew better than to walk blindly into concealment. He called out.

“Hey, you there! We've got debris all over this area. It isn't safe to be on the streets.”

The wind whistled through the treetops and blew leaves across his vision.

“By order of the Storberry Police, you need to get yourself into a place of shelter and stay there until morning!”

There was no response.

As the hedges rustled in the breeze, the shadows seemed to stir around the home. Rory didn't like it. Not one bit.

“I think we should go,” said Benny from the back seat.

“I think you're right, Benny. I think you're right.”

Rory shifted into drive and the truck lurched ahead toward Randolph Road.

Eleven

Greg Madsen's police truck bucked on a small elm splayed across the intersection of Jensen and Spruce. A block north on Spruce, away from the freight train of winds which had rumbled west to east down Jensen, the damage decreased markedly.

The road stretched away before him, a tree-lined tunnel into darkness. The truck's headlights swept across the sentries lining the road, their branches intertwined.

The power was on, confirmed by lit windows which made the houses seem like Halloween pumpkins. Just one car moved beyond him, crawling along like a pill bug half a mile ahead. This was good—the majority of the town knew enough to stay off the streets and let the emergency crews do their work.

As the truck meandered northward, the quality of housing deteriorated stealthily. Initially, he encountered well-kept homes with inviting yards, some with white picket fences and blooming cherry trees. Then there was a paint-chipped colonial with a front porch that sagged like a broken jaw. This was followed by a few more pristine homes and then a gray two-story with a caved in roof. Soon the states of disrepair outnumbered the picturesque examples of southern living.

He hung a right onto East Avenue, where the housing quality dropped through the floor. He didn't like East Avenue. It wasn't for the number of calls his department responded to here. It was for the lack of them.

Violent crime was only whispered about within Storberry. Its streets were safe, provided, of course, that you avoided East Avenue. It seemed all of society's ills had merged here, like moths drawn to a flame. There had only been one murder case under his tenure, a knifing two years prior, and it had occurred on East Avenue.

He remembered an elderly woman had been carrying a bag of groceries down Spruce after nightfall, when she made a wrong turn onto East. She had become increasingly confused in recent years, so nobody was surprised to hear that she had wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

A truck driver on Spruce passing the juncture of East had spotted her body, a broken mannequin splayed across the sidewalk in the moonlight. Greg wasn't sure what disturbed him more: the woman's lifeless eyes staring at him as her blood pooled beneath her, or the fact that nobody within the decrepit bordering parcels had cared enough to report it. No witnesses, no murder weapon. Murder unsolved.

The night was thicker here, as though the streetlamps could not expel the gloom which pooled along their radii. The truck traveled slowly, and Greg recalled Rory Dickson's warning about vagrants and vandalism. The rundown structures to either side of the road stared back with lifeless indifference.

The trailer park came into view beyond the road's end. Dell Lawrence's trailer was in the second row, and he worried anew about Katy. He felt a measure of responsibility, for he had been one of the last people to see her, leaving Branyan's apartment and sliding into The Red Lion. Dell hadn't officially reported her missing at the time, but he had known that the girl was on the run.

While the police truck's searchlight swept across the yards, a shirtless man sat on his front porch, and watched the truck with undisguised animosity. A younger couple walked along the buckled sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, oblivious to the emergency vehicle. They shared a bottle obscured by a paper bag.

The truck pulled into the trailer park. Tires bounced over the dirt lot hummocks. He swept the search light across the aluminum siding, and the reflection off the siding was blinding.

Katy will return to the trailer. That is, if she had survived the wind storm.

He didn't wish to consider the alternative.

The front three trailer windows emanated dim white in cheap incandescent lighting. Shadows moved within, and he saw a woman peek at him through venetian blinds. The Lawrence trailer lay beyond, its interior black ink. It brooded silently in the moonlight, an empty shell.

Then the searchlight found something.

The bordering meadow waved in silver tones beyond the lot. A lone figure stumbled through the tall grass with an erratic gait.

Hell of a night to get drunk, he thought. But as he watched the figure, gooseflesh rose along his arms. There was something disturbing about its gait, as though it conducted a frenzied search. The figure moved faster than he would have thought possible, darting left and right like a firefly. He put the truck in park and stepped out, his hand moving unconsciously to the gun on his hip.

“You, there! Storberry Police Department.”

The figure stopped in the field some fifty yards away, a dangerous silhouette against the silver field. It was staring right at him, and for a moment he felt the tinge of black terror slither across his skin.

What the hell is he doing out there?

“You need to get inside. It's not safe out here tonight.”

The figure took one step forward.

As he felt his heart thump, the sensation that he was facing a dangerous animal instead of a man overwhelmed him. The wind gusted at the man’s back, pulling his hair forward and setting the tall grass into frenzy.

He blinked, and the shape disappeared.

Greg raced to the truck and swung the searchlight across the field. Rye and bluestem swayed in the breeze. Beyond the tall grass, a cluster of trees cast an elongated pool of murk.

The figure was gone.

Twelve

The truck lights cut through the night and painted Randolph Road in silvery glimmer. They passed the Giovanni farm, with its iconic cow and slogan painted across the giant barn front.

It was well after midnight, and few lights shined within the residences. The silhouette of the hill forest loomed in the distance, resolute and monstrous. Flashes of red near the end of Randolph marked the onset of the damage swath two miles ahead, where emergency crews worked to clear the road. Somewhere in that mess was the Marks' home.

Randy Marks felt sick to his stomach.

They're going to find the bodies.

He did his best to occupy Benny with small talk, but his eyes were fixed on the handle of the door. All he needed was a second while the others were occupied, and—

“We're here.”

Rory turned the truck into Mary's driveway and killed the engine. He grabbed the shotgun from under the seat and loaded it with shells from his shirt pocket.

The six figures approached the two-story home via a short walkway lined with freshly-planted tulips, the air redolent of rich compost and dew-soaked grass.

The front door was off its hinges and thrown aside, leaning precariously against tall shrubbery. The remnants of the hinges were twisted and bent in the door frame, splintered wood jutting out of the frame like an iron maiden.

“I'll be damned,” Rory said.

Astonishment covered his face. He touched the hinges and ran his hands along the warped door where the hinges were once connected, as though doing so could help him reason through the madness.

“What on earth?”

“It's just as I told you,” Mary said. “Shall we go inside?”

Rory nodded. He readied the shotgun and led them forward, then Evan and Mary. Renee and Randy held Benny's hands in the back, but the boy pulled them free to show them that he wasn't frightened.

“Stay close,” Randy warned his brother. “And don't wander off.”

The keys jingled in Rory's pocket as they entered through the deformed jamb, and Randy wondered if there was a way to get hold of them without the big man knowing.

One lamp was on in the living room. Mary flicked on two more, and the downstairs was awash in light.

“This way,” she said, directing them toward the kitchen.

They found the basement door smashed open against the wall, where impact cracks in the plaster ran to the ceiling in jagged spider webs.

“It came up the stairs from the basement.”

“He came up the stairs,” said Rory, but Mary detected the slightest waver in his certainty.

Evan hefted the door off the wall and examined the hinges, the chrome warped and cracking.

“I might argue that a man could break through this door. But how do you explain the front door? No man could do that,” Evan said.

“Let's be reasonable. What are we saying? That a monster is running amok in Storberry?”

“If you have a more logical explanation, I want to hear it.”

Rory wiped the sweat from his brow on his shirt sleeve.

“You said he—”

“It,” Mary said.

“—it, entered the basement through the window. So let's take a gander.”

She led them down the stairs, which groaned under their combined weight like old bones, past the laundry room, toward the carpeted room in the back. The malodorous stench had dissipated. When she saw the alcove door standing open, her legs turned to rubber. The thing had been in there all along. If she had remembered to check the alcove—

She would have been killed.

The rifle had only slowed the monster down. It would have killed her, right here in the basement. Only one weapon had worked against the beast. She touched the cross through the denim, and it emitted a peculiar warmth.

She swallowed and closed the alcove door. Evan was watching her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time.

In the final room, the wrenched window stood crooked on the far wall. The drapes waved ghost-like. Benny stood behind his brother and watched the drapes, the way a mouse watches a stalking cat.

Rory pushed cardboard boxes out of the way to reach the window frame. The wood was cracked around the frame, and the brass locking mechanism had been bent until it split apart.

“Might have used a jack of some sort,” he scratched his head and wondered. “You couldn't rip open a well-constructed window like this with just your hands.”

“No man could, anyhow,” Evan said.

“Right,” Rory said, eying him warily.

“Need more proof? Let's look upstairs,” Mary said.

As she led the group up the staircase, Rory didn't think any criminal in his right mind would still be inside the house. But he felt uncomfortable with Mary weaponless, leading the way into the unseen. He brandished the shotgun and followed close behind her.

There was a hint of gunpowder in the air when they reached the top landing. The evidence of gunfire was everywhere. Rory found one partial shell wedged in the bathroom wall, and the bedroom door lay wrecked on the floor with a gaping hole in the middle. Moonlight filtered through the deformed jamb in azure strands, as though searching.

“I shot it—”

“Him-”

“—through the door.”

Renee inspected the door with growing concern. The hole was so large that she didn't think anything could have survived.

Mary turned on the ceiling light, and the darkness receded through the window into the night. The deranged scene looked less menacing in the light, but the memory of the horror gripped Mary like a cold hand on her spine.

“You're sure you shot this bastard?” Rory said.

“Several times,” Mary said.

“She must have,” Renee said with a look of sudden understanding and terror in her eyes. “There's only one bullet hole in the bathroom, but this door took several shots.”

“How could it take direct shots from a rifle and still have enough strength to blow through the front door?”

Rory looked to Evan, who was bent down next to Renee inspecting the remnants of the door, for an explanation.

Mary glimpsed the abandoned Remington next to her bedroom dresser, along with a handful of discarded ammunition.

“Not that I'll be needing these,” Mary said as she gathered up the rifle and the remaining bullets.

“What do you think now?” Evan asked Rory.

He could see Rory's mind churn through the possibilities, and even the impossibilities. The older man gripped his head in his hands, as if by sheer force he could divine a sane explanation.

“I think we should bring in Greg Madsen on this. But I sure as shit ain't going to be the one to tell him that some sort of monster is running amok in Storberry,” Rory said.

“What do you believe, Rory?” Mary asked, watching him intently.

Rory returned her gaze. He had seen what the horrors of combat could do to a man and knew what insanity looked like. It sure as hell didn't look like Mary Giovanni.

It was going to take a lot more than the woman's word to convince him that something inhuman stalked the night, but she was as predictable as an eastern sunrise. This was the same determined Giovanni daughter that had helped her family build its business into a town fixture, before taking that same single-mindedness and parlaying it into the Sweet Nothings Café. He didn't completely believe what he had heard tonight, but he trusted that she believed it. Maybe that was enough.

“I believe you are one of the bravest and most intelligent women I have ever known. If you say we are in danger, then we have work to do.”

Chapter Five

Jen curled next to Tom on the Barrows' living room floor. The grandfather clock ticked from the top of the staircase, keeping beat with the night, while shut windows walled away night sounds. Their reflections were cast in the darkened television screen, as though they were part of a movie. Watching their reflections gave her a focus point, while the sharp memories from the Kingsley home tried to rip through the paper-thin walls she had constructed to hold them at bay.

As she pulled a blanket over them, he thrashed in his sleep. For a long time she held him, and he seemed mollified. At some point after 2:30 a.m. her body surrendered, and she drifted into slumber.

Sleep was impossible for Tom. Whenever he came close to unconsciousness, the remembrance of his parents' deaths sent electrical shock waves through his body and jolted him awake. He tried to will himself to sleep, but his body did not obey. For short periods his body collapsed from fatigue, and he drifted into semi-sleep, caught in purgatory between the awareness of his surroundings and the machinations of his imagination in dream.

His dreams were as fitful as his sleep. He was fishing in Becks Pond with Jen and looked down to find his body crawling with ticks. The parasites burrowed into his skin until they covered him from head-to-toe. Jen dove into the water to escape the ticks and surfaced in a cover of wet leaves, but then he saw the leaves move and knew they were leeches.

His mother and father frequented his dreams, and when he dreamed of them, they were never truly dead. It had all been a mistake. A misunderstanding.

In one dream his father died in the hospital. Funeral arrangements were made, but before his father was delivered to the morgue, he awoke, to the doctors’ surprise. They had misdiagnosed his condition, and Chuck Kingsley was going to recover.

Tom’s father returned home, but he seemed lost, the dying embers of sunlight touching his face as he lay placid in his easy chair. He sometimes asked if the Red Lion Tavern was still open, and Tom told him that he needed to unlock the doors to the bar so that the customers could return. His father said the keys were lost and drifted into sleep.

In another dream, his mother drove him to college. They stood together amid a maze of sidewalk which converged beneath their feet. Brick-faced buildings rose out of a sea of ivy, like sunken ships covered in kelp.

He saw it all from a third-person point of view. The boy holding Donna Kingsley's hand could not have been more than eight years old.

His belongings and memories were stuffed into suitcases, laid out at his feet on the sidewalk. He watched the boy say goodbye to her. There were streaks of tears on his cheeks.

“I don't think I want to go to college yet.”

“This is your time, Tommy. Make me proud.”

“I'm not ready for you to leave, Mommy.”

“I don't have a choice. I'm sorry, but I have to go now.”

He heard himself say, “I love you,” as his eyes opened for good at 4 a.m.

As is the case with semi-sleep, he felt as though he had been in and out of slumber for several hours, when in truth only 90 minutes had passed. Jen's arm was around him when loss overcame him. He cried for several minutes, burying his face into his arms to avoid waking her. His shoulders shook under the blanket, and she awoke and stroked the hair from his eyes.

“You're all right,” she said.

“They're gone.”

“I know they are. I'm here, though, and I'm not going anywhere.”

She held him.

As a solitary lamp cast in flaxen tones from the far corner of the room, the night sky perched itself against the windows. It was two hours until sunrise.

“We need to find your parents,” he said, eyes groggy from exhaustion.

There was a dread certainty in her eyes.

“Tom, I don't think they're coming back either.”

Two

At 4 a.m. Armstrong General Hospital was sound asleep. The young nurse on the second floor had collapsed at her desk with her face buried in an open paperback, blonde ponytail splayed across the pages.

The rotund orderly sweeping the hall with mechanical indifference gave up the facade of working hard and pulled out two rolling chairs. He sat his ample backside in one and put his feet on the other. Then he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his eyes to block out the irritant fluorescent lighting. The soft hum from the fixtures made for the perfect white noise lullaby.

The orderly was dreaming of cruise vacations and mai tai cocktails when Dell Lawrence crept into the hall. Lawrence had stood in the shadows at the end of the wing, the steady beep of heart monitors counting time, watching for the nurse and orderly to depart their posts. He only needed a few seconds to find the boy. Now that they were asleep, Dell could take his sweet time.

He passed so close to the orderly that his shirt brushed the chair that the man’s feet were propped on. Cold sweat broke across his brow, and he froze in place waiting for the fat man to open his eyes. The orderly snorted and relaxed again.

He breathed deeply. As he slipped past open patient rooms, he centered his eyes on the security cameras, careful to avoid their gaze. At points where he could not place a wall between himself and the lens, he pulled his shirt over his face and stayed low to the wall. Video evidence would be damning, after all. That is, if the Branyan boy hadn't already fingered him. By sunrise, the boy's mouth would be shut permanently. Dead men tell no tales.

Room 208.

Finding him had been easy. He had called the hospital under the guise of the boy's uncle, and the idiot at the front desk had all but drawn him a map. But visiting hours weren't until blah blah blah.

Dell had fucked up. Pretty severely at that. He had only meant to scare the boy. Knock him around a little. Make sure he never touched Katy again. That had changed when he saw the smug piece of trash, running the store like he was Mr. Bigshot King of the Beef Jerky. So he had lost control. Plain and simple. Not much of a defense in court, he supposed.

Yeah I guess I kinda lost it, yer honor. Fucked things up royally. Never meant any harm. It's our kids, ya know? Gotta protect'em. I'm sure glad you see my point of view.

He stole glances into the patient rooms on his left.

212. An old man sleeping.

210. A young boy in a leg cast probably dreaming of riding his bike again by summer.

Nobody awake to see him.

Then 208.

His temples pounded. Did he really intend to murder the boy? There was still time to reconsider.

It's him or me.

Dead men tell no tales.

The room was dark and tomb-like. Parking lot lighting streamed through venetian blinds and rendered alternating slashes of glare across the walls. An empty cot was at the front of the room.

No roommate.

Good.

No witnesses.

As the light pattern spread across the boy's cot like railroad tracks, Dell saw that his eyes were closed, head tilted toward the window. One of his eyes was blackened and parts of his face were swollen into purple mounds. The turned down blanket revealed a taped ribcage.

Otherwise, the boy didn't look half-bad. A damn tough kid. Dell had to give him that.

Too fucking bad you're going to die now.

Dell snatched the pillow off the empty cot and approached the boy. He licked his lips and then looked behind him. Nobody to see.

When he raised the pillow toward the boy's face, Jeff's eyes opened, and he pulled the hidden revolver from under his blanket. Dell was too stunned to say anything. The boy propped himself up with his left hand, keeping the revolver fixed on Dell's forehead.

“Son of a bitch,” Dell whispered.

“What? You didn't think I knew you would come?” Jeff's eyes were hard with anger. “Had to finish the job, right?”

Dell shifted his weight on his feet, but the click of the readied weapon froze him in place.

“Ah-ah, don't you fucking move. You really are a stupid son-of-a-bitch, aren't you? If you had just stayed away, you'd be home free. There were no witnesses, remember? Wasn't that your plan?”

Sweat beaded on Dell's brow. Somebody was going to hear the little bastard, and pretty soon there would be rent-a-cops everywhere.

“Quiet yourself, you little shit. You want'em to hear?”

“No skin off my back if they catch an intruder in my room.”

“Oh, no? You gonna explain to them what you're doing with a loaded gun in a hospital?”

“Right after you explain why you wanted to smother one their patients with a pillow.”

Dell's eyes darted left and right, as if searching for a secret passage that would get him the hell out of there.

“How the hell did you get that thing in here?”

“Unlike you, I have friends.” Jeff grinned and waved the weapon at Dell. “Now, turn around and put your hands on your head.”

“Fuck you.”

“Do it.”

Jeff sat up and put both hands on the weapon.

Dell knew the boy would shoot and not regret it. A gun against a pillow wouldn't fly as self-defense in most court houses. But in Storberry, everyone hated Dell Lawrence. The courts would probably name a new holiday after the kid. Maybe something like Happy Hole In The Head Day. Or perhaps tiny munchkins would spring forth to sing, Ding Dong, Dell is Dead, as the townsfolk skipped merrily along a yellow brick road.

Branyan would be a hero, while Dell rested six feet under.

Dell turned around and put his hands on the back of his head.

“Don't do this, boy. It ain't worth it. You got lots to live for yet.”

The revolver clicked. Dell squinted his eyes.

“Now you're going to walk out of here like nothing ever happened.”

Dell was incredulous.

“What?”

“Just like I said. You take a walk, and don't come back. And you start treating your daughter like she deserves to be treated.”

“Don't you talk about my Katy. If you so much as look at her again I'll—”

Click.

Dell cringed.

“You'll what? Next time old man, you aren't going to catch me from behind.

And if you must know, I rather like your daughter. Hell, I might even be a tad smitten. I'd never hurt her. Can you say the same?”

“I never hurt—”

“You hurt everything and everybody. Isn't that right?”

“You ain't got no right—”

“I do, I think. Hey, Dell? This isn't over. The doctors say you did a pretty good number on me. Messed me up damn fine. But I'll be out of here soon. And guess who I'm going to come looking for?”

“You come, boy. You come.”

“You'll see me coming. No surprises next time. Now, unless you want a permanent hole in the back of your head, you'll take your ass out of here.”

“I'll be waiting on your call, boy.”

“Go.”

Dell Lawrence stormed out of the hospital room.

His blood boiled, and he no longer cared about stealth. He stormed past the sleeping nurse at the desk, down the hallway where the fat orderly dreamed about boat drinks and calypso drums. His breeze blew across the orderly's face, and the fat man's eyes opened just in time to see the shadow of a large figure disappear around the corner.

“Hey,” the orderly said with a decided lack of commitment.

He glanced at the sleeping nurse and decided that she had the right idea. The orderly was sound asleep again when Dell walked out through the emergency exit, setting off a shrill alarm.

Now everyone in the hospital was pissed off and awake.

Three

Benny was asleep in the backseat of Rory Dickson's truck. Randy sat next to him, heart pounding. He knew where Rory intended to take them.

The low rolling hum of the engine cast its song of sleep on Renee, who fought to keep her eyes open. As the first thin strand of gray lay imperceptible on the eastern horizon, Mary and Evan sat in the front of the cab, silently counting the two remaining hours until the perceived safety of sunrise.

Rory had one more stop to make before they called it a night. He swung the truck southward on Randolph toward the Marks' residence. The emergency crews had made progress—cut logs layered the roadside like excavated dinosaur bones.

He thought, with a little luck, I can get the kid home to his parents.

He took the truck over the sidewalk to avoid a road blockage and slalomed his way through debris and branches before nearing the juncture of Jensen and Randolph.

The Marks' residence was back-lit by the moon with its front masked in shadow. It stood isolated, the closest neighbor fifty yards east on Jensen. A rickety barn sat unused behind the house, its brown peak jutting above the house. A single light shone in the downstairs of the Marks’ home.

Seeing the phantom house emerge from the night encased Randy's spine in icy fear. He could feel the walls of the truck constricting, closing around him. He gripped the door handle.

He started to get up from the backseat, ready to break from the vehicle, but Rory signaled him to stay put.

“Wait here.”

The truck engine died in the driveway, the shadow of the Marks' residence looming above them.

Rory snatched his shotgun and walked up the front porch steps. Randy watched the man go, one eye on the keys hanging from the ignition.

Don't you think about going into the backyard. You got no business there.

The trilling of insect song echoed out of the meadow behind the house. There were no streetlamps on this sparsely-populated portion of Randolph. Those began a few hundred yards down Jensen, stretching away like a landing strip into blackness. The gloom enveloped all, the way it seems to in the pit of night when all hope of returning dawn is lost.

Hardly able to discern the black doorbell on the outer wall, Rory wished he had kept the engine running with the headlights on. If there was any danger out in the night...

Don't you start believing that nonsense about monsters.

...would he see it coming? His stomach fluttered the way it had during combat. His mates had always said he had a sixth sense. Rory didn't believe that nonsense. He was well trained, and attentive. The sixth sense, he had always said, was simply a combination of situational awareness and attention to detail. Nothing materialized out of thin air. The enemy always gave away its presence. You just needed to stay alert and watch for the signs.

He didn't wish to jostle the Marks’ family awake, but surely they would be relieved to see their youngest child safe. He pressed the button, and an old-fashioned bell sang through the downstairs like a telephone ring. He listened for the sounds of footfalls, and when he didn't hear them after 30 seconds, he rang the bell again.

He glanced back at the truck, unsure if they could see him in the shadowed porch. He shook his head to indicate that there had been no answer. Against his better judgment he jostled the door knob to find a way in but found it locked.

He sighed. If he didn't get sleep soon, he would be useless to the town, but intuition tugged at him to check the back of the house. His sixth sense again.

When Rory left the porch for the driveway, Randy began to mouth, “no...no...no,” until he saw Mary's face in the rearview mirror studying him. He averted his eyes. The keys...yes, the keys hung in the ignition. He had everything he needed – the truck, the keys, Benny.

The women would be no trouble to overpower. But Evan...

A dirt driveway led Rory around the house. The roof blocked the shine of the moon, leaving the driveway a desolate black. He could discern silhouettes of the house and barn and little else. Stones crackled and shifted underfoot, and once he tripped over what might have been a large rock or a brick.

His instinct was at it again, this time groaning danger! A chill sensation arose in his chest that he was walking into an ambush. And then he saw light.

A faint, orange glow spilled between the dilapidated wood planks at the top of the barn.

What would someone be doing in the barn at this hour?

His skin tingled. As the fiery glow increased, he began to believe he was walking toward the gates of hell.

Rory thought to call out to the person inside the barn but caught himself. It was preposterous to believe a trap awaited, but he wasn't taking any chances. Someone

(something)

had tried to kill Mary. Only a fool would walk unarmed through the night knowing as much.

He felt his way around the corner of the house and saw that the barn door ajar. Orange light poured through the crack and danced on the dirt entrance. Lantern light.

He reached the door, but stopped before pushing it open. His spine tingled as though a thousand tarantulas crawled down his back. Something was wrong. Something...

He raised the shotgun and carefully pressed the door open with the barrel. He heard something drinking, like a dog lapping at his water dish.

As his mind battled to comprehend the unspeakable vision before him, his skin went cold.

What appeared to be an old man was hunched over a woman's body on the dirt floor of the barn. Her stomach was split open, her innards hanging out like worms writhing in a cloudburst.

Blood was everywhere. It was splashed against the walls, splayed against mounds of hay, and its puddle seeped out from under her in an ever-swelling ocean of crimson.

The thing...the old man...drank from the torrents of blood bubbling out her stomach. The nightmare supped at the gore with sickening gulps. Rory felt bile surge into his throat. He gagged, but composed himself before he vomited into the blood expanding toward his shoes.

Then the thing’s head turned toward him. The man’s jaws opened to a heinous grin, revealing razor-sharp teeth protruding from the top of his mouth. The teeth...fangs...were crooked and angled outward as though the thing had chomped down on a block of iron and shattered the incisors akimbo. One pierced through its upper lip. Despite the withered form of his body, the old man’s face was timeless and youthful, free of the lines of aging.

The air seemed to ripple in front of the man’s face, and for a brief moment, Rory thought he saw a corpse’s face, as though a terrible truth lay concealed beneath a magician’s illusion.

The old man hissed and sprang to his feet with an unnatural dexterity that belied his decrepit form. But Rory was quick. Before the man took a step forward, the shotgun blasted a hole through his sternum. The thing fell backward, arms and legs trembling on a pile of hay.

Rory’s heart pounded. Bile roared into his throat. He watched the abomination like a fly in a web watches a black widow.

The thing still breathed. The old man’s chest rose and fell, and a wheezing sound escaped his mouth. The second shotgun blast exploded through the barn. Rory's aim was true. The bullet ripped through the man’s heart, and a blackish substance bubbled and oozed out of the hole like magma.

He lowered the shotgun and bent at the waist. Sickness overcame him, and he regurgitated onto the side of the wall. His extremities tingled, his head swam through dizziness, and for a moment he was sure he would lose consciousness. Tiny black spots clouded his vision like flies.

He concentrated on breathing in and out. The nausea finally passed, and his vision cleared.

He never saw the monstrosity rise to his feet and approach him.

The old man screeched and lunged forward. Rory wasn't quick enough with the shotgun. The thing would have him.

Mary smashed through the door. One second he was alone in the barn with whatever it was, and in the next she was there, throwing herself at the creature. She brandished the cross as though she were on the front line of an ancient holy war. The others were behind her, frozen in shock in the doorway.

She screamed, making Rory think of a war cry. The creature attacked the new intruder.

She was ready for the old man. She thrust the cross into his forehead, and he screeched in pain. The illusion of youth vanished. Decrepit flesh sizzled and smoked under the symbol. An odor reminiscent of overcooked liver filled the barn.

She didn't stop. She pushed the thing that was once an old man to the dirt, sat astride his hips, and pressed the cross down through his skin. The decrepit flesh was soft, and she thought of pluff mud as the cross sank deeper. He thrashed under her, trying to rip the woman's hands away from the cross.

Before Rory could grasp what he was seeing, Evan grabbed a rake off the wall, smashed the rake against a support beam, and broke the stick into two sharp weapons. He took the longer end and plunged the point through the thing's chest, next to the gaping hole from Rory's shotgun.

The old man’s body seized and went rigid. Then whatever life existed in him departed.

From the doorway, Renee watched the macabre scene, frozen in shock. Randy's mouth was agape. Benny's face was buried in Randy's chest, sobbing and inconsolable. Outside the barn, crickets shrilled incessantly, a reminder that sunrise was still two hours away.

It was a long time before anyone spoke.

Four

There are few moments in life so unsettling that they force one to question everything he thought he had ever known. For the pallid-faced group riding in Rory Dickson's truck, that time was now.

The strip of gray in the eastern sky was larger now. The fulfilled promise of another dawn was not long off.

Neither the dead woman on the barn floor nor the thing that feasted on her had been members of the Marks' home. The woman's name was Merrill, Randy had said. She had moved to Jensen Road from Maryland a few years ago. How she ended up split open on the barn floor was anyone's guess. Nobody recognized the old man.

They had pounded on the Marks' back door for what seemed like hours, but no answer came. Given the dire circumstances, Evan had broken the window. As he carefully reached through the broken glass, the queer remembrance of playing Operation suddenly flaring, he unlocked the door without tearing flesh on the jagged shards.

Randy stood back from the door, his brother sobbing into his shirt with short gasps. The others wouldn't find anyone inside the house, but he needed to play along a little longer before they moved on.

He also needed to ensure they stayed out of the backyard.

The fresh graves had been no more than thirty yards behind them. He could feel their presence against his back, like the first chill wind of October.

If he turned, he would see them—blood pouring from their chests, the blackened remains of Calvin Marks reanimate, his eyes accusing.

They searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no sign of Calvin and Sue Marks. Rory apologized to Randy, his eyes full of regret. Though Randy had been certain they would have found evidence of his deed, the residual scent of gunpowder had dissipated. For this, and this only, he breathed a sigh of relief in front of the others.

Rory Dickson took charge. It was his way of dealing with the trauma.

His first order of business was to get Benny to safety, and so he drove them back north on Randolph to his own home and woke Evelyn. His wife was less than enthusiastic about being awakened so early and perplexed as to why the Marks’ boy was being left in her care. But Rory had been insistent, and she was not one to turn her back on a child in need.

He also told her to lock all the doors and windows and that she was not to let anyone into the house. She had protested, but he was unwavering. He left her the shotgun because it made him feel better that she have its protection, even though he suspected the weapon was useless against what stalked Storberry.

After, he drove the remaining members of the group back to the Moran farm on the northeastern side of town, again forced to dodge the debris strewn across Standish.

During the trip he eyed the walkie-talkie with trepidation. He had to bring Greg Madsen in on this, but how in the hell was he going to convince the Chief of Police that...well Christ, what in the hell were they up against? Madsen would say he was insane, and at that moment, Rory would agree that the assessment was not far from the mark.

The first embers of sunrise burned at the center point of the eastern horizon when Rory Dickson's truck barreled into the farm’s driveway. They climbed groggily up the front steps, a single ray of sun upon them like a searchlight.

They split into two groups, armed with only Mary's cross and the two broken pieces of the rake as they searched the cavernous farmhouse. The second order of business was that all doors and windows be locked securely.

The final order was sleep. Slumber would not come easy, but it was necessary if they were to function during the daylight hours. Rory and Evan both agreed that posting a watch would be optimal, but they would forgo a watch this morning. Every member of the group had pushed themselves beyond exhaustion.

They acknowledged that to this point, the old legends about crosses and wooden stakes were holding up pretty well to real-world scrutiny. It was assumed vampires...

And that is what we are talking about, right? That thing that fed on the Merrill woman's innards...the creature that tore Mary's house apart...vampires stalking the night in Storberry?

...could not survive in sunlight. If this legend held up, they would have a little over twelve hours to figure out how to defend the town before sundown. Minus an hour or two of sleep.

Nobody wanted to be alone, even if they weren't willing to admit it. When Renee suggested everyone sleep downstairs in the living room, there was unanimous agreement.

Except for Randy, who had anticipated an opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

He had grown desperate, utterly desperate. He felt a growing dread when he thought of Benny, like walking past a graveyard at midnight. You wanted to believe that you were safe. And maybe you whistled a happy song. But you knew that if you turned around, they would come. Had he not seen the graveyard come to life in the barn?

Sleep came quickly for the rest of them.

Violence and madness encompassed their dreams. Evan found himself in the forest again, this time stalked by the deformed old man from the barn.

Rory was young again. He stood waist deep in a flowing river of blood. Members of his troop...his friends...lay butchered on the banks in the failing light of dusk. As the forest enveloped the river beyond its banks, he could see eyes of red watching him from the darkness. An enemy he did not know how to defeat. An enemy he feared.

Mary ran through her basement, as the door to the alcove creaked open behind her. She awoke with a scream that jostled the rest of the group out of sleep. It was 8:30 a.m.

The brilliant sunshine and depthless blue skies over Storberry improved their disposition. Nobody protested when Mary and Renee offered to cook eggs and toast, but nobody had much of an appetite.

Rory ate with businesslike commitment. Though he wasn't the least bit hungry after what he had witnessed, he knew his body needed energy for the job ahead. He highly recommended the others do the same.

“Don't even think about it. Just eat, because your body is going to need it,” he said.

At 9:30 a.m. they began to fashion a set of weapons, beginning with the damaged fence posts. They had just begun to rip apart the remnants of the fence when the walkie-talkie crackled in static.

“Rory?”

Rory recognized Greg Madsen's voice over the radio.

“Yeah, Greg?”

“Just checking in. Things are getting cleaned up faster than expected. The telephone company thinks they may have a workaround in place by tomorrow. I'm thinking we need to look into that tower of yours.”

“Agreed. The sooner we get comms back, the better off we will be.”

“By the way, where are you at? I hadn't heard anything since you said something about troublemakers on Standish.”

“That was a false alarm. I'm over at the Moran farm. But, Greg...”

Rory paused, not sure how to proceed.

“You still there, big guy?”

“It's something we all saw last night. It's going to sound crazy if I tell you over the radio, and frankly I don't want anyone else to hear this. Where are you going to be around noon? I want to talk to you in person.”

“Jesus, Rory, that doesn't sound good. Trust me, though. Nothing is going to sound crazy after the story we heard last night.”

“Something else happen in town?”

“Your buddy Pete Cutler stopped by the station this morning. I thought he was going to chew me a new one about not getting that tower fixed yet, and instead he tells me that he shot a monster in his backyard last night.”

Rory's mouth went dry.

“Rory?”

“I'm here, Greg.”

“Yeah, that story left me a little speechless too.”

“Hey, Greg, I know you're busy as hell, but maybe you could stop out here for a bit? There are some folks here who will want to talk to you.”

There was silence on the other end, and after several seconds Rory worried that he had lost the signal.

“I'll be there at noon. But what's this about?”

“Just come over, Greg. It's easier if we explain it to you.”

Another pause, then—

“Okay, Rory. I'll trust you on this one. But it had better be better than Pete Cutler's story. I'm starting to worry about you amateur radio guys. See you at noon. Over.”

“Over.”

By 10:30 a.m. the sun had become a blowtorch, and sweat poured off their bodies. Rory split the fallen fence posts with a wood ax, and then Evan used a rotating saw to sharpen the ends until he had several sharp, sturdy-feeling stakes.

Randy finished them off with sand paper. He stayed busy, though he never stopped watching the unattended vehicles in the driveway. Soon the police chief would be here, and Randy was sure that Greg Madsen would know. Because even if the police chief wasn't digging into unmarked graves on Randolph Road, he would smell his guilt, like mildew emanating from the carpet of a previously flooded room.

And time was running out. He needed to get Benny out of Storberry. Out of Storberry before the sun set.

At 11 a.m. Mary and Renee piled into Renee's hatchback and drove to Main Street for supplies. The reports they had heard over the walkie-talkie mentioned that several businesses had opened Sunday morning, including Downtown Hardware.

Renee parked the car in front of the Sweet Nothings Café, where Mary was relieved to find her store undamaged and intact. Reopening was the furthest thing from her mind, but seeing the café, with its front door sign a mere flip from reading YES, WE’RE OPEN, and almost being able to smell the cappuccino and the freshly-baked strawberry pie somehow anchored her.

Downtown Hardware was a great wooden fixture in the center of Storberry. It had somehow managed to dodge the big-box retailers who had devoured their way through the small towns of America in the 1980s. Nicholas Foles, part-time bartender at the Red Lion Tavern and proprietor of Downtown Hardware, could hardly keep up with the activity.

Almost everyone in Storberry had either had damage of their own to repair or knew someone who did. The graying Foles was behind the counter accumulating the morning’s profits in his head, and thinking about retirement a few years down the road, as the line of customers in the checkout line stretched to the back wall. He had already sold almost every hand tool in the store.

Foles, his steel rimmed glasses hanging perched at the end of a crooked nose, raised his eyebrows when Mary and Renee brought out their wallets to pay for five wooden crosses and five duffel bags. The religious symbols were just large enough to fit comfortably in their hands.

“Anything else I can get you?” he asked, with a perplexed look on his face.

“No, this is all we need,” Mary said.

“Praise Be to God,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Indeed.”

When they returned to the farm shortly before noon, Renee handed each member of the group a duffel bag, which they filled with two sharpened wood stakes and a cross.

The spring sky stretched away in an endless ocean of blue. Under different circumstances, it would have been the perfect prelude to summer. Instead, the clock seemed to tick off the seconds like a time bomb, reminding them that night would soon return.

Five

Dell Lawrence opened his eyes to rust marks on the trailer ceiling. As his eyes squinted against the light pouring in through the southern window, he saw that it was noon and that he had slept in Katy's bed again.

He didn't remember if he had dreamed, but there was a growing sickness in his stomach when he thought about his missing daughter.

Still fully clothed from last night, he brushed the sleep out of the corners of his eyes and swung his legs to the floor. The memory of the hospital came back to him like a splash of ice water on his face.

The prick.

He toasted a piece of stale bread and smothered it with strawberry jelly. Steak and eggs were a rich man’s dream with a bare refrigerator. He thought he could go for a few drinks, too.

The Watering Hole would be open by now. Maybe a beer or two could help him figure out what to do about Jeff Branyan. He had thought the boy to be nothing but a soft, athletic type. Tough on the field, but impotent otherwise. But the way Branyan had taken his beating and recovered so quickly unsettled him. The boy was dangerous. And he thought on his feet. Who else would have thought to procure a gun while recovering in a hospital room?

It was just a matter of time before Branyan recovered and was on the street looking for Dell. He had underestimated the boy, and now he would have to deal with him.

Better deal with him before he deals with you.

He took a swig of warm beer from an open can—the last of the alcohol in the trailer. He stuffed his wallet into his jeans and took one last look at his daughter's empty bed. She had to come home sooner or later. Didn't she?

Please come home, Katy.

Eventually they all left him. Why would this time be any different?

He shut the door behind him and walked into a wall of heat.

The beaten Subaru followed him down East Avenue. Erin Lawrence crumpled the piece of paper from the Pink Flamingo's free notepad, on which she had jotted down the address given for a “D. Lawrence” in the Storberry White Pages. She had found him, but where was her daughter?

Guilt rose through her heart and into her throat, and she had to pull the car to the side of the road to compose herself. She hadn't known how she would feel when she saw him again. A million regrets and what-ifs flooded through her like a tidal wave.

As she wiped her eyes so that she could see again, she felt for the medicine bottle in her front pocket. She couldn't allow herself to take a pill yet. She needed to ration them if she were to have any left by the end of this ordeal.

There was still no plan, beyond locating her family. She had no idea of how to approach them. For now, she was content to have found Dell. When she found her daughter, too, maybe she would know how to proceed.

Dell had grown older, evidenced by the lines on his face. A was hardness was there, like the pool bottom in the shallow end where the sign says NO DIVING. And it frightened her. Had she caused this, too?

She watched him turn southward on Spruce, and shortly he angled across the parking lot toward a large bar she didn't recognize called The Watering Hole. It was fashioned after a Texas honkytonk, with rustic brown paneling. The bass of country music boomed through the walls, powerful enough to reverberate through the car and make her teeth rattle.

When Dell opened the door, the wall of sound pounded across the blacktop. The door swung shut, and she lost sight of him. As she exhaled, she watched her hands tap the steering wheel.

The power of the post-equinox sun burned through the windshield. She thought to roll down the window, but preferred to keep a layer of glass between her and the town. She killed the engine and waited, trying to resist the Siren's song emanating from the pill bottle in her pocket.

Six

Greg Madsen's police truck turned into the Moran farm driveway a little after 12:30 p.m. More progress than seemed humanly possible had been made within the town overnight and during the early morning hours, but there was more yet to be done. That the majority of downtown was open, especially on the north end, gave hope to town residents. Open businesses not only provided the items people needed to get back on their feet; they also served as meeting places, where people could share their stories about the wind storm and feed off of each other’s resilience.

No explanation yet existed for what had happened the previous evening, but Greg no longer cared about the why. The cleanup would continue, and communications would be restored within a day or two. He would see to it that the optimistic schedule was kept. Storberry would rise again.

As Evan greeted Greg at the door, there was a grave look on his face that gave Greg pause.

The door opened with the kitchen off to the left. Six chairs sat dispersed around a wooden table, three occupied by Rory Dickson, Mary Giovanni, and Renee Tennant.

Randy Marks stood in the shadows behind them. An alarm went off in the back of Greg’s head when he saw Marks. There was something in the way he stood back, like a wolf in sheepskin who didn't want the flock to notice the zipper.

Evan sat at the table, and Greg took the cue to sit across from him, nodding to the others.

“We're glad you're here, Greg,” Rory said, his eyes strangely haunted.

The looks around the table from the remaining group members ranged from mental exhaustion to fear. Greg sensed something was horribly wrong.

“What's all this about?”

On more than one occasion as the members of the group told their stories to him, Greg was motivated to push the table away and walk out the door. He couldn't understand why they would waste his time with superstitious drivel when the town was teetering on the brink of collapse. Yet there was a conviction to them—an unwavering insistence that the impossible had occurred—that he could not completely ignore.

He respected them all.

Mary Giovanni. A true rock of Storberry if there ever was one. Self-made, determined, and intelligent.

Evan Moran and Renee Tennant. Educated professionals with world views that he knew could see past small town issues when larger solutions were needed.

Rory Dickson. Multiple decades of service to his country. An indisputable asset to emergency communications. Trustworthy and courageous enough to wear the badge himself.

Even Randy Marks. A sharp mind from a venerable town family, destined for great things if he could find the courage to depart the only town he had ever known. But there was a dangerous component to the boy that he hadn't recognized before today, like a rusty nail jutting out of the floorboards.

All five of the group members asserted the truthfulness of a story which seemed ripped from the screen of a drive-in movie. Their stories, insane as they were, oddly corroborated Pete Cutler's story. Monsters running through the night in Storberry? Vampires, as Rory and Evan assessed them to be?

When they finished, Greg sat in silence for a long time. He felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on his head. He might have expected the cast of “Candid Camera” to burst out of the broom closet at any second, if it weren't for the faraway stares that haunted him from across the table.

He slowly collected himself, not ready to believe that the interpretations of their stories were accurate—walking in on a murder might be traumatic enough to convince someone that they were seeing monsters.

Dangers existed in Storberry. He was certain of that much.

Vagrants taking advantage of distress. Killers, even. But vampires?

“I hope you realize that if I took your story to my department, the town would have my badge by morning. And I would probably be in a straightjacket within a week.”

Rory nodded.

“You couldn't have convinced me that any of this was true, either. Had I not seen—”

“We don't have time to convince you either way,” Mary said. The kitchen clock read 1:00 p.m. “Will you at least agree that there is a real danger out there?”

“I don't doubt it in the least,” Greg said. “But—”

“If you were to accompany us tonight, after sunset, you could decide for yourself.”

Greg regarded her for a moment and then nodded.

“I can meet you here by sunset.”

“Until then,” Rory said, with a meaningful glance around the table. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

“Agreed,” Evan said.

The others echoed their agreement.

“Greg, believe me. I know what this sounds like. I need you to keep an open mind, just for a few more hours,” Rory said.

“I can give you that much,” Greg said.

He rose from the table and studied them one more time.

“And you will see that the dangers are human.”

The door shut, and moments later the rumble of the police truck faded into the distance.

“He's never going to believe us,” Renee said.

Rory shook his head.

“We need him to. We don't have a chance in hell without him.”

Seven

When Tom Kingsley opened his eyes, light poured through the south-facing windows in a blinding glare that overwhelmed his vision. It took him several seconds to break through the bonds of post-sleep lethargy. He realized he was on Jen's couch, with one of her bed pillows tucked under his head. He didn't remember it being there when he had fallen asleep.

The digital VCR clock read 4:05 p.m. He had slept off-and-on throughout the day, haunted by dreams that he could only somewhat remember. Sometimes she had held him, and he had slept more soundly with her close.

“Good, you're awake.”

She knelt next to him and brushed the hair from his eyes.

“I hope you're hungry,” she said.

“Not really.”

“Well that's too bad, Tom Kingsley. ‘Cause you're going to eat. I've been cooking all afternoon, you know?”

“Is that so?”

He rubbed his eyes.

“It is so.”

“I may not be destined for culinary school, but I swear it smells like grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen.”

“What if I told you they were the best grilled cheese sandwiches you’ve ever tasted?”

“I'd be inclined to believe you,” he said with a smile.

“Then get up.”

Squinting his eyes, he followed her to the kitchen with a hollow ache in his stomach. He tried to forget, but the realization that he would never see his parents again kept flooding into him, like a broken pier in a hurricane.

She loaded the sandwiches onto white, ornate dishes which could only have been meant for special occasions.

“These were my mother's favorites,” she said.

She wore a thin smile on her lips, with a hurt look in her eyes. The old clock ticked upstairs, the vent fan in the kitchen buzzed, and dishes clinked when she set upon the table. Her lips quivered, and before he could respond, she buried her head into his chest and cried.

“They're never coming back, Tom. I don't know what to do.”

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, her hot tears soaking through cotton to his chest.

“You don't know that.”

“I do. They wouldn’t leave me alone this long. They just wouldn’t.”

“The roads into town might still be closed,” he said, knowing the argument was shallow.

Her parents would have found a way into town by now, even if they had to park the car and walk.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don't know. But I promise you that we'll do it together.”

“If you weren’t here with me, I think I’d lose my mind.”

“I promised you last night that I would stay with you, and I meant it. Besides,” he said, a wry smile curling at his lips. “Who's going to teach you to cook?”

She punched him in the shoulder. He felt her chest shake through a mix of laughter and tears.

“Don't make fun of my dinner.”

“I'm not.”

He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.

“It means more to me than you can ever know that you cooked for me,” he said. “Team?”

She smiled up at him through tears.

“Team.”

They ate together and made the type of small talk people make when a heavier truth rumbles distant, like thunder on a sunny day. Had Tom been going through this alone, he thought he would have been unreachable by now, hidden within an unbreakable shell. But she was here, and she experienced the tragedy with him. Her empathy was his only lifeline, and he was all she had left.

But that didn't prevent the ghastly memories from breaking through the barricades he had constructed, like water through a dam with too many leaks.

“I can't go to the police,” he said. “I don't know how to explain what happened last night. Christ, what if they think I murdered them?”

She usually had an answer. This time there was none.

“So we don't go to the police,” she said. “We stay here, where we know it's safe.”

He nodded in agreement.

“Jen, I can never go back there.”

“Then don't.”

“Everything I own is in there. School, all of my college applications, so much stuff.”

“Give it some time. Somebody's going to come looking for your parents sooner or later. The police will deal with it. There's no reason for you to put yourself through seeing it again.”

“You're right.”

“And when it's over, go back and take what you need. I'll go with you.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re a team, right?”

“Right.”

Eight

The final sparks of daylight's last stand stroked the top of the hill forest in swatches of scarlet. The light flooded the meadow in oranges and reds, and the wind set the tall grass in motion like rolling waves in a golden sea. The warm hues poured down the hillside in a sanguine waterfall and cast themselves against the west-facing buildings of downtown. It was the sort of passionate late day display by nature that usually brought warmth and hope to the town’s residents. But this time there seemed to be almost no one to enjoy it.

Greg Madsen's wristwatch read 5:00 p.m. He had finished working with a crew charged to clear the west end of Jensen Road.

The stories he had heard at the Moran farm did not register as any more believable now than they had then, but something ate at him. Why weren't there more people outside fixing their homes, downtown gathering supplies, or in their yards finding comfort in the company of others? Numerous homes off Jensen had broken windows, missing shingles, and downed trees and branches. And none of it was being tended to.

As he radioed his position to Art Stults and gave him an update on the state of Jensen Road near the Randolph juncture, he drove toward a side street called Brown Avenue, which branched north off Jensen and ended at a dead end of trees and marshland a half mile away.

Old oaks and ash mixed with towering maples along Brown. The thick foliage conspired with the west-side roofs to stifle the low sun angle, blanketing the neighborhood in a veil of darkness.

The scene unsettled him.

He felt as though he were walking down the corridor of a decrepit house, in search of a murderer who might be concealed in any of the adjoining rooms—someone waiting to burst through the door with a sadistic grin.

The yards should have been full of children playing and riding their bikes. If their parents had deemed it too dangerous to play outside because of the scattered damage, why weren't they cleaning it up? Where was everybody?

He picked a weathered Victorian cloaked by oak and ash. Poplars grew to either side of the door. When he pressed the doorbell at the top of the stairs, he heard it ring first in the front foyer and then echo from a second monitor somewhere deep in the house. He waited a minute, then he pounded on the wooden door. No answer came.

He glanced down the Victorian's driveway. The garage was closed, but he could see two cars parked inside through dusty windows.

The next house was a gray bungalow with a deep front porch. The number nine on the house had come off its top latch and hung upside down as a six. He turned the number to its original position and latched it securely and rang the doorbell, but again no answer came. He peeked around the corner of the house and saw a rusted Chevy pickup in the driveway.

Then he heard a distinct thump from inside the house.

From the basement?

The sound had weight to it, as though something large had toppled over below the first floor.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

Greg listened for signs of distress. The wind whistled an eerie song through the trees.

“Storberry Police Department. Is everyone okay inside?”

Silence.

His curiosity piqued, he walked down the porch steps into the driveway and shined a light on the basement window. The window was intact, but its translucency was blotted out by pieces of cardboard. Another window toward the back of the house was similarly obscured.

“Hello? Officer Madsen, Storyberry Police.”

He thought he heard a skittering sound behind the concealed window, like vermin, but too heavy to be a rat.

“Is anyone home?”

When no answer came again, he turned back to the sidewalk and continued down Brown. There were no vehicles at eleven or thirteen. Fifteen was another Victorian, yellow paint weathered and chipping away. Two compact cars were parked in the driveway, and the lights were off inside the house.

The long front porch was covered with ivy. A lone rocking chair rocked ghostly on the wooden planks, set in motion by the wind. Boards creaked under his feet like a witch's cackle.

When he rang the doorbell, he was surprised to feel the hair standing on the back of his neck. Something was off. It was the same cold terror he had felt when he had first heard the wind scream out of the southwestern hills.

His wristwatch read 5:12 p.m., and he wasn't finding any answers as to what gnawed at him on Brown Avenue. He was officially off-duty as of 6:00 p.m., at which time he planned to begin his drive to the Moran farm.

Greg had turned to descend the steps when a scream came from inside the house. This time he was certain it had come from the basement.

“Storberry Police. Are you in danger?”

He bent his neck around the side of the house, looking for a window into the basement. Like the previous house, the windows were obscured from the inside by what appeared to be an old quilt. He returned to the door and banged against it with his fist. As the flimsy door rattled within the jamb, the wind increased, moaning over the tree tops like the groan of old bones.

A second scream followed.

It was animal-like, something between a woman's voice and a feral cat.

He radioed the department that there was a woman in distress inside the house and requested backup. Static answered. He could wait no longer. He yelled “Police!” and kicked the door open.

As he entered the Victorian with his gun drawn and announced his presence, diffused light pooled dimly through the entrance. Heavy curtains were drawn across the first-floor window.

The resultant darkness was palpable, converging against the dim light as though the black meant to swallow it.

The staircase to the second floor, whose white paint had long since begun to chip off, rose in front of him. The upstairs was cloaked in darkness as well. He could see a shade drawn against an east-facing window at the top of the steps. The stairway appeared to turn off to the left into a pool of black ink.

When Greg flicked on his flashlight to chase back the shadows, its glow penetrated the unnatural gloom into the kitchen, like a night train sweeping its beam across abandoned tracks. He called out again but received no reply.

A gas stove at the end of the hall grew closer as he approached. He might have stood upon a moving platform, being dragged forward against his will, for the scene seemed to engulf him.

He swept around the corner and pointed his gun into the darkness, his disquiet growing at the barricades constructed to stop the light. The window over the sink was sloppily covered by wood planks nailed into the frame. Dim light through the slats rendered the kitchen counter and sink in silhouette.

Fear prickled up his spine, as he was sure someone stood behind him. He swung the gun around to find only darkness.

And then there was a door. He aimed the flashlight at eye level and found a calendar marked with handwritten notes hanging by a thumbnail. Below the calendar was the doorknob to the basement.

“Storberry Police Department. Can anyone hear me?”

He fumbled on the kitchen wall for a light switch, expecting something to reach out of the gloom and snatch him by the hand. His hand brushed against the light switch; but when he flicked it, there was no response. He shined the flashlight at the lamp hanging over the kitchen to see the bulb had been removed.

Then the flashlight flickered and died in his hands. He jiggled it and smacked it against his palm, but the light did not respond.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to ascertain the shape of the door. He touched the doorknob and jerked his hand back in shock. The brass knob was frigid, as if a frozen landscape existed on the other side, wind whipping blankets of icy snow against the frame. It was uncomfortable in his hand, as he turned the knob and gently pressed his body against the door. The mechanism clicked.

When the door pushed open, the air felt as though it had dropped 30 degrees. Something else was hidden in the dark—an unpleasant odor from below, smelling of vermin and decay.

Once more he called out to the occupant. He felt certain the screaming woman had been in danger, possibly held against her will.

After the first two steps, the wooden stairs faded away into ink. Whoever had covered the windows had gone to great lengths to ensure that no light entered the basement.

The stairs had a dangerous look of disrepair—brittle, and somehow out of balance. The top stair sagged in the middle, warped by age and lack of upkeep. He put one foot forward and tested the step with his weight. It felt sturdy enough to hold him, but it would only take one faulty step to send him crashing through the staircase into the unknown. Without use of the flashlight, he had no idea how far the drop was. But his intuition told him the staircase was steep.

He moved down a second stair, and the board groaned under his weight. He made certain to keep one foot on each step, not tempting fate by putting his full weight on a step.

The third and fourth steps were vague silhouettes. Beyond that, a black hole, darker than the bottom of the murkiest river. He thought of reversing course and ripping the planks off the kitchen window so that ambient light could spill down the basement stairs. But he had no tools with which to pry the nails away.

Why did the flashlight have to stop working now?

“Storberry Police Department.”

His voice traveled through the unseen catacombs and withered against the noise-reducing blankets covering the windows.

Click. Slooosh.

The noise came from his left. He turned with the gun pointed at the impenetrable dark and saw a distant blue flame at ground level.

The water heater.

He strained his eyes in hope that the flame would provide just enough light for silhouettes. Its azure glow reflected off the concrete floor and perished at a perimeter one foot from the heater. He had to look away from the flame, which had implanted a red doppelganger of itself on the backs of his eyelids. He rested on the steps while the image faded from his vision, and still he could not hear the woman.

He descended two more steps. Then two more. The eighth step screeched under his weight like a wounded animal. The step sagged so precipitously that he was sure it would snap at any second.

The ninth and tenth steps felt sturdier, and they did not betray him. He grasped the flashlight and flicked the switch again. All he needed was a few seconds of juice to reveal his surroundings and its hidden dangers. The light did not respond. He tapped the flashlight against his leg, and for a brief moment there was a burst of illumination, as though lightning had flashed within the basement.

The light was gone as fast as it had arrived, but it was enough for Greg to have seen four steps remaining to a concrete floor. A wood-paneled wall stood beyond the steps. The basement floor wrapped around to his left toward unexplored territory—a room with a washer, dryer, and the water heater. He had seen the room out of the corner of his eye.

Is someone hiding behind the appliances?

He tapped the flashlight two more times without success, then turned the light off on the slim hope that the batteries would recharge for one last try. As he traversed the final steps to the concrete floor, the freakish cold ate at him, soaking through to his bones. He started to shiver and knew it would affect his ability to hold a gun steady.

He recalled a cold January day from a decade ago. Police academy training—target practice.

The bitter winter wind had been blowing straight through him, ice forming on his bones. His arms began to shake. Then, as the tremor fed upon itself, his entire body began to tremble. Two shots fired wide of the target.

He could hear Sargent Napol behind him.

“Forget the Cold. Mind over Matter.”

A bull of a man, Napol's voice was baritone and resonant, like the rumble of a passing train. Greg focused on his breathing. After several deep breaths, the cold lost its edge. He still felt it bite at his extremities, but his body seemed to have added a second layer of clothing.

The tremors stopped.

The next shot ripped through the bullseye. Napol slapped him on the shoulder.

“It's all in the mind. Remember that.”

Back in the basement, he breathed deeply, left foot on the concrete, right on the bottom stair, ready to pivot and fire at the first hint of danger. He faced the darkness, at once alert and serene. The cold receded from his bones. His grip on the gun stabilized.

“Storberry Police. Is anyone down here?”

Several moments of absolute silence followed. He heard the blood beating in his head, the purr of the water heater, his slow, controlled breathing, and then—

“Help me.”

He froze at the sound of the voice. It came from directly ahead, at the outer perimeter of the basement. Something about the voice's rasp—sickly, yet emboldened—shook him to his core.

“Ma'am. Are you injured?”

“Help...”

The blackness was so absolute that he could not see his gun held in front of him. He kicked a cardboard box in his path, hearing the clanging of glasses and dishes. He stumbled and caught himself before he fell.

“Storberry Police, Ma'am. Is there anyone down here with you?”

“With you...”

His heart seized at the reply.

The woman was right in front of him. He could not have reached her yet. She had moved to him.

“Stay where you are.”

“Stay...with you...”

The smell of her breath was rancid, like something long deceased. The odor of decay was stronger now, and he was certain that the woman was the source.

“Do not approach. Tell me the nature of your injuries, and I will come to—”

Laughter.

As he stepped backward and brushed against the box, he stumbled.

His head smacked against the concrete floor, stars tearing across his vision. Her feet shuffled forward.

Swish, Swish...

He quickly recovered and aimed the weapon against her advance.

“I order you to stay where you are.”

Swish, Swish...

Laughter.

He flicked the flashlight one last time, and the beam exploded with full power. It pulled the woman out of the shadows.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Skin of alabaster, strangely timeless, and he couldn’t have placed an age to her. When she smiled, a warmth engulfed him.

She beckoned him forward.

He stood transfixed by her beauty, not wondering why she had hidden herself in the dark nor why she had cried for help. His heart pounded as stepped toward her.

Something changed.

He thought he had glimpsed another face, a corpse’s face. Then the chill of the basement was in his bones again. He saw her for as she truly was.

He could not comprehend the hideous image. Skin hanging off facial bones, a walking cadaver. Eyes wide and lidless, awash in deep red.

The woman’s mouth opened to reveal a maw of jagged fangs that dripped with blood.

The light went out.

He fired the gun twice. The room illuminated with each blast, like a strobe firing. Both shots found their mark in her chest.

His aim was true, yet still she came.

He fired two more shots. The recoil traveled through his arms and shoulders. Both bursts of light showed her approaching faster.

The sunset of his resolve evaporated into a black horizon of terror. The stories from the Moran farm rushed forward like streaking ghosts, and in a moment of combined clarity and insanity, he realized that he believed every word.

His survival instinct pulled him toward the basement stairs. His shoulder bounced off an unseen wall, and a jolt of pain shot through his arm. The flashlight fell from his hand. There was no overcoming the inhuman chill of Fifteen Brown Avenue, and it was cold, so very cold.

His hands were held in front of him as he plodded toward a staircase that he couldn't see. Indistinct shadows raced past his vision, maybe a wall or an old table, then the blue glow of the pilot light to his left. His fingers touched the chilled surface of the wood paneling, and in a moment of panic he was sure that a second wall would have sprung out of the ground to his right, entrapping him with...with...

He turned right, and his right foot smashed into the bottom stair.

He stumbled, palms landing on the cold, rough concrete surface. She was coming.

He scrambled up the first steps. Ahead was the faintest of early evening light spilling out of the hallway and into the kitchen. As he took the stairs as quickly as possible, still unable to see the steps, the thing was behind him. She hissed and mocked him, and he was sure that if she reached out she would grab him by the ankle and drag him down into that icy hell.

Halfway up the staircase, the hallway glow had spilled onto the top steps. The stairs groaned from no more than two steps behind him.

The outline of the kitchen appeared to him near the top of the landing. Then the second step squealed like an injured animal and snapped beneath his foot. The stair gave way, and his leg plunged knee-deep through the board. Jagged edges ripped through his pants leg and tore at his skin like a bear trap.

As an ice-cold hand gripped his shoulder, he heard the thing's wicked laughter. He ignored the pain and pushed himself up with arms, hoping the top step would not also give way. As he struggled to free his leg, he felt the unearthly cold of her breath on his neck. She was leaning closer...closer...close enough to...

Two snaps followed behind him as the steps cracked under its weight, and then he heard her slip down the steps.

His arm and neck muscles standing out like cords, he pressed himself onto the landing.

He limped into the kitchen with the monstrosity from the basement near the top of the stairs. He pivoted and fired, the blast giving light to her nightmare face—a funhouse monster momentarily seen in a strobe light. The top step squealed. She was out of the basement.

Diffused light crept through the front door, a dreary shimmer in the entryway. The glow had retracted considerably from its previous depth, as the sun's downward arc accelerated.

The thing paused inside the kitchen, wary of the dim glow ahead.

“Help me,” she mocked him.

She did not seem to fear the gray.

The pain in his leg flared as he reached the salvation of the front door. He threw it open, and dim light flooded into the entryway. The glow was anathema to the thing, and she was caught in the final spark of daylight’s flame. She screamed in a wolf's howl.

As he stumbled onto the front porch, blood pounding in his temples, he turned to see her drop to her knees. Smoke curled off her flesh, and he smelled burning skin.

The hideous shape crawled toward the darkness, struggling as though she slogged through quicksand.

She had nearly reached the darkness when his shot rang out. The bullet didn't kill the nightmare. But the bullet felled her within the light. She flopped onto the floorboards, writhing like a worm on a hook. Smoke increased, billowing off her body in acrid clouds. Bits of skin slid away and splattered on the floor.

As the thing reached a gnarled hand into the air, like a drowning woman grasping for a branch above the river, she started to quiver.

The vampire entered into death throes as he limped off the porch steps. He ran toward Jensen, into the final rays of the setting sun.

Nine

The sun accelerated toward the horizon. The fiery orb turned blood red and burned the sky in variegated swaths of ocher and scarlet.

As Mary Giovanni stood on the front steps of the Moran farmhouse and watched the sun descend, she clutched the cross to her chest. Her lips moved in silence, not aware that she prayed.

At the Storberry Police Department Art Stults called Greg Madsen again on the walkie-talkie, as ruby streaks caressed the glass door to the parking lot. There had been no reply from the police chief in over an hour. The lack of communication was probably due to a dead battery or interference in the signal. But Art Stults still worried. He had filed over fifty missing persons reports since early afternoon.

Where in the hell did everybody go?

Clark Samson ran his hands through his receding hairline. The Pink Flamingo desk clerk didn't trust the woman who called herself Jody Rogers. She had recently returned to the hotel, and as usual she had kept her head low and her eyes averted when passing the front desk.

He wondered if her name really was Jody Rogers. He wondered about the validity of her credit card, too. He didn't recognize the bank name, and something about the flimsy texture of the card seemed counterfeit. But there was little he could do about it now. Without phone service, he couldn't run the card or call the bank to verify.

Black, sinuous trepidation dawned with the dusk. As Tom Kingsley and Jen Barrows watched the sunset from the top of her backyard, she held him close, even though, or perhaps because, there was nothing romantic about the nightfall.

When the sun dipped fully below the horizon, its bloody fire flared as though the land would be engulfed in inferno.

Her eyes centered on the garage crawlspace. So much had happened in the last 24 hours that she hadn't thought again about the garage or the sounds that emanated from within at night. She shivered despite the heat, and he walked her back to the perceived safety of the house. Darkness was coming.

Erin Lawrence, also known as Erin Kent, Jody Rogers, and about a dozen other names, sat on the stiff double bed of her hotel room. The carpets had a musty smell, and she smelled the years of cigarette smoke burned into the drapes. Wallpaper peeled in long strips and hung like snakes' tongues.

The stagnant air made her feel queasy, so she ignored the DO NOT OPEN sign on the window and shoved her shoulder into it. Squealing in anger, the window popped open and jammed at maximum width. There was no screen, which was probably why the hotel didn't want anyone opening their windows. The drapes swelled and fell back like bay-side waves.

She had waited several hours for Dell to exit the Watering Hole. He hadn't, and she had temporarily lost track of the closest link to her daughter. At least she knew where he lived. She would pick up his trail again tonight. Perhaps, if she could muster the courage, she would enter the bar.

Will he recognize me?

The warm sunset bathed the parking lot in golden hues, Midas turning everything he touched. The shadows of the few cars parked in the Pink Flamingo lot stretched away as carnival figures, long and exaggerated by the sun angle. Then the quality of the light changed to a dingy blue, and the sun bled into the horizon.

The sirens ceased, and Erin was thankful for the quiet. She heard the buzz of chainsaws and the metallic thud of logs dropped onto truck beds, as the crews finished their work for the day. Those sounds soon ceased, too, and the little town drifted toward sleep.

Her trembling had diminished, though she hadn't relied on her medicine since morning. She felt the bottle in her front pocket, tempting her.

She kept the lights off, content not to survey the drab surroundings and unable to recall the last time she’d slept for more than a few hours. Twilight was underway outside her window, and the blues soothed her like a lullaby.

Erin rested her head on the moldy pillow. She just needed a few hours of sleep. With any luck, Dell would lead her to Katy tomorrow. What she would do once she found her daughter was anyone's guess.

She entered semi-sleep and was vaguely aware of the sounds beyond the room—a door closing down the hall; coins rattling against metal and a snack tumbling from a vending machine; a car door slamming in the parking lot; the low hum of the motor as the car pulled away.

Her eyes moved under closed lids, and she dreamed of the daughter she had left behind. At the window, the drapes danced with more urgency, and a baleful wind descended from the hill forest.

Chapter Six

Seated on the Barrows’ deck, Tom put his arm over Jen’s shoulders. Already the darkness crept down Maple Street. The gloom advanced unhindered, pushing away the failing light like dust from a broom, rushing through the backyards to drape a dark cloak over gardens and swing sets. Jen watched the garage out of the corner of her eye as shadows spilled down its exterior.

There was a void on Maple Street. The void was in the absence of barbecue smoke that was always evident on fair weather nights, in the lack of bicycles which did not speed down the street as children raced to beat curfew, in the empty sidewalk that radiated stored heat and in the vehicles which sat untouched in driveways.

“Where is everyone?” asked Tom, his voice little more than a whisper.

She put her hand on his back and rested her head on his shoulder, thinking, had her parents been alive, they would have arrived home hours ago. The realization clutched at her chest and sank to the pit of her stomach. Her throat tightened, but she did not cry this time. Guardians were not immortal, and when they departed, they left their children alone in a world where nightmares broke free of the world of dreams and ran amok.

“It doesn't make sense,” he said.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.”

“No. I mean, they've been clearing the roads for twenty-four hours. But nobody is driving their cars. And look,” he said, pointing at missing shingles and at scattered trees down outside of the copse. “There is damage everywhere, but I don't see anyone fixing anything.”

“Maybe everyone is just scared that there will be another storm.”

“Storm,” he said with a laugh. “A storm with no rain, no lightning, and no clouds.”

“We were inside. Maybe it came through without us noticing.”

“The worst of it must have gone right down Jensen. I could hear them working there all day.”

“I guess so.”

“So where did it start? Don't tell me you don't know.”

“Tom—”

“The forest. It started at the freaking forest.”

“Are you saying the forest caused the wind?”

He sat in silence.

“What did I kill last night, Jen?”

“Tom, please don't. I don't want to think about it,” she said, burying her face in her hands.

“After everything I have seen, how can I deny the possibility? Jen, I put a stake through her heart. And now it seems that everyone on Maple Street has disappeared. Are there more of those…things out there?”

While she cried into his shoulder, he held her. Through the blur of tears, she looked down Maple Street at dark house after dark house. Tom and Jen weren't just abandoned, they were alone. Who knew what lurked behind those darkened windows? A pall descended on her.

“What do you think we should do?” she asked.

He was no longer seeing the windows. He was seeing the dangers which could be behind any one of them.

“We can't stay here alone.”

“We can't walk to town from here. Not in the dark. Not if you really think there are more of those things out there.”

“Then I will find us a car.”

As the first stars flickered overhead in the growing twilight, like lighthouses from a distant ocean, he stood watching the black mass of the hill forest above the copse. The shadows seemed to slither. He began to believe that at any moment they would take form and descend upon them.

“We need to get out of here.”

Its kind had walked within the forest for centuries. Hidden within the forest’s deepest confines, where the gnarled sentries wrapped upon themselves to block out almost all but the palest light, they existed unseen with fleeting lives.

But the vampire lord had existed for centuries, because it was as intelligent and patient as it was powerful. Sunlight was anathema to it, yet it could conceal itself within the shadows next to a person and not be seen. It had learned to sleep for long periods of time, even decades.

Given requisite darkness, the vampire could regenerate indefinitely while its power grew. It had done so for over twenty years within Storberry, sustained by the proximity of the forest.

Even now the forest roots spread through the cemetery, burrowing unabated through the loam, reaching the decayed remnants within.

The vampire lord had been patient, awakening only when the forest had released its new-found power. Now there was nothing strong enough to stand against it.

Two

Art Stults tested the walkie-talkie again. He hadn't heard from Greg Madsen since late afternoon, and his attempts to reach the police chief were met with static. He heard back from a patrol car and from a work crew clearing the east side of Jensen, but Madsen seemed to have vanished into thin air.

The police chief could have lost battery life, but Stults didn't think so. Madsen was careful and would have ensured he had fresh batteries. Perhaps the chief had finished his shift and gone home. But that, too, was unlikely, for he would have radioed the station before he shut down for the day.

Whispered rumors existed of Storberry’s having become a ghost town. Art Stults had been in law enforcement for multiple decades and knew well the tendency for stories to get exaggerated.

More likely, most people are avoiding the streets because they don't know the crews have cleared them for safe passage.

As to why there were so few people walking about town, he surmised that had to do with the number of stores still closed along Main Street.

Give it a few days, and things will get back to normal.

Stults put his worry aside. Storberry had survived its worst windstorm in decades, yet the phone lines were expected to be live within 24 hours. The streets were cleared for traffic, and Hallelujah! The cable had flickered to life in the last ten minutes, and he had a Braves game to keep him company.

The only problem was that his salami and cheese sandwich didn’t sit well in his stomach, and he was forced to acknowledge nature's call and leave the front desk unattended. He had just sat upon his throne when he heard the bell ring over the front door.

“Perfect timing. Storberry turns into a ghost town, and the only remaining soul walks in as soon as I sit down on the crapper.”

He could hear the tinny buzz of the crowd through the television speaker beyond the bathroom door. The announcer was talking about Ozzie Virgil throwing out a base stealer.

“Be right with ya.”

A few moments passed without reply. He shrugged his shoulders. His stomach could wait a little longer, and the bathroom wasn’t going anywhere.

He buckled his belt, snapped his holster on, and stepped out of the latrine. The television was the only sign of life. He was sure he had heard the door open, but maybe the person had departed when he saw that the front desk was empty.

So why didn't I hear a second bell?

A sudden uneasiness overcame him. It would be damn brazen for someone to sneak past a front desk in a police station, but he didn't put anything past people these days. The world was full of cuckoo birds, and they seemed to multiply every year.

Nobody was locked in the back cells, and there wasn't much worth stealing—that ruled out common thieves. But you never knew what a psycho with a weapon might decide to do.

Cuckoo birds.

Stults removed the gun from his holster.

As the television reflected an animated haze across the floor tiles, he checked under the front desk and found nothing but two cardboard boxes of paperwork to file and the remains of his brown-bag dinner. The two work desks behind him proved to be empty too.

Bright fluorescent light worked its way across the ceiling in strips, humming like bumblebees. Other than the bathroom, few hiding places could be found in the well-lit office.

But a tinge of worry prickled at him when he looked toward the back of the office. Greg Madsen's desk was near the back, and he saw the chief's bicycle propped against it. The light fell short of the corner coat rack. He approached the rack with weapon in hand, uncertain why he felt on high alert.

When he was ten yards from the coat rack, he felt the sensation that someone stood behind him. He swung around with his weapon drawn. Shadows formed under the rows of desks.

He turned back to the rack, and something was different.

Two uniforms and a sweatshirt hung from the rack, just as they had before, yet Stults sensed that part of the puzzle no longer fit, although everything looked to be in place. When he turned his head, the scene wavered in the corner of his eye.

He hadn't noticed the shadow shape before. The shape stood in the darkened corner, stretching halfway to the ceiling, and he had no idea what it was. The shape appeared to be a black, rolled rug, but bulkier. Whatever it was, he had never seen it before. Just looking at the shape made his heart pound like thunder.

Then it moved.

Art Stults clutched his chest. The shadow took shape before his eyes and grew upward until its head brushed the ceiling tiles. He held the gun on the figure, yet never considered pulling the trigger. He was too afraid to move.

Crimson eyes opened and regarded him, a night terror come to life. The police officer's lips moved in silent prayer as the Goliath stalked out of the shadow.

Stults' reflexes fired the gun three times, for his mind was too far gone to react. The monster strode forward, as though he hadn't hit a thing. But Stults knew he had shot the thing. He had...

The smell of gunpowder and decay mixed in the air around him. He dropped the weapon from his trembling hand.

Death swept down upon him.

Three

While Benny Marks sat at the dining-room table with a pencil and pad, Evelyn Dickson finished cleaning up the dinner dishes. She found him well-behaved and courteous, if a little quiet. Maybe he just needed to warm up to her and accept his temporary surroundings.

He was such a polite boy. Rory would have approved of the way Benny always said Please and Thank You whenever he needed something.

Wiping dry the last of the dishes, she found it remarkable that he didn't doodle, or draw racing cars and dinosaurs on the pad. He solved math problems, wrote short stories, and drew maps of imagined fantasy lands. But she got the impression that there was something below the surface, that he occupied himself to avoid darker thoughts.

He was brilliant—she was sure of it—and in a day or two, when the town was back to normalcy and his parents were located, she would talk to them about Benny. Accelerated programs in the school were made for children like him, and since Principal Davis was an acquaintance of hers through church, maybe he could help the Marks’ ensure that Benny was appropriately challenged in the classroom.

The sun was down, and the landscape beyond the window to the backyard was fading into indistinct contours. Far to the north, she saw the Giovanni silo standing watch over the north end of Randolph Road. It made her think again of Mary Giovanni, who lived between the Dicksons and the farm. Mary had been with the group that had accompanied Rory early this morning. Evelyn had only seen her through the truck window, partially illuminated by the dome light. The haunted expressions on all of their faces had caused her own fear to percolate, but why the fuss?

Rory had been evasive, yet she knew there must be terrible trouble in Storberry. His only command had been that she keep the doors and windows locked and not answer the door for anybody.

But the heat had gathered in the house throughout the day, peaking after sunset just as it always did in the Dickson house. The digital wall thermometer reached 80 degrees, so she cranked open the casement windows in the kitchen to let fresh air inside. The outside breeze evacuated the stuffy air and instantly made the kitchen more comfortable.

The ranch home was fragrant of strawberries and freshly picked roses. The kitchen timer buzzed, and Evelyn removed a strawberry pie from the oven and placed it next to the window to cool.

“It should be ready in about 15 minutes. I hope you're hungry,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, still busy with a math problem which involved fractions.

She was embarrassed to admit that she didn't remember a darn thing about adding and subtracting fractions, and she hoped that he wouldn't ask her for help.

“Do you like math, Benny?”

He nodded without looking up from the pad.

“Benny, do you know what happened last night that got Mr. Dickson so worried?”

He continued to solve the math problem.

“It's okay. You can tell me.”

He shook his head.

“You don't know what happened?”

“Didn't see. They told me not to look.”

“Look at what? Who told you not to look?”

“Mr. Moran and Ms. Tennant. But I think something bad happened.”

“Bad? What kind of bad thing?”

He drew a castle now, with a knight riding a horse toward a portcullis.

“It's okay to tell me, Benny.”

“I think someone got hurt or killed.”

“Why do you think that, honey?”

“‘Cause we heard gun shots in the barn behind my house when Mr. Dickson was looking inside. We came running, but they made me turn around so I didn't see it.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. Had Rory been involved in a shooting? More than ever she wished she could reach her husband by phone.

Now she understood why Benny was upset and why the others were troubled inside the truck—somebody had been killed. That also explained why Rory was insistent on keeping the house locked. Is the killer still at-large? Who in Storberry would commit such an act? Maybe looters, come in from the cities. She thought about the open casement windows. At least they were screened. If anyone tried to break in, she would hear them coming.

“Well, you're safe here. It's just you and me and a yummy strawberry pie.”

She smiled, but he remained dour and immersed in the castle and its knight. For a moment she swore that tears pushed against the backs of his eyes.

When the pie was ready, Evelyn carved two slices and brought the dessert into the dining room. She cranked the windows shut, worrying about Rory and gunfire. Why had Rory been in the Marks' barn in the first place?

Someone knocked at the front door.

Benny's head shot up, his eyes centered on hers. She could see his mouth tremble. What did the boy know that made him so frightened? What had he seen?

The knocks came louder.

“Maybe I should see who it is.”

As she rose from her chair, he shook his head furiously. She didn't see any reason for someone to knock on her door after dark when so much trouble was going on in town, but what if someone needed their help?

“No. Don't.”

“Don't worry. We're not going to let anyone in, just like Mr. Dickson said.”

She wished Rory were here now. He had left her his shotgun, but darn if she had any clue how to load and fire it.

Other guns were locked inside a basement cabinet, but she didn't know how to use those guns, either. Rory had given up teaching her not to fear them years ago.

“I just want to see who it is.”

Before she reached the threshold of the living room, the knocks came in thunderous booms, rattling he steel door within its jamb. She stepped backward toward the dining room.

“Mrs. Dickson, I'm scared.”

“Now, now. There's nothing to be scared about. Probably just someone with car trouble, or some sort of—”

Her flesh crawled with goose bumps, as though centipedes skittered across her skin.

”I'm just going to peek out the window to see who it is.”

As she started toward the window, feeling like she was walking upstream through a river, her legs turned to rubber. The pounding grew in fury, beginning to splinter the jamb.

She realized with sudden, building horror that the thing that Benny feared most, the evil that Rory warned her to lock her doors against, was here with them. Evelyn turned back to the dining room, seeing the fear in Benny’s widened eyes.

The door imploded. She grabbed him by the hand, and they ran to the sliding glass door off the dining room. The ham radio sat to the side, unusable. No phone. No radio. No one to help her.

She yanked the door open, and they bounded off the back deck, the sound of footsteps plodding across the living room behind them. Night enveloped all in its blackness. Darkened strands of meadow grass cackled at them, swaying maniacally.

“This way!” she said.

She pulled him left, across the yard toward a white two-story colonial. The lights were off, but she saw the outline of a truck in the driveway. From behind them, she heard the dishes break as her dining room table was smashed.

They ran up the back steps of the colonial and pounded on its door.

“Please!”

As she pounded again and cried for help, footfalls crossed the back porch of the Dickson ranch, drawing closer. Soon their pursuer would enter the bordering yard.

“Run, Benny!”

While they raced toward another two-story home, thin tree branches whipped at their faces and bramble grasped at them like talons. They pushed through the bordering trees. When something shrieked in the night behind them, Evelyn thought of the Book of Revelation and wondered if the sun would ever rise again.

A light was on inside the house.

The Barristers are home, Thank God.

She took him around the side of the Barristers' home, hugging the shadowed walls toward the front of the home. With any luck they would lose their pursuer, who hadn't yet broken the tree line.

“This way!”

A rancid odor drifted downwind. A dead animal, she thought. The night pooled at the base of the home. The windows burned with orange light in the night, the outlines of trees appeared as misshapen devils.

As they turned the corner to the front of the house, Randolph Road became visible, silver and deserted in the moonlight. Her lungs burned and her heart thumped dangerously fast.

Just a little bit further, she thought, as they crested the steps to the front porch. She pounded on the door and screamed for help again, Benny pressing and holding the buzzer which wailed through the interior.

“Mr. Barrister!”

Limbs snapped like firecrackers somewhere behind the house. The intruder was through the tree line.

The living room light shined through the translucent drapes, but she saw no sign of movement within. Her desperation growing, Evelyn lifted the metal mailbox off its screws and heaved it at the plate glass window, cracking it at the center. The resultant crash must have been heard inside the home or from neighboring houses, yet no one responded.

She heard the pursuer dragging its feet through the grass from around the corner of the house. At once Evelyn imagined their pursuer to be Frankenstein's monster, the werewolf, the mummy, and the embodiment of all the movie horrors that had haunted her youth.

Why won't anyone help us?

She turned the door knob. In a moment of insanity that she would have found hilarious under any other circumstance, she found it unlocked. She whipped the door open, just as a gnarled shadow turned the corner to the front yard.

She screamed for help, her voice reverberating off the walls without answer.

Turning the lock on the door and throwing the bolt into position, she saw that it was a solid steel door with no window. The door should have been nearly impenetrable, yet her own steel door had not held up to the attack.

“Mrs. Barrister? It's Evelyn Dickson. Is anyone home?”

The night had gone silent beyond the door. Benny tugged at her arm, but she ignored him and pressed her ear to the door.

No sounds came from beyond the door, but something within the house whispered...so subtly that only she heard it...saying...

The pursuer bashed against the door before she removed her ear, wracking her head in pain. The door shook as though struck with a sledgehammer, and inexplicably she could hear the reinforced door cracking along the jamb. She no longer resisted the boy who pulled her from the entrance.

But safety was so very close, and Evelyn knew this because the whispers had now grown to discernible voices from the second floor. The voices spoke directly to her, promising refuge and something more…something personal, for her only. For the voices didn’t care for the boy, and he needn't know the comfort the voices could provide to Evelyn if she would only follow them to their place of origin on the second floor, to safety.

She had blocked the whispers initially, for they tasted sickly sweet and smelled of carrion, as though they were something more than just voices, yet the voices persisted.

As she raced with him up the staircase toward a darkened landing, from below, the front door groaned against the relentless assault. She knew the door wouldn't hold much longer. She saw a light switch on the wall but thought better of turning it on. She didn't want to give away their location.

A long hallway stretched out before them with two closed doors to each side. A final door stood at the end of the hall, and she felt herself strangely drawn in its direction. Was it here that the whispers had come from?

Safe, Benny. We're going to be safe!

The first door on the left opened to a storage closet full of cleaning supplies, towels, and blankets. The promised sanctuary was not here. She opened the door on the right and found the upstairs bathroom, the glow of the moon bathing the tiled floor in blues.

She called down the hallway.

Why don't the voices answer me?

Three more doors waited. Three more chances to find something or someone to defend them from the maniacal pursuit.

The next two doors opened to bedrooms. Both were guest rooms that had the stale smell of disuse.

But it was the third door that interested her—the room at the end of the hall. For a moment she thought she heard the whispers again, promising her refuge, coaxing her toward the safety of the room's confines.

She pulled the boy forward, toward the last door, toward safety.

The boy's eyes followed her gaze, terror welling up into his chest. He planted his feet on the carpet, begging her to turn back, but it was not difficult for her to drag him forward.

And then the door at the end of the hall stood before them. Its knob, shimmering black, beckoned her forward. The boy tried to pull her away from it, back toward the guest rooms. He cried, he thrashed, he pleaded, but Evelyn would have none of it.

A sharp crack emanated from the lower floor, a sound not unlike the snap of a bullwhip. The jamb had split. The front door was almost breached.

She reached for the door knob, and when she touched it she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. It was cold to the touch, as though the door served as a gateway between seasons—the warmth of spring in the hallway, the dead of winter beyond.

The whispers grew louder now. They called to her, and she answered.

She turned the knob, and as the door swung open, cold, stagnant air met her at the entrance, like an air conditioning unit had been running at full power. But there was no rattle and hum of an air conditioner.

The room was so inviting to her. The master bed, a beautiful queen with cannonball posts, was situated in front of her against the far wall. A closet door stood closed to her left. What wonders did it hold within? Surely something exquisite. Two closed windows stood to either side, thin drapes drawn to let in filtered moonlight. The way the dim glow danced across the bare floorboards and highlighted the bed reminded her of something out of a fairy tale. She thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

But Evelyn did not see what Benny saw.

Now the boy planted both feet on the ground for leverage and pulled at her arm. He is an annoyance. Why did Rory leave me with such an unreasonable child? This child is not my responsibility.

Unseen hands seemed to caress her. They urged her forward into the safety of the master bedroom. If the boy continued to come between her and this garden of beauty, this idyllic nirvana, this paradise, she would have no choice but to deal with him—with severity, if necessary.

The stench of rot and decomposition grew overwhelming. The boy gagged, his lungs refusing to ingest the evil. But Evelyn did not smell it. To her, the scent of the hidden sanctuary was of primrose and youth. It drew her forward with thoughts of spring and rebirth. A hint of spice hung in the air, and she found the sweet smell comforting. Soon she had forgotten about the boy tugging at her arm, and she seemed to glide across the floor toward the bed.

A defiled wooden cross hung over the bed, turned upside down. Something about the reconfigured symbol sounded an alarm at the back of her senses, but was transfixed by the silk sheets, pearl-like in the moonlight. The luxurious pillows, so soft and inviting. If she were to lay her head upon them, she would find the most reinvigorating sleep she had ever known. Perhaps she would awaken years younger. I feel so tired.

She climbed into the bed and pushed her feet under the smooth sheets. Something had changed—the insolent boy no longer clamored at her; his hands no longer pulled against her.

But there was more. Invigorating warmth percolated through the mattress into her bones, as though the mattress had shape-shifted into bathwater. She was vaguely aware that the pounding had stopped on the lower level of the house. She was finally safe, just as the whispers had promised. If the boy would just see...

What the boy saw were buckets of blood splashed across the sheets and body parts arranged into a vile symbol on the floorboards under the left window. Candles, burned to the wick, surrounded the dismemberment.

As the warmth poured into her body, she could almost feel the years being removed from her. Ten years younger. Twenty. Benny backed away in horror. Even from the threshold of the doorway he could see her wrinkles fading.

The closet door mewled, and the door began to swing open.

Benny was frozen to the floor as Janet Barrister glided forth in a blood-soaked nightgown. Straggly hair hung about her face, shielding him from her vision, but he knew all the same that she could see him. She glided toward the woman in the bed, who writhed in delight in the bloody sheets. The thing's shadow lengthened against the moonlight, spreading across the floor to his ankles. The outline chilled him, as though the woman's cold fingers had touched his skin.

She bent over Evelyn Dickson with a grin of twisted fangs. Globs of saliva drooled out of Janet Barrister’s mouth in anticipation. She bit into Evelyn’s neck.

Evelyn convulsed in the bed. She screamed, the facade of paradise gone from her vision. The fountain of youth reversed course, and the years poured onto her face. As a spiderweb of varicose veins spread across her skin, ruby geysers of blood erupted into the air.

Benny ran. Not to the safety of the stairs, but toward the bed. His feet carried him as if he were a bystander to his own actions. The Barrister woman sensed his presence and hissed, but it was too late. He grasped the defiled cross from above the headboard, yanking it off the nail.

Now he backed away with the cross in his hands, turning the symbol upward as it was meant to be. Janet Barrister spun away from Evelyn and regarded him, head cocked to one side. He saw her porcelain doll flesh and vile teeth that dripped black and red.

“What do we have here? A boy?”

He retreated to the doorway with the cross held between him and the bedside horror. His body shook in terror, but he held the symbol aloft as though it were an unbeatable weapon. Behind them, Evelyn succumbed to the massive blood loss and went still.

“I will rip you open!”

Janet Barrister stalked toward him, her shadow drifting up his body and across his face, cooling his skin. She became a disheveled silhouette against the moonlit window.

As he raised the cross higher, it tingled in his grip as though electricity pulsed within, and a faint glow emanated from the wood. Janet Barrister screeched and halted in her tracks.

“Drop it! Drop it, and I promise that you will feel no pain.”

The confidence was gone from her eyes. Benny thought to take a step forward with the cross, but then he heard the stairs groan behind him in the hallway. Their pursuer was in the house. He was trapped.

The bed sheets stirred and Evelyn Dickson sat up. She looked the same as Benny had remembered her, no longer young. For a moment he wanted to believe that she was alive and that she would save him now. Then her eyes opened as red coals, burning through him.

The Barrister woman was emboldened. She laughed and bared her teeth at him.

“Where will you run to now, little boy?”

The hallway floorboards groaned. Benny turned to see the thing that was once Bill Barrister blocking the path to the stairs. Benny spun back. Janet Barrister loomed over him, scarlet eyes full of hate.

The cross no longer glowed. The reassuring hum had ceased in his hands.

As his eyes shifted between the holy symbol and Janet Barrister, he felt a sense of abandonment.

Evelyn Dickson rose from the bed to stand before him, her hateful eyes regarding him as would a mother whose child had spilled his milk on the new carpet. He looked up at her through tears.

“Please, Mrs. Dickson—”

She slapped him across the face. He fell to his knees, the cross tumbling to the floor.

Darkness descended upon him.

Four

When Greg Madsen, ashen-faced and eyes glazed over, arrived at the front door to the farmhouse, Evan Moran didn't ask the man what had shaken him to his core. He just opened the door for him and stood aside.

Greg had considered going straight to Art Stults with the truth but hadn't see the point. He knew Stults would not have given his story any more of a chance than he had given their tale. Sensing Evan had read his mind, he said—

“They'll run me right the hell out of this town. Right the hell...”

Every light shined inside the house, from the attic to the basement, while exterior flood lights shot penetrating beams into the inky black of the driveway.

The police chief found them with their duffel bags of arcane weaponry, like Dark Age avengers heading off to the gym. The sight was enough to jostle him out of his temporary funk and wrestle an incongruous laugh from him.

“I guess I won't be needing this,” he said, placing his revolver on the kitchen counter.

“Better to keep it, I think,” Rory said. “You never know when it might come in handy. It slows'em down from what I've seen.”

“But it won't kill them,” Evan said, walking inside to stand with the group. “For that, you will need one of these.”

He handed Greg two sharpened stakes.

“Christ, it’s just like a Dracula movie,” Greg said.

“We figured you ought to have your own.”

Greg touched the points and regarded the sturdy feel of the weapons, wondering if he was stuck in a nightmare that he would soon awaken from.

“What about bringing in Father Crosi? If this is anything like a late-night movie, it makes sense to have the church on our side,” Greg said.

“Trouble is, Saint Anthony's is clear on the other side of town. And I for one ain't gonna try to convince the old coot that the town is being overrun by vampires,” said Rory.

“I thought the Dicksons were on his good side.”

“Oh, we are. But he's a stubborn bastard. Even if he saw them with his own eyes, you'd still have a better chance convincing him that the sun sets in the east.”

“And the time it will take us to argue him to our side could be better spent hunting these things,” said Mary.

“Listen to yourselves,” said Renee, disbelief in his eyes. “I can't be the only one who thinks this is a terrible idea. I’m all for arming ourselves for defense. But seeking them out? You saw that thing in the barn. We have no idea how many of them there are. If we leave now, we can be in the next county inside of an hour.”

“If we abandon this town, we leave a slaughterhouse behind us. I can't live the rest of my life knowing that I had a chance to save my neighbors, and I left them all to die.”

“About that,” Greg said. “Have any of you noticed how deserted the streets are?”

“There were a lot of people at the hardware store earlier,” Renee said. “I haven’t seen anyone this evening, but I assumed it was because of the cleanup.”

“Some cleanup. All across the north side of Jensen I saw roof damage, broken windows, fallen trees, and nobody doing a damn thing to repair their own houses. No kids, no one sight-seeing. Nothing. And by the way, does anybody have any idea what the hell these things are?”

“Vampires?” Evan asked.

“If that’s what we all agree they are, God help us all.”

“I think so.”

“How do you think these...vampires become vampires?”

“If it's like the legends, then it's an epidemic. One infects a few, and those few infect more.”

“Like a plague,” Rory said in agreement.

“But unlike a plague, these things are moving about, actively trying to spread their disease. So it's likely to happen faster,” Evan said.

Greg nodded his head.

“I was on Brown today when I got attacked inside a house. The woman lured me inside with a false distress call. The thing is, I didn't see a living soul on that street. I saw vehicles in every driveway, but the lights were out and nobody was answering the door.”

“Jesus,” Renee said.

“I found two houses, including the one where I was attacked, where the basement windows were covered.”

“To keep the light out,” said Mary.

“That would be the best place for them,” Rory said. “Lots of attics have vents, and the main floors of most houses are loaded with windows. You can block the light out from the basement with a few blankets.”

“Or cardboard. Or an old quilt. That's what I observed,” said Greg. “So here’s something to think about. Let’s say these things are active at night, and they slip inside to hide from the light before sunrise. In the meantime, half the town is out and about all morning buying supplies and bullshitting about the storm. By afternoon they come home, and maybe some venture into a dark closet or a basement, and…”

“And they’re waiting for them,” Mary said, the cold hand of fear on her neck.

“So now how many do we have? At what point are there so many infections out there that we can no longer contain it?”

Renee shook her head, not wanting to believe it. “Are you saying most of the people in Storberry have changed into these things?”

“From what I know about epidemics, and even after correcting for the fact these things are mobile and actively trying to infect others, I still doubt that they could have gotten to so many people in 24 hours. But we might be looking at as many as a hundred or so, and in certain areas—”

“Like Brown Avenue.”

“—it might be a very high percentage.”

Rory's face was ashen. “And after another night…”

Nobody wanted to answer that question.

“Which is why we need to strike now if we want to get this thing under control,” Greg said.

“Where do we start?” Mary asked.

“We could start on Brown and sweep our way northward. Greg’s observations seem to confirm that the epidemic is worst there,” Rory said.

“Or start near the middle and work our way out. Stay close to downtown, in case we run into trouble,” Greg said.

“Maple Street,” Evan said. Realization spread across his face, as if he had just solved a calculus problem. “It's the closest street to the forest. I'll be damned.”

“The forest?” Greg didn't follow where Evan was going.

“What is the one place that every kid in town believes is haunted? How many disappearances over the years?”

The group members looked unconvinced, but Mary stepped to Evan’s defense.

“It had to start somewhere, didn't it?”

“Look, I don't give a damn where we start,” Rory said. “Maple is as good a place as any. But I don't see what the forest has to do with this. It's just a town legend. Nothing more than ghost stories.”

“You mean like vampires?” Evan asked. “I never told anybody this until last night. This isn't the first time I have seen one of those things.”

A silent tension encompassed the room. Evan recounted the story he had told Renee of the lost boy, Brian Nedson, and of the chase through the forest. When Evan finished, Greg wasn’t convinced of Evan’s theory, but everyone agreed that Maple Street was a logical first strike.

“I'm begging all of you,” Renee said. “There is still time to reconsider. This is madness.”

“Nobody is forcing you to go. You know where the door is,” Rory said.

Evan said, “I don't think she meant—”

“Why won't any of you listen to reason? After what you have seen, what chance do you believe you have going up against these things? There might not be anyone left to save on Maple Street or Brown Avenue, but we can save ourselves,” Renee said.

“We can take the police truck, and Rory's.”

Greg jangled a ring of keys in his hand, ignoring her argument. Renee turned away, tears forming in her eyes.

Randy Marks stood two steps back from the group, blending into the shadows like a chameleon. He still worried about Benny on the west side of town and his inability to reach his brother. But this plan, this absolute madness that the Tennant woman had recognized, was going to work just fine. They are all going to be killed, and if I can keep himself out of the line of fire long enough, I’ll have my choice of vehicles to carry Benny and I out of town. A black smile formed on his lips.

Two trucks pulled out of the farmhouse driveway an hour past sunset, heading west on Standish. In the western sky, the deep blue remnants of twilight sank toward the horizon. The sky was black and depthless. Stars sparkled with indifference to their plight, and the moon cast its eerie beam into the town, as though it were a stagelight for the Grand Guignol. The dark outline of the hill forest loomed over Storberry like a panther stalking its prey.

Death itself crept among its shadows.

Five

Erin Lawrence awoke to the cool chill of the wind on her bare legs. Darkness had settled over the parking lot outside the Pink Flamingo. One lamppost stood lit in the lot, the two cars parked outside of its radius vague outlines in the night.

She had fallen asleep on top of the bedspread. When her eyes opened, she wasn't certain where she was. She had run for so long, unsure if she could ever stay ahead of her past. Murderer. Deserter. She could run from others but never escape herself.

She thought of Dell. Had she slept through the night and missed her chance to follow him out of the Watering Hole? The bedside digital alarm clock read 9:10 pm, its numbers aglow in white, reflecting off the nightstand surface like moonlight off a pond.

A gust of wind pushed the curtains into the room. They rippled on the breeze, as though they were arms reaching out for her and settled against the window.

She stiffened when she threw her feet over the mattress to the floor—someone was in the room with her.

The shadows were still. She listened to the low hum of central air conditioning, the howl of the wind outside the window. She could feel the intrusion in her bones. She silently chastised herself for leaving the window open. Safe was always better than comfortable, and she had endured far worse than a stuffy hotel room to stay one step ahead of the law for thirteen years.

The bathroom door stood open. She was sure the door had been closed before.

Her hands trembled. She felt the pill bottle inside her front pocket jammed against her thigh. Not wishing to dull her senses, she ignored the Siren’s cry of the medicine. Her purse was next to the clock. She reached inside of it and fished out a switchblade.

Should I turn on the light? There was no reason to believe that the intruder knew she was awake. She had the switchblade and the element of surprise. She gripped the blade handle and slowly rose to her feet, the old bed springs surprisingly silent.

The worn shag carpet was rough under her bare feet, but it provided enough cushion for her to move in silence.

Who is in the room? Perhaps the clerk. She saw the way he watched her from the lobby. If he was on to her—and he was bound to be eventually—maybe he thought he had an angle on her. Her body as payment for him not contacting law enforcement. If that was his game, maybe she would play.

Or maybe she would leave the blade in his neck and disappear again.

Her heart skipped. What if it is Dell? She had hung back in her pursuit of Dell and stayed discreet, but someone might have noticed her and described the car to him. In a town the size of Storberry, it wouldn't be long before he found out that the same car was in the Pink Flamingo lot. Did he know it was her? Is he here now?

Or was it the truck driver from Richmond, come back from her past? His throat gashed, oozing lifeblood. His eyes wild with bloodlust and revenge.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a snake-like strip of bronze curled on the carpet. Keeping one eye on the bathroom door, she bent close to the shape and noticed that it was the cord beneath the wall light. The end had been torn off, and bare strands of copper wire jutted outward. Had it been that way before? She recalled using the light the previous evening. The damage was recent.

She tightened her grip on the blade. With one easy thumb flick, the blade popped out with a click. The parking lot light reflected white heat off the knife, and she lowered it to her side to keep it hidden.

She crept toward the open bathroom door. To its right was the door to the hotel’s hallway. It was still locked, with the chain in place. Light from the hallway vending machines spilled under the door in reds and blues.

She was less afraid of the intruder than she was bothered by not knowing who it was and what they wanted with her. She was always one step ahead of her past. She hadn't killed since the night in Richmond, but she was prepared to do whatever it took to keep the past at bay and somehow reclaim her daughter.

Erin swung around the open door and thrust the knife forward—

Into emptiness.

With her left hand, she swung the door away from the wall, and as it creaked open, she jabbed the blade into the shadow behind the door. But nobody was hidden in the concealing darkness.

The shower curtain was drawn across the tub. In the sheltered gloom of the bathroom, the blue cover appeared black, making it impossible to see beyond its camouflage.

Her chest pounded. Expecting the cold hand of the undead truck driver to grasp her wrist and yank her into the dark, she reached for the edge of the curtain.

She ripped the curtain aside. The tub was empty.

Erin sighed and leaned her back against the cold porcelain wall. Whoever had entered the hotel room was gone.

The only worthwhile possession in the room was her purse, and nothing had been stolen from it. Had anyone been here at all, or is my mind playing tricks on me? She released the switchblade, thinking of Dell and what she would say to him if they came face-to-face. When she turned the corner out of the bathroom, her breath caught in her chest.

The intruder was inside the room. Erin saw she was a woman, but that was all she could discern. The figure stood in front of the window, a gangly silhouette against the light.

Erin reengaged the blade and held it before her.

“Who the hell are you?”

The woman stood still, watching her, no more than ten feet away. Erin's palms were moist with sweat as she gripped the weapon. Still, the intruder made no move toward her, but she was prepared to bring the woman down if she stepped within range of the blade.

“You were in my room while I was sleeping. You cut the light cord?”

The figure stood in silence. Erin grew unsettled. The woman had broken into the room and vandalized the lighting, yet hadn't taken anything and refused to respond to her questions.

“I don't want to hurt you—”

“Hurt you...”

The short hairs on the back of Erin's neck stood on end. It was a girl's voice, full of rasp and hatred. The silhouette stepped closer, and Erin thrust the weapon forward in warning.

“Stay where you are! I don't know who you are but—”

“Know who you are...”

The girl's hair was wild and tangled against the light. It hung across her darkened face, and Erin noticed pieces of leaf and grass embedded in the muss. A sensation erupted that her past had caught up to her. But who was this person?

The girl stepped closer.

Now the girl was just beyond the reach of the switchblade. The drapes whipped in the wind, writhing around the ghostly figure like snakes. The blade felt cold in Erin's hand. She didn't want to hurt the girl. There was something familiar about her, something that made her worry about the girl. Something…

As the figure stepped toward her and raised her eyes to meet Erin’s, the hair dropped away from the girl’s face to reveal pallid skin and a child’s face frozen in time from thirteen years earlier. Beneath the tangled locks was the true horror—a recognition that only Erin Lawrence could detect.

It can't be.

The girl’s eyes burned red with hatred and accusation.

“Motherrrrr.”

Six

In the inky shadows of a gray colonial, Jen stood hidden against the outer wall while Tom crept toward the driver-side door of a gray pickup. The truck glistened silver in the moonlight like a gemstone. As the chirring of crickets filled the night air, they heard the faint calls of spring peepers from Becks Pond.

The black outlines of trees rose up against the starry night like behemoths. Neither Tom nor Jen would have been surprised to see the stalking shapes tear free from the ground to pursue them.

They had run from driveway to driveway behind the houses, their eyes fixed on the concealing darkness of the backyards. After half an hour they had found the unlocked truck with the keys still in the ignition; a stroke of luck that they had not experienced since the wind had ripped out of the hill forest and changed the town forever. Of course, Tom could have taken his parents' car, but that would have necessitated that he retrieve the keys from the hook on the kitchen wall. He couldn't bear the thought of entering the house, let alone the kitchen, where the remnants of his father wasted away.

One downstairs light shone inside the Masterson's house, but he did not discern movement within. The woman, Leslie Masterson, was rarely seen. It was Doug that Tom worried about. Known for cuffing any kid he caught trespassing through his yard, Doug was a mean son-of-a-bitch who liked to brandish a Winchester rifle while he drank beer on the front porch, waiting for some poor kid to make the wrong move through his property. More than anything in life, he loved his truck.

Stealing Doug Masterson's truck was the worst-case scenario for Tom, but they needed a vehicle, and this was the only opportunity that had presented itself.

When Tom signaled with his hand, Jen took two steps out of the shadow and turned to watch the window for signs of Doug.

He placed his hand on the rusted door handle and carefully depressed the button with his thumb. He held his breath in his chest. At any moment, a truck alarm would blare in his ears and Doug Masterson would rush out the back door with the Winchester centered on him.

The mechanism unlatched with a pop, and Tom exhaled. He nodded toward Jen, and she bounded to the passenger side door.

“No,” Tom whispered.

Rather than risk opening another door, he motioned for her to circle around the truck to his side. Rounding the front of the truck beneath the grille, Jen climbed into the driver seat, wiggled her way past the steering wheel, and slid across cracked vinyl to the passenger seat.

Tom climbed in after her and pulled the door toward him, leaving it open a crack so that he didn't have to slam it shut.

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

His hand shook as he reached for the key.

“When I flip the ignition, it's going to make a hell of a noise.”

Tom had been driving for a little over three months. He felt confident on the road, but to back an unfamiliar vehicle down a long driveway in the dark, with the likelihood that Doug Masterson would appear at the window ready to blow a hole in his head big enough for the wind to whistle through, was a far more formidable task.

“I don't know if I can do this. He's going to come fast.”

“We don't even know if he is home.”

“His truck is in the driveway, and his keys are in it. Where else would he be?”

“If he has...changed...he probably won't give a shit about his truck anymore.”

Tom drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. If he was going to do it, he would have to do it fast.

“Keep your seat belt off. If anything goes wrong and we aren't going to make it, bail out and run like hell along the side of the house so that he doesn't get a good angle on you. Don’t stop until you hit the trees. I'll be right behind you.”

“You said we were staying together.”

“We are. I promise. But if it hits the fan, I want to know that you are safe and where to find you.”

He knew Jen didn't like the thought of splitting up, even for a few moments; and the idea of being alone in the shrouded backyards sent shivers down his back.

Tom glanced over his shoulder. Glowing in the darkness, the first-story windows were awash in yellow light. Still no sign of Doug. But that didn't mean Masterson didn't watch them, poised in a darkened upstairs window like a brown recluse. He might have his rifle sighted on my head right now.

Tom’s pulse thrummed in his neck.

“Do it.”

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine rolled over twice and boomed to life. The roar from the oversized engine shook the vinyl under their legs. The sound was even louder than he had feared. Fumbling with the gear shift, he pulled it into reverse and cocked his head behind him.

Still no movement from the house, but Masterson would come.

Bathed in red tail light, the driveway gravel seemed to race toward him. He was going too fast, the back end of the truck drifting toward the house. He tapped the brakes and corrected the wheel until the vehicle was straight again, but now the tires rode over the grass between the walls and the driveway. There was no room for error. One wrong move and he would put the back of the pickup into the wall.

He caught sight of her clenched teeth and shut eyes and wanted to tell her to keep them open so that she could escape quickly, if necessary. But he had to concentrate on the precarious driveway. As the passenger-side mirror scraped the wall, the front of the house whipped past him.

The porch light was still off. They were going to make it.

The back end of the vehicle dipped at the foot of the driveway, the undercarriage scraping against the pavement. Tom was too heavy on the gas, and the vehicle descended the slope of the road until the back tires hopped over the far curb. He hit the brakes, shifted into drive, and cranked the wheel to his left. Tires squealed and caught traction, and the vehicle lurched forward down Maple Street.

The first shot blasted overhead like cannon fire. As a voice screamed in anger from the shadows, Tom slammed his foot onto the accelerator.

The empty shells of Maple Street homes blurred past him to either side as the second shot exploded through the left taillight. As he accelerated faster, the trees hurtling past his vision to either side of the road, Tom heard a third shot ring out.

Faster.

And then they were clear of Masterson's angle from the front porch. Jen finally released her breath.

Surprised by the trees that sprung out from the ground in front of him, Tom slammed the brakes at the end of Maple. He cranked the wheel left, the tires squealing once more.

He rode the curves to Blakely Hill, trees and flora pressing against the roadside amid so many shadows. Blakely straightened, and then curved left until it pointed straight down into the town center. He had gotten them out of the neighborhood. He couldn't guarantee that safety waited ahead, but anything was better than waiting for the shadows to swoop down on them on Maple Street.

A hollow sadness ate at his stomach. His parents were gone forever, and probably Jen's were, too. They were leaving everything—their homes, their families, their memories—behind forever.

Cutting through the night like sabers, the truck's headlamps penetrated the gloom. The lights of downtown glimmered like beacons of hope.

Then, like the rising sun, a white glow built from below a steep drop in the hill. It grew and glared across the windshield.

Two trucks approached in single file from the base of the hill, the lead truck slowing when their headlights reached its grille, and the trailing truck swinging into their lane as though to execute a pass. The trucks slowed in unison and came to a halt, lights on and engines running.

Tom pumped the brake pedal, and they came to a stop twenty yards shy of the unknown vehicles. The high beams blinding him, he cupped a hand over his eyes to block them out. She glanced at him with consternation.

He thought of hitting reverse and swinging the vehicle back up the hill. The obstructing vehicles' engines hummed with power, their shadowed bodies hulking like predators. He knew he couldn't outrun them.

The truck doors opened and two silhouettes approached their vehicle.

Seven

“Son of a bitch!”

Doug Masterson wheezed in the night air. As sweat poured through his beard, glistening like dew drops in the moonlight, the big man hunched over with his hands on his knees.

He had chased after the truck thieves (who he’d recognized as two neighborhood snot-nosed dillholes by the name of Tom Kingsley and Jen Barrows) until he saw the tail lights sweep around the end of Maple Street. That is what I get for leaving the keys in the ignition. He had no idea why the teenagers wanted to steal his truck, but no matter. They’d be back. And when they came back, he’d shove the Winchester straight up their asses.

He shook his head. No phone, no word of his wife who had been missing since morning, and now his truck was stolen by two brats. And where in the hell was everybody? In the last day, he had been lucky if he had seen more than three people on the street.

As the night became deathly still, the houses of Maple Street stretched away with blackened windows which seemed to watch him. Shrill and unrelenting, the sound of peepers cascaded down the hill from the pond, reminding him of how alone he was. He turned down the sidewalk toward his house.

The shadows moved, and a man stumbled around the side of a bungalow to his left. Doug raised the rifle, surprised at first to see another living soul. He lowered the rifle and cackled. It looked to him as if the man was three sheets to the wind. He stumbled, caught himself on the house, and regained his composure.

A woman seemed to materialize out of shadow, appearing on the sidewalk across the street. Unable to put four steps together without catching herself in the shrubbery outside a darkened one-story, she appeared to be drunk as well.

Doug was beginning to enjoy this. He might have lost his truck tonight, but at least he was getting his money's worth in cheap entertainment.

“Y'all lose each other?”

The figures halted at the sound of his voice, rocking on their feet like punch-drunk fighters. Doug grinned from ear-to-ear.

“She's right over there, sport,” he said toward the man. “I think she's ready for ya now.”

As the wind rustled the leaves in ghostly whispers, a rancid odor wafted toward him, and he nearly gagged. The wind shifted and took the offending smell with it.

Two more figures sprung out of a darkened driveway two houses up Maple Street to his left, then three more on the opposite side. They glided through the grass as though walking on air, without the awkward gaits of the first two figures. The way they seemed to float forward unsettled him.

“Y'all have a party and forget to invite me?” he asked, nervous now.

They didn't answer. Had the entire town gone mad? He raised the Winchester toward the first man who was two houses away.

“That's far enough, mister. Why don't you turn around, and sleep this one off? Before we have ourselves some real trouble.”

The snap of branches swung him around. Five figures glided toward him from behind, coming fast.

He didn't like this. Not one damn bit.

“Now ya stop right there, ya hear?”

He swung the Winchester back and forth as the black figures converged on him from both sides.

“The first one who gets close gets a bullet in the head. I ain't fuckin with ya. Now back off!”

Then he saw their pallid flesh, like waxwork museum specimens come to life.

“Jesus.”

He pulled the trigger.

The bullet cut the nearest figure down, but the others stepped around it and drifted toward him. He couldn't believe they were still coming. Their eyes smoldered blood red.

He fired again and felled another member, but then both of the things he had shot rose to their feet.

This can’t be happening.

He centered the rifle on the woman.

Click.

In his panic, he had forgotten to reload. His hands fumbled for extra shells in his pocket, but the vile figures came faster and faster.

As the throng descended on him, the shadows no longer concealed the horrible truth of what they were, and he began to scream.

Talons ripped at skin. Teeth (for Christ’s sake they were biting him) tore into his flesh, and he screamed for help, for someone, for God, for anyone that would wake him from his nightmare.

Pushing and pulling until the three largest monstrosities worked their way to the front and sank razor sharp teeth into his neck, they fought amongst each other like sharks drawn to chum. Lifeblood welled out of Doug Masterson in dark pools, sending the fiends into frenzy. Flesh tore away in clumps that splattered to the sidewalk in sickening whumps. The weaker monstrosities lapped at the meat like starved dogs.

Doug Masterson no longer screamed. The pain ceased, and he felt a numbing cold travel through his body, like autumn’s killing frost.

He lost consciousness and succumbed.

Eight

Three hours after the last vestiges of daylight sunk into the western horizon, Dell Lawrence tottered out of The Watering Hole, not quite numb enough to forget everything. He would have still been seated at the bar had that fat asshole of a bartender, Mick Babson, not thrown him out.

No more than five people had been inside the establishment at a time when there were usually three times as many, and if Babson didn't want his money, he was a fool. If tonight's attendance was any indication, The Watering Hole would be out of business in a month.

As Dell stumbled onto East Avenue, his trailer park at the end of the road appeared pallid in the moonglow, the rectangular homes like distant gravestones. The trouble was, the trailers kept moving on him. First they drifted to his left, and when he ambled toward their new location, they shot back to the right like a moving target in the crosshairs of a fighter plane.

“Stand...the fuck...still.”

Stones scuffled underfoot as his feet dragged along the buckled sidewalk. A small boy watched him with amused interest from a front yard to his right, until the mother rushed down the porch steps and dragged the boy inside.

“I ain't gonna hurt nobody. Don't choo worry none, lady.”

It occurred to him that the boy and the overprotective bitch were the only two people he had seen outside tonight. Even the fat bartender, while he allowed Dell to drink, had mentioned to another man that it seemed the entire town had vanished.

He stumbled, and the beer bottle in his hand fell to the pavement. The glass shattered, and somewhere behind him a dog began to bark. He cussed again.

“See how ya handle the real world...without Daddy to fix yer shit...”

The moving trailers kept taunting him, sometimes rising into the air or shooting off to either side of the road. But he was gaining on them. By hell he was gaining on them.

“Sit still...why don't ya...ya stupid bastards....”

He fell to the pavement, vaguely aware of two scraped knees. He laughed in amusement and propped himself up on his elbows. The dog barked louder, and he barked back, pulling himself up to totter forward again.

The trailers could taunt him no longer, for he had arrived. As he stumbled into the dirt lot, he found the park to be deserted. His shoulder bounced off the back edge of the first trailer with a loud whomp. Pain shot down his arm, and he swore at the night. Pins and needles spread down his shoulder to his fingers in a numbing electrical current. The trailer lights did not turn on.

No one is alive in this frigging town.

His trailer stood next in the lot, glowing gray in the moonlight, solitary and uncaring.

Before he could reach the two steps to the front door, the lot began to spin. For a moment he had a queer recollection of riding something called the Round Up at the county fair when he was 11 or 12. He remembered how dizzy it had made him and how he had run behind the haunted house to puke afterward.

A gurgling roar pushed up from his chest, and he vomited against the side of a garbage can. Like a swarm of locusts, black dots sparkled across his vision, and he collapsed to his hands and knees.

He expelled an unsettling amount of fluid, which seemed to emerge from the lowest depths of his body. He heaved out the remnants of his stomach, and when he thought he had finally rid himself of all of it, another surge exploded out of him like a busted wellhead. He gagged on the acrid bile, believing the nausea would never end.

Finally the sickness relented, and he coughed and spit while a string of purplish drool extended from his lower lip to a vile pool in the mud.

“Jesus.”

Moaning, he was shocked at the amount of fluid he had expelled and wondered how a body could carry so much without collapsing.

Unconcerned that his right hand was sinking into the spreading puddle, he stayed on his hands and knees for a few minutes. He just wanted his body to stop shaking. As his chest heaved, his body quivered like he was naked in the middle of winter.

The sickness passed. He raised himself up to his knees and slung the rancid mess off his hand. He just wanted the dizziness to end so he could sleep, but first he would have to shower the smell off of him and change out of his clothes, or he'd never get the stench out of the trailer.

He stared at the front door and windows of the trailer, its white siding stained with rust streaks and neglect. The empty windows stared back at him, passing their own judgment.

His shoulders shook, and then he cried his daughter's name.

The grief came at him from nowhere and from everywhere. Tears blurred his vision, making the empty home appear to stretch across the horizon. What remained inside of him made him sicker still. He had driven away his wife, and now his daughter.

It wasn't fair that his wife had left without a word of explanation, but he had made his own choices. There had been time to turn his life around.

I still can, he thought, if I were given one more chance.

He wanted another drink, but he pushed the thought out of his mind. He would sleep it off, clean himself up, and find Katy. If she were still in town, he'd find her. He had an inkling that she had headed for his sister’s house in Hopewell. When he showed Katy that he could change, she would come home to him.

The meadow behind the trailer park was silver in the glow of the moon, tall grass swaying in the breeze. A hundred yards behind the meadow stood a thicket of spruce and ash, and beyond that stretched several miles of wilderness and farmland.

As he turned toward the front steps, he caught movement in the thicket. A branch snapped within the concealment of the trees.

“Now who the hell would be—”

All went still. Another branch cracked.

A lone figure stumbled out of the trees, looking lost and confused. Seeming to drift ethereally on the wind, the figure floated left and right through obstructions, and then it stopped with a gaze fixed on the trailer.

He was curious as to what the person was up to, stalking through the thicket in the dark, but not curious enough to watch any longer. He turned toward the steps again, just as the entity strode toward him with purpose.

He could tell that it was a woman from a hundred yards away. Fanned out behind her like a kite, her hair drifted on the wind. The gap between them closed.

She seemed to come faster than her walking pace could allow, as though she were striding forward on a moving walkway.

Seventy yards.

Sixty yards.

The figure transfixed him. An chill settled over his spine, urging him to escape to the safety of the locked trailer, but he couldn't look away.

Fifty yards.

As she broke out of the meadow, he gasped, for there was no mistaking the tattered sundress, nor her face, which he would have recognized from anywhere, even washed colorless by the moonlight. His heart rose into his throat as he made out his daughter's features. She had come home to him after all.

If she is injured, I will tend to her. She will see that I only meant to protect her.

At thirty yards he could tell something was wrong with her face. Her facial features were familiar, recognizable from her childhood, yet bloodless in a sickly whey coloration. A terror he couldn't comprehend pulled at him, but he ignored the growing perception of danger and shuffled forward to meet his daughter.

The gap closed, and then she stood before him. The alabaster skin had vanished. Dried flesh flaked away on her face, scarred and decrepit. He couldn't register what he was seeing.

But as he gaped, an understanding of her nature emerged out of an unused corner of his mind, burning through the haze of alcohol. The hideous truth of what she was loomed before him, her head cocked to the side as she appraised him—not the outer drunkenness or the reek of his bile, but what lay deep inside of him. She looked through his skin, past the hurtful, cowardly exterior, to his true nature.

He saw the hate in her eyes. As he wept, her eyes transmuted to something more dangerous. They were the color of red wine, burning with a fire that he was sure could penetrate his soul. For a fleeting moment, he fully understood what she was, and he didn't care. He was paralyzed by the emotion of seeing Katy before him and the black horror that gripped his bones.

His mouth worked in silence. Her lips parted to reveal a wicked grin, and then she opened her arms to him

“Miss you...Daddy.”

“Katy. Baby, I—”

“Shhhhhh. Come.”

He stepped warily into her arms, and her chill embrace wrapped about him like a winter's gale. Time seemed to stand still. At one with the waving grass of the meadow, her dress fluttered ghostly in the wind. Their shadows became one in the moonlight, stretching across the lot like spilled paint. He rested his arms on her back and peered into the meadow beyond, resolute and unafraid.

He still held her when she bit into the soft flesh of his neck. His eyes rolled back into his head, searing pain giving way to fluid warmth. He saw himself in another world at another time, holding his baby girl in their old home in Storberry. He heard her lapping at his flesh, just as she once supped at her mother's breast.

As though the nape of his neck had caught fire, he felt the pain return in a black agony that was somehow glorious and altering. His body convulsed in her arms.

“Shhhhh. Sleep Daddy.”

His body filled with intoxicating power, his mind alive as his body drifted into slumber. Then he was on his back, with the sensation that he floated on water. Stars blinked overhead like distant streetlamps from another world.

He embraced the shadows that closed over him, and then he was gone.

Nine

When the police chief's face came into the headlight beams, Tom exhaled. Greg Madsen gave a disarming wave, and Tom noticed that the man next to him was Evan Moran.

Still uneasy of the group that blocked their path, Jen hunkered down in the passenger seat.

“Tom?”

“It's okay.”

“What if they are—”

“They're not. It's safe.”

Keeping the motor running, Tom opened the truck door. As he circled around the front of the vehicle toward the two men, she peered over the dashboard.

“The two of you okay?” Greg asked, looking over Tom's shoulder at the girl in the passenger seat.

“Yeah, we're fine.”

“Jen? Is that you?”

When Renee stepped out of the vehicle directly across from them, her familiar voice disarmed the girl, and Jen stepped out of the stolen truck.

“My God, what are you two doing out here by yourselves?”

Jen braced herself as the other members piled out of the vehicles. A police chief, two farmers, a former military man, the head of the public library, and a café owner. She recognized them at once, but thought them an odd combination. The boy she identified as Randy Marks stood back from the group, his eyes centered on Doug Masterson's truck. She found his unwavering stare odd and troubling.

Renee saw from the fright on Jen's face that she had been running, and it was not difficult to discern what the two teenagers fled from.

“It's okay,” Renee said, and gathered the girl in her arms.

It didn't take long for Jen to lose herself, sobbing into the woman's shoulder.

“Believe me. I know. You're safe now.”

Tom looked from Evan to Greg for confirmation that they understood the truth of what was happening in Storberry. He didn't need to speak, for his eyes told tales of nightmares come to life. Evan nodded to him.

“I don't suppose that's your truck?” Greg asked.

Greg recognized the vehicle as Doug Masterson's, for he had written the man a speeding ticket no more than a month ago.

“No, sir,” Tom said. “But it was our only way out of Maple Street.”

Greg nodded in understanding.

“The important thing is that you got yourselves to safety. Well done.”

Like silhouettes on an alien runway, they stood amid the beams of the headlights at the bottom of Blakely Hill. They related their stories, hardly able to conceive that the others believed and understood. It was Jen who told them what had become of Tom's parents and what the boy had done to survive. A pall fell over the group, and empathy for the tragedy that had befallen Tom sobered them.

“I'm sorry, Tom,” said Greg. “I knew your father well. He was a good man.”

“So you learned how to kill them,” Rory said, and Renee shot him a disapproving look for his lack of tact in addressing a boy who had just lost his family.

“What I mean is, you know that guns won't do a damn thing against them. I give you a hell of a lot of credit for figuring it out on your own. I sure as hell didn't.”

“We need to get them to safety,” Renee said, her eyes centered on Rory.

“Define safety,” Greg said. “I couldn't get the police station on the radio earlier tonight. For all I now, it doesn't even exist anymore.”

“We don't know how many of these things are out there or where safety can be found,” Rory said.

“Not on Maple Street,” Tom said.

“What if I told you that we were going back?”

Unzipping a duffel bag, Rory revealed two sharpened stakes and a wooden cross.

“Why would you go in there?” Jen said. “You'll all be killed.”

“How many did you see?” Rory asked.

“None tonight,” said Tom.

“That sounds like pretty good confirmation if you ask me. They hide during the day, only come out at night.”

Renee stood between Tom and Jen.

“After what they have been through, we can't ask them to go back to Maple Street,” she said.

Tom thought of his parents, and a fury built through his chest like a lidded pot boiling within.

“I want to kill all of them.”

“You can't, Tom. Don't do this,” Jen said. “It's suicide!”

She looked to Renee for support, praying the woman would intervene.

“I'll take the kids out of town,” Renee said.

“I'm not leaving. If you think we can destroy these things, then I have to try. They took my family,” Tom said.

“If we don't stop these things, what happens when they reach the next town. Or, God forbid, a city? We're wasting time standing here,” Rory said.

“We have one thing going for us,” Greg said. “Isolation. It's a long walk to the next town, and I've yet to see one of these things driving a car. Maybe they don't remember. We can keep them contained to Storberry if we act now.”

Renee's protests fell on deaf ears. Even Jen, who also found the heroics to be delusional madness, refused to leave Tom's side.

As his mind sorted through the possible outcomes, Randy's eyes were black and distant. The danger would be great, but if he could find a way to survive their suicidal rush, when they fell, he would finally have the means to escape.

I'm coming, Benny.

They abandoned Doug Masterson's truck at the bottom of the hill, and after some debate, opted to leave Rory's truck with it. The group, now eight strong, loaded into the police truck and traveled up Blakely Hill toward the shadowed passages of Maple Street.

Chapter Seven

The police truck held two rows of seating behind the front driver and passenger seats. As Evan Moran sat in the back row with Renee and Randy, he felt conflicted over a growing sense of responsibility for Tom and Jen. Am I dragging them to their deaths?

He saw Mary and the two teenagers in the middle row. Greg drove the truck, and Rory filled the shotgun seat. The other group members appeared as silhouetted mannequins to him, silent and unmoving. Ahead, the high beams washed across the rising slope of the pavement. The outline of trees and darkened homes whirred past to either side, a reminder of what crept unseen.

The road leveled off and swept to the right, then curved back in a hairpin and turned into Maple. To the left was the path to Becks Pond and the forest beyond. The vehicle slowed as it reached the vacant neighborhood.

The road stretched two hundred yards ahead toward a dead end. Houses extended westward at regular intervals, darkened and forbidden like silver crypts in the moonlight.

The truck edged forward, and the group members watched the shadows with trepidation. Midway down Maple, Evan glanced behind him. The taillights painted the blacktop in an eerie red glow—the gates of hell. All else was darkness.

It was then that Evan felt a dread veil fall over him. He no longer felt the hunter, as much as the hunted. As his eyes strained against the blackened windows, trees, and backyards, he realized the evil could be anywhere and everywhere in the night, converging on the truck as they rode blindly forward.

Tom's head turned and watched his house sweep past. He could see the light from the kitchen beyond the darkened front hall, and then in his mind's eye he saw his father's head boiling on the stove. And then he was pulled back into the Kingsley home by the icy grip of his memory...

The kitchen door is still closed. The bloody reflection of red flame spills under the threshold. If I reach for the door knob, I will feel the evil beyond radiating through the metal. And if I open the door, the thing that was my mother will be whole again, eyes accusing and sanguine with hatred, feet swishing across the linoleum.

Jen saw the faraway look in Tom's eyes and put her hand on his, as the truck pulled to the left and came to a stop two driveways shy of her own house. She choked back tears.

Greg and Rory stepped out of the truck first, scanning the unmoving shadows before signaling for the rest of the group to emerge.

“Why are we stopping here?” Mary asked, climbing out of the truck and dropping to the grassy curb. Dew-covered blades licked at her ankles.

“Look,” Greg said.

He pointed toward the empty windows of a brick-faced colonial. At first the windows looked blank and depthless to her, but as her eyes adjusted she noticed a fur-like texture beyond the shimmering glass. The front windows were covered with thick blankets.

Jen recognized it as the Grady residence. Gordon and Bev Grady were an elderly couple her family had known since before she was born. They always brought a plate of Christmas cookies at the holidays and gave her a wave across the backyards on summer days. Jen couldn't bear to imagine them any other way.

Rory nodded, and they filed toward the porch with Greg in the lead, Tom and Jen grasping stakes with apprehension.

As Rory took up a watch position at the base of the driveway, Greg crept up the front steps. A concrete walkway led along the side of the house past a side door and disappeared into the darkness at the rear. The humidity was as palpable as pool water. The sound of katydids masked the rustle of brush from the backyards.

Rory detected movement at the edge of his vision. Recalling the importance of protecting flanks in battle, he wondered how he could do so when the enemy could be anywhere?

Stake in one hand, Greg placed his other hand on the storm door and pulled. Evan glided to his side and held the storm door open as the remaining members filed behind. Rory continued to watch the darkness, and for the first time he began to fear the unseen.

The main door was wooden and sturdy with two bolt locks, but they were not thrown, and the door slid open when Greg pushed his weight against it. The interior air was stagnant, like an unventilated attic. He cringed against the acrid stench from within.

The door opened to a darkened foyer, beyond which a hall led to a living room on the right, and a staircase rose into darkness ahead. A walk-in closet with slatted doors bordered left. Greg nodded toward Evan, who flicked the light switch. The foyer and staircase filled with light, which seemed to exacerbate the darkness beyond the closet slats.

As Evan took up position outside the closet with the stake lifted over his head, Greg grabbed the sliding door. Evan indicated he was ready, and Greg threw the door open.

Coats hung from the closet rack and shoes were neatly arranged along the floor. The foyer light spread into the interior. Nothing waited within.

Rory entered from the porch and locked the door behind him. Turning on corner table lamps until the shadows receded, he led the group into the living room,

Wool blankets covered the living room windows. Evan reached toward blankets as though to tear them off, but Rory signaled him to stop, as the blankets concealed them from eyes in the night.

Beyond the living room was a dining room with a cherry wood table large enough for an extended family. The room opened to a darkened kitchen on the left, beyond their view.

“What do you think?” Evan said.

“The basement must run off the kitchen,” said Greg.

The downstairs was stuffy and warm from the daytime heat, but Renee wrapped her arms about herself and shivered.

“I don't like this. I feel like we're sitting ducks.”

Rory didn't respond, not wanting to admit that he had the same feeling. Now that they were on the front lines, this whole eradication plan was beginning to unravel.

“Rory. Randy. Check the kitchen, and throw the lock on the basement door. I don't want anything sneaking up on us,” Greg said.

Randy and Rory disappeared around the corner into the gloom. From the living room the rest of them could hear the rattle and crunch of an ice maker and what they thought were the low groans of footfalls across the kitchen. After a tense moment of silence, the kitchen light flickered to life. Next came the click of the bolt latch on the basement door.

When Randy and Rory returned to the living room, they saw fear on the others' faces.

“It ain't gonna make a difference. If anything is down there, that door won't hold 'em back,” said Rory.

There was something else under Rory's voice. A noise from somewhere in the house.

“Shhhh.” Renee motioned above them. “Do you hear that?”

As they stood within the indistinct shadows of the living room, they heard nothing but the pounding of their hearts. A distinct squeak emanated from the second floor. Then another, this time from a spot on the ceiling some distance away from the original sound. The sounds became rhythmic and echoed one another from above.

“Upstairs,” Greg said.

Reeek. Reeek.

Greg and Evan led them to the staircase. The wooden steps stretched upward to a landing fronted by a linen cabinet, which jutted outward like a standing coffin. Shadows poured off the landing. At the top of the landing, the hallway turned right and disappeared from view.

They ascended the staircase, like mice sneaking past a sleeping cat. Gone was the brazen desire to rid the town of the scourge. In its place was a creeping terror of what lay beyond their vision.

Reeek. Reeek.

At the landing they found a beige hallway with three doors: one open door on each side, one closed door at the end of the hall. The first open door was an empty bathroom, the second a master bedroom.

As the strange squeals became louder, Randy no longer saw the hallway. His eyes saw the kitchen on Randolph Road. The radio was on, the sunroom was ahead. He had buried his parents in the bloody veneration of sunset. Yet they had returned here, undead on Maple Street, rocking in their chairs and waiting for him.

Reeek. Reeek.

The noise from beyond the closed door grew louder.

Greg motioned for Evan to move to the door and for Randy to join him, weapons ready. The rest of the group stayed back a few paces, while Rory watched the staircase for an attack from behind.

The fear that they were making a grievous mistake was never stronger for Randy than when he placed his hand on the silver door handle. It was frigid, like metal on the darkest night in December. He imagined his parents waiting beyond the door. He saw their eyes amid the darkness, accusing and baleful.

Reeek. Reeek.

Greg signaled him to open the door. Ready to plunge the point into the milky flesh on the door's other side, the police chief held his stake at shoulder level.

Randy came to believe that what lay beyond the door was not another room but another world. Into that world he would go, and may God bring them all back from it. As he nodded to Greg and Evan, he turned the handle and pushed against the door.

The door flew open, and here were Mr. and Mrs. Grady. They sat in rocking chairs in opposite corners of the room along the far wall, the room dappled in strips of light and darkness. Like a tranquil pool, moonlight poured through an open window and shimmered across the floorboards.

Gordon Grady was a tall man. He was dressed in a black suit which could have passed for his Sunday best or as undertaker garb. Bev wore a flower-printed nightgown. Her hair, normally pulled into a tight bun, was loose and frayed. Their heads were lowered to their chests, and were it not for their metronomic rocking, they might have looked to be asleep.

Reeek. Reeek.

Gordon Grady raised his head and opened his eyes, his hair ashen gray and his face strangely ageless. But Randy didn't see the timeless countenance of Gordon Grady rocking in the chair. He saw Calvin Marks, dark red pooling across his polo, eyes fixed on his son.

You didn't really think you could keep me from Benny, did you?

Randy stood nearest to the man in the rocking chair. As though she sensed the challenge to her husband, Bev Grady’s eyes flicked open from across the room as Randy strode forward with the stake. Randy saw her out of the corner of his eye. He froze in place, seeing not her mannequin face but his mother’s terror-stricken expression.

Have you come to kill me again, Randy?

“Do it!” Greg screamed.

Randy was transfixed, his eyes like those of a deer caught in an 18-wheeler's high beams.

Look at me when I am talking to you, Boy!

Gordon Grady stood before his chair, head cocked to the side as though amused by the intruders' presence. Randy raised the stake at him, and Gordon Grady's eyes burned back at him. Bev Grady bolted from her chair in a swift motion that stunned Randy. He turned in her direction but was too slow.

As the attack fell apart in front of him, Greg held the stake toward the woman. He saw Randy panic, tears running down his cheeks. Gordon Grady lunged at Randy's blind side. He would have torn Randy in two had Greg not stepped between them to force the monster backward with the stake. But the defensive move left Greg open from the right, and he never saw Bev Grady rush him.

The woman shrieked a banshee's wail. She hurled Greg across the room into the wall. He crumpled to the ground, his back screaming from the force of the blow. Randy turned back to Gordon Grady, but the man gripped the stake with inhuman strength that bellied his decrepit form. He ripped the weapon from Randy's hands and turned it back on him.

Then Mary was there, smashing against Gordon Grady, thrusting the cross into his chest. Smoke rose off seared flesh like water poured on a hot pan. The room was redolent of burning skin, the shadows of their forms animate across the walls like skittering spiders.

Renee hurled herself between Greg and Bev Grady to shield the broken police chief. Evan was by Renee’s side, his stake driving the monstrosity backward.

Gordon Grady bellowed. The cross sank into his chest cavity as though his flesh was gelatinous, acrid smoke pouring out of the bubbling wound. He reached for Mary's neck and gripped it with his hand—all bone and sinew.

Tom appeared and drove the stake into Gordon Grady's chest. Dark torrents of blood burst out of his chest, splattering across their faces. Mary fell backward, gasping as the air rushed back into her lungs.

Greg crawled to his feet, while Evan had backed Bev Grady into a corner. Grasping at the air as though she was drowning in a roiling sea, the woman averted her eyes from the holy symbol. She gave them the sense that she was suffocating, the life force draining out of her.

As she circled to Bev Grady's left, Renee produced her cross. The old woman bolted to her right, but her legs refused to hold her weight, and she fell to the floor. Confused by what was happening, Greg threw himself toward the prone body and buried the stake into her stomach. It seemed not to matter. Bev was already dying.

The old woman twitched on the wooden protuberance as Renee drove another stake into her back. Stakes jutted out of her like hunters' arrows out of a deer, blood pooling across the floorboards.

Randy backed into the wall, as though he could melt through the plaster and rid himself of the macabre scene. Mary watched him in anger. She didn't speak, but her eyes screamed, “Coward!”

As the azure moonlight washed across the bloodied bodies in dappled streaks, the chairs still rocked with unspent momentum in the shadowed corners, as though they awaited the man and woman to return.

Two

“Houston, we have a problem.”

Rory peered through a crack in the blankets hung across the front window of the Grady residence. Evan identified two figures in the backyard, and now Rory spied three more from across the street.

“How many?” Greg asked.

“Five that I can see.”

Tom peeked between thick drapes over a side window off the dining room. There were two houses—a dark shell bathed in the eerie glow of the moon in front of him and Jen's house beyond. The lights were still on in the Barrows' home, but there was movement in the shadows across the street.

“Three more,” Tom said.

“Shit,” said Rory.

Jen recalled that the Grady family had installed a large sliding glass door off the dining room a few summers ago. Greg checked behind the drawn curtains, and sure enough, the glass doors were there.

If their presence was noticed, they would not be able to defend the glass entranceway.

Sullen and dark, Randy sat on the couch away from the other members. Mary wrestled with whether or not to approach him. They needed him, but they also needed to know that they could rely on him. She sensed something else was there, something she couldn't place a finger on. He’s hiding something.

“How bad is it?” asked Renee.

As Rory pulled the blanket ends together, he said, “It's not good. That sliding glass door isn't going to hold. The good news is, they haven't figured out that we're here. So far.”

“We never should have come here. We're surrounded.”

“Yep. And if we can see eight, you can bet there are at least twice as many that we can't see.”

“I say we make a break for the truck.”

“They're too close to the truck. We'd never make it.”

Evan wiped pulpy gristle off the stake onto the side of the couch

“Your house is a few doors down, right, Tom?” Evan asked.

Tom looked at his feet and nodded.

“He's not going back in there,” said Jen. “My house is just as close anyhow.”

“What about the doors and windows in your house? Any sliding glass doors that we can't defend?”

“There's a front window, maybe five feet across.”

“We can work with that. Does your father keep any tools in the house?”

Jen’s face contorted, and Mary saw the loss of her parents in the girl’s eyes.

“He does...or did woodworking in the basement.”

“So there might be materials that we can use to board the windows?”

Greg shook his head. “No good. The minute you start pounding nails, they will be all over the house.”

“But we can't stay here,” Renee said.

“No. Eventually they will figure out that we are here, and that glass door is going to be their way in.”

Greg exhaled, and Mary sensed his fear.

“If we could contain them to groups of two or three, I know we could fight our way through. But there are too many for us to handle. We'll be overwhelmed.”

“If we can get to her house, we'll only need to defend it until sunrise,” Rory said. “Then we haul ass out of here at first light and determine if we can raise the manpower to handle another run on them.”

They agreed. It was their best chance for safety through the remaining hours of the night.

As the others watched the shadowed figures through the windows, Rory grasped Randy as the boy got off the couch. He threw Randy into the corner, his grip like steel about the boy's arm. As the boy faced him, Rory saw something dangerous in his eyes.

“I don't know what the hell you are trying to pull, but the bullshit stops here and now. If you freeze on us again and someone gets killed because of it, I'll put a bullet in your head myself.”

Greg pulled the bigger man away. Seething, Randy stalked out of the corner with the dangerous gait of a predator, the dark pits of his eyes centered on Rory.

As they carefully slid back the sun room's glass door, it moved silently on its hinges, and then their slim protection from the night was gone. Like distress beacons from the heavens, stars flickered overhead. The air was thick with moisture, and the dew soaked through their shoes and chilled them despite the unusual warmth.

Every shadow threatened. When they passed the Barrows' garage, Evan felt a fear which threatened to overwhelm him. He thought of the impenetrable darkness of the forest and of the unholy wind which had crippled the town’s communications system.

They safely traversed the backyards to the side door of the Barrows' home and worked in pairs to ensure the house was clear. While the basement was scavenged for tools or supplies which could be used to secure the house, Evan and Greg carried plywood sheets up the stairs.

Renee located a box of long wood screws and a power drill, which Rory used to secure the plywood across the windows without the banging of a hammer. They cringed with each shrill whir, but their presence was not detected.

Evan had the sickening sensation that they were preventing their own escape. When they finished they drilled small eye holes through the board. There was no movement on the street, and that strangely troubled them more than seeing the monstrosities.

Randy watched Rory board the windows, anger burgeoning out of his eyes. The need to escape with Benny grew, but as he thought of ways to slip away unnoticed, his head began to throb.

His head was clouded, as though a cold encroached upon him. Worse, though, was the child's voice he swore he heard calling him from the backyard. The voice seemed to come from a great distance, and each time he heard the child, he felt his heart jump as though electrocuted. But everyone around him carried on with their work, oblivious to the voice.

Three

There was no sleep for Jeff Branyan. The pain in his ribcage had diminished, but now he itched beneath the bandages. The itching started as a tickle, and then the skin under the tape began to tingle as though a colony of ants crawled underneath.

He tried to itch through the tape, but it was impossible. Just touching his ribs fired rockets of pain through his body. Honestly, he almost preferred the pain to the infernal itching. How long do the doctors intend for me to wear these bandages? Days? Weeks?

But something else disturbed him. A residential property bordered the hospital grounds. Just beyond the parking lot, bathed in the light of the moon, crouched a wooden shed in disrepair. Skewed sideways as though it would fall at any moment, the shed sat in the grass on the residential side of the property line.

There were noises coming from it.

Through the thick glass of the hospital windows he heard the smash of metal and sometimes glass shattering. It was quiet now, but the noise would come again just as it had every few minutes during the last half hour.

Whatever was in the shed, it wasn't a bear. A bear would have moved on by now. Something else was inside the shed, big, angry, and biding its time. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Bending over until his hands found the leather bag under his hospital bed, he tried to ignore the agony in his ribs. Three magazines (two sports and a girly), a change of clothes that he wouldn't need for a few weeks yet, a bottle of pop, and a beer his buddy had smuggled in for him. The gun was hidden at the bottom of the pile.

Fishing the weapon out of the bag, he slipped it under his bed sheet. At exactly midnight, he gingerly slid the bag under the bed. He was bent over, away from the window, just as a dark figure slipped out of the shed and walked unseen toward the hospital entrance.

As his eyes returned to the disheveled shed, Jeff leaned back against the pillow.

The pretty desk clerk at the hospital entrance was bent under her desk, filing paperwork into a sliding cabinet drawer, when the figure passed her by. She felt the breeze of his passing touch her shoulder like the cold breath of January. It made her shudder. Her instinct told her to stay beneath the desk, and she did so. It was the only thing that saved her.

The figure didn't care who saw him, for there was nothing within these walls that he had to fear. Yet the halls remained empty in advance of him, as though the fates had sounded an evacuation alarm upon his arrival. As he slipped through the stairwell door, his footsteps echoed hollow against the white walls like distant drums.

Second floor. Room 208. He remembered.

Two nurses were stationed on the second floor. The blonde girl with the ponytail had eschewed her novel for a newspaper. Wondering what the other girl did to deserve her pay, a middle-aged nurse with long brown hair who wasn't nearly as pretty shook her head as she tended to patients at the end of the wing. The rotund orderly had not shown up for work, which put him in league with the other third of the hospital staff that seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Jeff hadn't heard the sounds from the shed for several minutes. He decided the danger had passed and closed his eyes, when the first scream echoed from the end of the hallway. The gun was back in his hand when the pretty girl from behind the desk ran past his room with a walkie-talkie, frantically calling for security. He heard her squeal, and then somewhere beyond his vision, her neck snapped like the crunch of potato chips.

Panicking, he threw his legs over the side of the bed, his ribcage screaming in agony. He felt his ribs bend unnaturally and knew he had done further damage. But the gun was cocked and aimed at the doorway. He believed he was ready for whatever came for his door.

He wasn't.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Dell Lawrence, clown-skin pallid with eyes as red as a foreboding sunrise. Jeff was so stunned that it took him several seconds before he pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Dell squarely in his stomach.

Dell looked down at the wound, perplexed that the boy had shot him. A bubble of black oozed outward. As wicked smile spread across his face, he raised his eyes to the boy. An alarm sounded, piercing the hospital with an incessant waaaa waaaa waaaa that made Jeff's teeth jingle.

Jeff fired two more shots. The first missed. The second tore through Dell's cheek bone, removing a hunk of flesh the size of a fist, leaving behind a row of fangs as sharp as nails. The sound of shouts and footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway.

“I told you I wasn't finished with you, boy.”

A scream was poised behind Jeff's lips as he fired the gun. Appearing to float on air, Dell leaped from the threshold of the door to the hospital bed. The last thing Jeff saw were teeth, Dell's ghastly fangs dripping with need. Dell bit into Jeff’s neck, tearing through flesh and cartilage.

Two security guards pushed through the door to find the hideous thing leaning over Jeff Branyan's body. The monster’s lips smacked as an inundation of red spurted out of a main artery. The first guard, a skinny young pup in his first month on the job, bent over and vomited against the wall. The second guard was a burly man in his early fifties who thought he had seen everything. The gun shook in his hands as though he was holding a jackhammer, and it was all he could do to yell freeze! as the thing catapulted over the bed and crashed through the glass window.

The pallid monster vanished into the night air.

The guard ran to the window, trying hard not to look at the remains of the massacred boy. But it was impossible not to see the shreds of flesh hanging off his neck, the blood spurting forth like a cone geyser and the sheets which appeared to have been dipped in spaghetti sauce. He would see the image in its horrific clarity for the rest of his life whenever he closed his eyes, as though the image had been painted to the back of his eyelids.

As he pointed the gun out the window between the broken shards, the warm night breeze tickled at his face, taunting him. Dell Lawrence was gone.

Four

The moon above Storberry shone down upon the Barrows' home in apathetic blue tones. Downstairs, Rory Dickson moved anxiously between the front and back of the house.

He had taken the first shift while Greg sprawled out on the floor, willing himself to sleep.

Battling through various states of semi-sleep, the rest of the group spread across the house. It was 1:50 a.m. Five hours remained until sunrise, and the minutes ticked past like weeks.

Jen lay curled on her bed within Tom's arms, the door shut and the hook-and-eye latched. As her body submitted to smothering fatigue, her mind refused to let her eyes stay closed.

“Tom?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you think we are going to make it to sunrise?”

“Yeah. We'll make it. I promise.”

As she peered through the window into the night, he snuggled behind her. Her hair was soft against his face, like silk.

Stars filled the sky, brighter than Tom could ever remember. The moon filtered through the window in an azure glow, as though its light was submerged in ocean waters.

“There's too many of them, Tom.”

“I know.”

“What if they...spread. What if they get to the next town, and then the town after that? Jesus, what if they already have and we are the last in line?”

“Don't think that way.”

Tom was always thinking, but now the gears turned in double time. He knew there was a way for them to survive—every predator had a weakness, nature always found a way.

“When we killed Mr. Grady, do you remember how Mrs. Grady appeared to be dying before we got to her?”

Jen shivered.

“Yes.”

“I've been thinking about what happened. What if they are somehow tied to each other? Like if you hurt one, you hurt the other?”

“Because they are family?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It might not have anything to do with if they are related or not. Maybe one's life is tied to the other, based on who infected whom.”

Jen turned to face him.

“So, like, if Mr. Grady infected Mrs. Grady, she is tied to him. So if you kill him—”

“You kill her, too.”

“That would explain what happened to her. Have you told this to anybody?”

“Not yet.”

“Tom, you have to.”

“It might have been a fluke, or a coincidence. What if I'm wrong?”

But Tom didn't think he was wrong. He had stumbled upon the predator's biggest weakness.

He mulled the theory over in the blue light of Jen's bedroom. If he was right, and if they could determine who were the first to be infected in town and destroy them, theoretically they could eliminate the majority of their populace.

Are you so certain that the laws of science apply to true evil?

He shuddered.

As the grandfather clock ticked through the hallway, the house was as silent as a tomb.

A scream woke Randy.

He bolted upright in the guest room bed and swung his legs over the side. Expecting to hear the others yelling and springing into action, he heard only the legato ticking of the hallway clock. They must have heard the scream. Had the scream come from within the house?

His body was soaked in a cold sweat, but the heat radiating off of him was reminiscent of sun exhaustion. Whenever he moved his head, the room spun like the house was inside of a tornado. When did I become sick? He couldn't recall.

He saw that he was fully clothed and didn't remember their looks of concern when Evan and Greg had carried him to the guest room.

Odd that he could feel so cold on such a mild night. The window should have been closed and locked, yet the white drapes blew inward, like specter arms grasping at the air.

As he shuffled from the bed to the open window, the grass below was barren and gray in the moonlight. Ground fog formed as the temperature cooled and the dewy grass saturated the air. From the second floor, it looked like a bed of cotton.

Thin wisps of fog seemed to have a life of their own, curling against the trees like talons.

He had started to push the window shut when he saw Benny.

Randy blinked in confusion. The fever worsened, and at once the walls of the room seemed to advance and retreat with every breath. He burned from the inside, convinced that it was a dream, for it was impossible for Benny to be here.

He blinked again. Benny stared up at him.

A light began to pulse within the fog, barely perceptible. Randy watched the light grow and recede, as if it breathed. Now the fever was unbearable, sweat pouring off his brow in thin rivulets. Still his brother stared up at him, a lost child who had somehow found his way to safety.

How did he know to find me here?

The fog became alluring in its unearthly glow, and as he stood transfixed, he heard it whisper. The ethereal mist spoke to him through his mind, promising him that it was soft and cool. If he would only come to the fog and join his brother, his fever would break. Safety for both of them existed within.

As the breeze thickened, thin tendrils of fog rose against the side of the house and licked at the window. The fog was so close he could touch it. He could grasp its wisps if he desired and make them his own.

What little remained of Randy's sanity broke through the clouded fever and pulled him back from the window. He couldn't trust the fog’s promises.

“Please help me.”

Randy gasped. Benny's voice!

He no longer held any doubt that his brother was in the fog. The boy stared up at him with pleading eyes. He was so pallid, sick, perhaps suffering from the same fever afflicting Randy. The fog roiled around the boy's legs.

This is impossible. He can't be here.

“You have to come. There's no one else.”

There's no one else...

Did Benny know his mother and father were dead, murdered at his hands? How could Benny know?

The fever boiled within, and now he could barely remember what he had done to Calvin and Sue Marks. His own name escaped him. The only thing he could be sure of was that his brother was in need of him. Whispering promises of release from his agony, in ethereal voices only Randy could hear, the fog glowed below the window. The fog promised release from the fever, the truth, everything.

No longer able to resist, Randy slid the screen up and bent through the opening.

He was sure the cottony surface of the mist was soft enough to support him—he need only climb out. The fog promised it would catch him.

He put his legs on the ledge first. As the mists caressed his skin, his feet dangled beneath him. But the second story window was so far above the ground, and he began to worry. Suddenly he felt something grip his ankles, as though the fog had grown claws.

It’s pulling me out.

Randy grabbed for the support of the window frame, but it was too late. He was yanked feet first through the fog. The ground rushed at him. Something laughed in the night.

His legs shattered on impact. Pain tore through the fever's intoxication, and he was awake again, screaming in agony. He cried in anger, for the fog had misled him.

As tears streamed down his cheeks, he was alone in the fog, body shattered. There was no sign of his brother anywhere. His legs were broken in multiple places, but the grotesque injuries were hidden under the fog's blanket. The glow ceased, but the fog continued to grope him with clammy fingers.

The night went still.

He heard no sound. Even the fog's gyrations slowed. The moon looked down at him, mocking his impotence.

He lowered his chin and Benny was there, eye-to-eye with him. He stared into his little brother’s face, mime-white and bloodless, Benny’s eyes glowing like hot coals. Rows of fangs dripped with desire.

Benny smiled a Cheshire Cat grin.

Randy screamed.

Five

When the scream awoke the house, Rory scrambled to the kitchen and peered through a crack in the boards. Nobody was in the backyard, yet there was a strange fog receding up the hill toward the copse.

Mary checked the upstairs rooms. It was there that she discovered the guest room window open and Randy missing. When the others joined her at the doorway, they called to Randy through the house. But they knew in the pits of their stomachs that he was gone.

Mary pulled the window down and bolted the lock.

“Did anyone see him leave?” asked Greg.

They shook their heads.

“He couldn't have survived the fall. He would have broken every bone in his legs,” said Renee.

“Then where the hell is he?” Greg asked.

Mary clutched her head in disbelief.

“Why in the world would he jump?” Mary asked.

“The fever,” Greg said. “Maybe he didn't know what he was doing.”

“But he was fine up until a few hours ago,” said Renee.

“He'd been acting strange all night. You saw him in the Grady's room. That was a hell of a lot more than fear,” said Rory.

He spat and stalked down the stairs.

Jen held onto Tom and sought out Renee.

“Do you think those things could have made him jump?” she asked.

“At this point, I believe anything is possible,” Renee said, glowering at Greg, “which is why we shouldn't even be here.”

Greg's eyes flashed with anger.

“What would you have done differently?”

“I wouldn't have dragged everyone to their deaths.”

“You could have said this before—”

“I did! But you and your goddamn sidekick wouldn't listen to anything I had to say. Now Randy is gone, probably dead, and there are two teenagers trapped in here with those things outside. We could have driven through three states by now and gotten everyone to safety!”

“I'm not going to sit back and let the town get slaughtered while I do nothing about it! I'm doing the best that I can.”

Evan stepped between them.

“Everyone calm down. This isn't getting us anywhere.”

Greg shoved his way past Mary in the doorway. Renee seemed angrier with Evan for interceding.

“Don't even think about telling me that I'm out of line,” Renee said.

“I'm not going to. We should have thought this through better. But it doesn't help our situation. We need to hang on until sunrise. It's only another four hours. Then we can get out of here. For good.”

When Renee realized she was crying, she wiped her tears away in disgust.

“Sunrise, Evan. I'm taking these kids out of here. With or without you.”

The grandfather clock chimed three times to announce the new hour when Rory finished his rounds downstairs. His anger simmered deep inside, like the slow push of magma that precedes an eruption.

He didn't like being second-guessed, particularly by a female librarian who had never so much as held a gun, let alone defended her country. He knew they were in deep trouble and that time was the single most important dimension for all of them.

But unlike in traditional war, the enemy would recede from the battle lines at sunrise. This knowledge gave him a decided advantage and increased his odds for survival.

But it troubled him that Randy had somehow been coerced out of the house. Out of a second story window, for Christ's sake. All of their safety measures would be for naught if they could be influenced from without.

I’ll lay down new rules. Greg will be on board, and the others will have to follow, like it or not. Nobody was to be on their own for the remainder of the night, and nobody was to be near an open window. I’ll keep the group downstairs where they can be supervised.

Greg and he would watch for signs of trouble from outside the house. Evan might prove useful too, and he'd be damned if Mary didn't surprise Rory with her courage under fire. But the teenagers would be of no use, and Renee Tennant was becoming a problem that he might need to deal with.

Then he had heard the whispers.

The whispers came from the backyards, and at first he had thought it might be Randy Marks lying broken but still alive. Drifting indistinct and ethereal through the night, the voices bled into the kitchen for only Rory to hear. Greg had been filling a glass of water at the time, and the dreamlike sounds merged with the running faucet like a distant waterfall.

“Did you hear that?”

But Greg hadn't heard a thing.

By 3:15 a.m. the group members were corralled in the living room. No one had protested the decision. Renee bristled at the way Rory and Greg were ordering everyone about. Her eyes glowered at Rory.

The whispers came and went, as impossible to grasp as the will-o-wisp. If only I could hear what they are saying. The whispers seemed as so much white noise. That nobody else could hear the whispers troubled him. He knew that severe sleep deprivation could cause all sorts of hallucinations, and he couldn't afford to lose his composure now. Sunrise was so close.

But the whispers were insistent. They came from all sides of the house, impossible to zero in on. They buzzed at his ear like house flies. Their messages grew in need, yet he could discern none of it. His agitation grew, and soon he was pacing through the downstairs with stake in hand.

Mary was the first to notice that something was wrong. She confided in Renee, who in turn brought it to Evan's attention.

“He's losing control,” said Evan. “Rory! Rory!”

But the large man ignored him. As though he viewed a separate reality, he stalked from room to room with distant eyes. Evan's shout alerted Greg to the potential problem, but before he could intercede, the front door began to rattle.

As Tom tried to cover Jen’s mouth, the girl screamed.

They've found us.

The impending danger snapped Rory out of his trance, and he and Greg were poised in the hallway with stakes raised. Mary stood in front of the teens, hands gripping the cross.

“Evan. Kitchen,” said Greg.

Evan ran to the kitchen and took up a position at the side door. A pall fell over him. As though meaning to snuff out the light within, he could feel the darkness of the night trying to slip under the door's threshold. His skin crawled, as though he believed that if he threw the door open, he would find the house deep within the hill forest, with its impenetrable blackness and gnarled limbs reaching toward him. Death had found them.

The front door shook with building intensity. Racing and expanding, tiny cracks formed along the jamb. Mary took an involuntary step backward as the door threatened to explode off its hinges. The framing walls rattled and groaned, thin cracks spreading through the plaster like spider webs.

As the sound built to a frightening crescendo, Renee clutched her ears against the fury.

Then the shaking stopped, and the silence that followed seemed deafening in its absence. The muscles in his forearms standing out like cords, Greg gripped the stake.

This was the silence before the storm. The seconds passed and then minutes. Nothing came.

Rory was certain something waited outside. He sensed the intruder pressed against the house, as though it laid its icy hand upon his skin. He ran through the living room toward the boarded front window.

“Where is it?” Jen sobbed with the knowledge that the darkness knew they were inside.

Rory peeked through the cracks between the panels. His heart stopped.

The pallid evil that was Evelyn Dickson stared back at him.

Six

The glass of the window pane shattered against the plywood. As though she swung a sledgehammer, Evelyn Dickson pounded her body into the barrier. Rory backed away, his face as white as January snow. His head shook from side to side, mouthing “no” silently.

Greg ordered Evan to keep defending the kitchen and sprung to Rory's side. The look in Rory's eyes was that of a man who had seen the unfathomable. He had walked through Hell itself and come through a shell of his former self.

A great crash splintered the wood. Whining sickeningly, the wood screws were wrenched from the window frame, and the plywood imploded with the next blow.

Evelyn Dickson leaped through the open frame, wretched fangs dripping with hunger. Greg stumbled backward at the sight. He had been prepared for almost anything, but not this.

She sprang toward her husband, but Mary had been waiting. She drove the stake into Evelyn's belly.

Evelyn screeched and threw Mary backward into the dining room table with inhuman force. Greg thrust the stake through Evelyn's back, just as Renee attacked from the front. The third stake went through Evelyn's eye, into her skull cavity. Bones crackled like twigs underfoot.

The thing collapsed in a twitching mess.

“No!” Rory screamed from the floor.

Ignoring the viscous gore which bled across the floor, he scrambled to his wife’s side.

“Why?”

His question hung in the air like a volatile substance that the others were certain would explode if they answered.

Evelyn's limbs trembled as he cradled her in his arms. Gone was the piercing red of her eyes. Like a magician’s ruined illusion, the doll-like face morphed to something decrepit. Then the corpse tissue evaporated, and she appeared no different from when he had last seen her.

Her human features returning like the fecund earth after winter's snow melt, she looked up at him.

“I tried...tried...to save him...I—”

“Shhhh,” Rory quieted her, his tears flowing freely. “You did the best you could do. You have always done the best you could do.”

Her lips quivered and tried to form words that she no longer had the strength to utter. He saw her say I'm sorry in silence.

“I'm the one who should be sorry. It isn't your fault. I should have been there for you.”

Her body convulsed, her eyes rolling back in her head. White pearls stared back at him, lifeless. She was gone.

Rory rocked Evelyn in his arms, his shoulders shaking with each sob. Tom choked back his own tears, as though seeing his mother's dying eyes again. Rage rippled through Rory’s body, seeking vengeance for all that had been taken from him.

Rory was surprised to find Renee at his side, holding him and quietly urging him to let his wife go.

Rory looked into the Renee’s eyes and saw something unexpected. It was more than empathy. They spoke of reprisal and resolution.

“I got all of us into this. My God, look what I've done. I'm so sorry,” said Rory.

“You did it for all the right reasons. There's nothing to be sorry for.”

“I thought we could stop them. I thought we could...”

As the flickering glow of the streetlamps flowed through the shattered barrier, Greg watched the window warily. More monsters would come now, and they could be anywhere in the night. No one talked for the next minute, everyone lost in his or her own remorse.

Then Tom spoke.

“There might be a way to kill them all.”

Seven

Darkness pressed through the broken window of the Barrows' lower floor. They felt a desperate need to escape the house's confines, but the argument put forth by Tom Kingsley had been a compelling one. Maybe they had embraced his theory because it offered the first ray of hope in their never-ending night. Or perhaps it was the logical connections he formed.

The infestation had to have begun with one. If the original vampire could be identified and destroyed, theoretically their entire population could be snuffed out with one precision strike.

“The theory that they are linked by the spread of the infection makes sense based on what we saw at the Grady home,” Evan said. “It also rules out blood relations, since they were married. But it's possible that the links are weakened, and even broken, at some point once you get far enough away from the original vampire.”

“I've considered the possibility,” said Tom.

“Kill the king, and the kingdom falls,” Renee said.

“Every one of those things that we have encountered has been someone we recognized from town or at least something that looked like it was once human,” Evan said. “All but the one that attacked Mary. Approximately what time did it come for you?”

“A little after 10 p.m.,” Mary said.

“Greg, what time did the wind come out of the hill forest?”

“After sunset. Probably close to 8:15,” Greg said. “You still think they are linked?”

“I'm positive of it. If it came with the storm, that gave it plenty of time to traverse the town. Maple was the first street it encountered on its way.”

“Which explains why there are so many of them here.”

“What if the vampire was here all along?” Jen asked, eyes wide and distant. Suddenly the riddle of the crawlspace being boarded shut from the inside made sense. There had been a monster hidden outside her bedroom window her entire life.

“Here, as in Maple Street?” Greg cast a doubtful look at the girl.

“Dormant...” Evan reasoned it through. “Waiting for the forest to make the first move.”

“Come on, Evan. The trees awakened it?”

“It sounds no less crazy than vampires taking over the town,” said Renee.

“That would better explain the infection rate on Maple Street,” Evan said. “It would have needed somewhere to conceal itself all these years, out of the sunlight.”

“I know where it sleeps,” Jen said.

As Jen explained the conundrum of the crawlspace, she told them of the night sounds, which seemed to come in warm springs such as the one they were experiencing. The doubt on the others' faces was unmistakable, but it shifted to fear when she recounted hearing something break out of the crawlspace the night the wind struck. Tom had heard the boards snap, too, and it had taken until this moment for him to admit it to himself.

“My God, that thing could be above the garage right now,” Mary said, “right behind us.”

With the chill force of ocean waves in winter, the possibility that the vampire had been here all along crashed into Rory and nearly drowned him. He grasped the stake and stood among them.

“If that thing is here, then I will kill it now.”

“You haven't seen this thing. It was never human, Rory.”

“It will die like the others. It has to come to the crawlspace before sunrise. I'll wait for it.”

“The hell you will,” Renee said. “You can't do this alone. You'll be killed.”

It was too late. Rory heard nothing more. He pulled the plank off the front door and stepped into the night air.

The others followed after him onto the front porch. The shadows of Maple Street were as black as pitch, seeming to shift with malevolent movement. The unlit houses spread away like silent crypts.

The windshield of the police truck gleamed under the lamppost. Did they dare break for the truck?

“Greg, do something,” Renee said.

“She's right, Rory. Better we get into the truck and drive the hell out of here while we can.”

But Rory didn't listen. He descended the steps to the sidewalk and followed its path to the Barrows' driveway, whereupon at the end of the dirt and stone path he found the garage. As the moon crouched beneath the roof’s edge, its glow spread up to the peak as though an alien sun had risen.

The front window to the crawlspace stared back at him with one lifeless eye. He felt the eye watching him, and it was then that he was certain the girl had been right. This was where they would find the vampire. This was where the horror would end.

The truck was tantalizingly close now, just one house away. A katydid rasped along the side of the house, Nathanial Hawthorne’s sound of moonlight. They could feel the eyes of the night upon them.

When the blunt end of the stake struck Rory in the back of his head, stars spread across his vision, and he fell into Evan's arms. Greg stood over his friend with a look of guilt on his face.

“Give me a hand,” Evan said, struggling to hold the limp body.

Greg and Evan supported Rory under his arms as Renee lifted his feet off the ground. Grunting as they pulled the heavy body toward the truck, they felt the sands of time pour out of the hourglass against them.

A dark consternation fell over them. The truck, its windshield a glare under the lamplight, offered a false salvation. Something was wrong. They could feel the darkness closing in.

Tom opened the truck’s back door, and they had slid Rory onto the floor where he flopped lifelessly between the front and middle rows. As they climbed inside with Greg in the driver's seat and Evan next to him, Greg saw the wires torn free from underneath the steering column, as though someone had thought to hot wire the vehicle but instead had disabled it.

“Shit!”

Greg fumbled for the dome light. He needed to reattach the wires to make the truck drivable, but so much damage had been done.

A scuffling noise came from out of the dark, and Evan yelled at Greg to duck his head. Jen screamed from the backseat.

As Greg looked up, Dell Lawrence swung the sledgehammer against the windshield.

Eight

As the explosion of hammer against glass rang in their ears, pellets of safety glass rained down on Greg's chest and legs like a king's ransom of diamonds.

Dell stalked to the driver's side, whey-faced and crazed. He reared back with the weapon. Before the side window burst, Greg and Evan dived out the passenger door.

Dell sprang toward the front of the car, seeming to glide on air. Leaping upward with a swiftness that bellied his sickly pallor, he landed standing on the hood of the truck, his eyes red prisms that caught the starlight and drank in its power. A wicked grin spread across his face.

“Been looking for you, piggy...piggy...piggy...”

Evan jutted his stake outward in warning, and Dell's laughter echoed off the empty shells lining Maple Street. Renee and Jen climbed from the truck to stand behind the two men. Rory lay unconsciousness inside, and Greg felt a pang of fear that he might not get to his friend in time if Dell climbed into the truck.

Evan's eyes questioned Renee. There was no sign of Mary or Tom, who had disappeared in the gloom. Renee shook her head, not having seen them slip away.

“Back off, Dell. There's too many of us for you to handle alone,” Greg said.

Dell leaned back and laughed at the night sky, like a vile hyena in the light of the moon.

“Oh piggy...pigggy...the big bad wolf always travels with a pack.”

Trees rustled outside of the Grady residence.

“You never could find my Katy. But I did, little pig. I did.”

The look of confidence on Dell's face disappeared. For a moment, panic flashed in his eyes, as Tom led Katy Lawrence out of the trees with the spike of his stake pressed against her back. As Mary held the cross in front of the girl's face, the holy symbol pulsed with a light which could not be explained by the reflection of stars or streetlamps. Katy hissed, averting her eyes whenever the cross came near.

Dell was too fast. He flew over the truck toward Jen and Renee. Tom heard Jen cry out, and then Dell pulled her away from the others.

“Drop the cross, whore.”

Gnarled fingers ended in razor sharp claws fixed to Jen's throat. Dell's eyes were wild with hatred.

“And the weapon. I'll rip her throat out.”

Tom's hands trembled. It wouldn't take more than an easy swipe of Dell's nails, and Jen's neck would be torn from ear-to-ear. He saw her lips quiver, her face wet with tears. He had already lost his family. He couldn't lose her, too.

“Let my Katy go, and I'll let your little friend live.”

Greg lunged forward with the stake, but Dell was quicker. His free arm whipped against the police chief's head. The force of the blow threw Greg against the truck, pain rocketing through his back and neck, as he moaned on the pavement.

“Long time coming, little pig. Long time coming.”

Dell fixed his gaze on Tom, and the boy felt something more frightening creep through him.

Doubt.

Doubt that he was as intelligent as everyone thought him to be. Doubt that he had figured out how to fight these things. Doubt that he could save Jen any more than he could have saved his family.

“Drop the stake, boy. Or she dies.”

“Why did you allow your daughter to do this to you?”

“After I tear out your throat, you will understand why. You will live forever, my friend. Forever.”

Tom had his confirmation but was out of time. Jen would to die, and he was powerless to stop it. He glanced away from the menace and looked into her eyes one last time. Her face was a mask of fear.

Then for a split second, he saw her eyes change from horror to resolution. As if a tunnel had formed around the two of them, her eyes centered on his, and she saw only him amid the carnage.

She nodded.

As Tom thrust the stake into Katy's back, there came a terrible scream, animal-like and vaguely human. In a gush of crimson, the point jutted through her heart, and she shrieked against the Stygian sky.

Before Dell realized what Tom had done, the strength departed his body. He crumbled to the road, his head smashing against the pavement. His head swam in confusion, not knowing what was happening to him. A blackness that was much larger than the night engulfed him.

Evan plunged the stake through Dell’s heart, and the thing that was Dell Lawrence convulsed like an eel washed ashore. Blood oozed around the stake in syrupy black.

The tremors ceased, and he lay silent at their feet.

Renee's breath caught in her throat when a third body hit the pavement behind them. She turned around to see an unknown woman convulsing in the center of Maple Street. The woman had crept up on them without anyone hearing, and a moment later she would have killed them all.

The woman gasped for air that was no longer there for her to breathe. Her jaws snapped at them with disturbing clicks, misshapen fangs jutting outward.

Her eyes went glassy and the convulsions ceased. The stranger rolled to her back, spittle running down her cheeks. She stared lifelessly into the depthless night.

Renee broke free of her fear and confusion. She picked up the pill bottle which had rolled out of the woman's pocket.

KENT, ERIN

TAKE TWO CAPSULES BY MOUTH AT BEDTIME

Chapter Eight

For once fate had been on their side. In the ten minutes it took Greg to repair the steering column wire damage under the faint glow of the streetlamps, no further attacks came. But Mary felt the dark watchers within the shadows, as though the night pressed against her skin.

The truck raced eastward to Blakely Hill, intent on flattening anything which would challenge them.

Once, in the blood red of the taillights, Mary saw a small group of the monstrosities following the truck through the darkness. As shadows shifted and took form just beyond their vision, tree limbs bent and rustled, vile faces peering through darkened windows. But none came for them this time.

At the bottom of Blakely Hill the group split up to commandeer the departed vehicles. Renee drove the teenagers in Doug Masterson's truck, while Evan and Mary took Rory's truck. Locked in a fitful sleep, Rory lay sprawled on the floor of the police truck. The lights of Washington Street whipped past them like wraiths. The chief heard his friend sob and speak his wife's name, lost somewhere within sleep's murk.

It was after 4:30 a.m. when the three vehicles pulled into the farmhouse driveway. Looming in the night like a hollow giant, the great barn blotted out the moonlight. Evan saw the tool house standing empty against the blanket of stars. He remembered Randy and tried not to imagine what fate had befallen the boy.

They declared the house safe several minutes after and slept the sleep of the dead. They slept long past the rising of the sun, which ascended the eastern sky in sundry reds.

Shimmering as a mirage under thick haze, the sun was a blurry orb when they awoke after nine. The atmosphere was palpable with humidity, and a gusting southerly wind flew over the hill forest, whipping fields of rye into motion. When Evan stepped outside to taste the gulf air, he knew that the false summer was about to end.

Late morning was spent in quiet solitude. Rory hadn't remembered losing consciousness, but Greg told him what he had done, and Rory agreed it had been the right move, considering his state of mind. Yet nothing altered Rory's desire for vengeance, for he intended to return to the Barrows’ garage.

By noon, as the smell of hamburgers in the kitchen reminded them of their need to eat, they gathered together for perhaps their final meal.

Once their stomachs were full, it was decided that Renee would take Tom and Jen out of Storberry. Feeling the same roiling need for revenge that burned through Rory, the others protested. But it was agreed that if a strike were to be made on the crawlspace, a small group could move with greater stealth.

“We go in during the daylight, while we are reasonably sure that thing will be asleep,” Evan said. “If we are wrong and the crawlspace is empty, then there is nothing left to be done. We'll come back here, and all of us will leave town together.”

Renee agreed to wait for their return before sunset. If they did not return by dusk, she was to drive the teenagers across the North Carolina border and catch the interstate to Rocky Mount, stopping for no one until they reached safety. A dark cloud formed in her mind. She wondered if the rest of the world still existed. Is the horror confined to Storberry?

By 3:30 p.m. there was a foreboding sense of finality. Their eyes met, and knowing it was the last time they would see one another, an empty sense of loss grew within them.

Greg's police truck pulled out of the driveway and headed west on Standish in a cloud of dust. Like a monstrous castle in a faraway kingdom, a cumulus formation exploded ahead of their path. As the wind whipped against the farmhouse with dangerous intent, Renee followed the truck's path until it wound out of sight near downtown. Shutters rattled, and plumes of brown dust skirted the dry fields like swarms of locust.

She felt very much alone.

Two

As the truck hummed up Blakely Hill, humidity fogged the windows until the air conditioning barely kept the windshield clear. Overgrowth framing the road swayed against the strengthening wind.

The truck came around the bend to find the road littered with leaves, as though they had been sprayed from a lawnmower. The beaten path toward Becks Pond, and beyond that the hill forest, came into view at the corner of Maple Street.

Evan's stomach sank. He had waited for this moment for twenty years, and there was no turning back.

As Greg turned the police truck onto Maple Street, Evan couldn’t help thinking that at this time of day there should have been children playing in the front yards, the sound of lawnmowers buzzing, and the savory aroma of family cookouts. The houses stood empty and skeletal. Unattended vehicles littered desolate driveways, yellowed from pollen like a smoker's fingers.

The sun disappeared behind an eastward-moving canopy of overcast, as though a stage curtain had drawn closed on the premature summer. As thunder rolled across the land with ominous intent somewhere in the distance, the wind came in increasing gusts that sent eddies of dust swirling across their path like miniature twisters.

The Barrows' home appeared on the left, two-thirds of the way down Maple. Greg turned the truck into the driveway. A hostile edifice against the darkening skies, the garage loomed before them. He backed out and parked the truck facing away from the western dead end. In his heart, Evan didn't believe that he would ever set foot inside the truck again.

The first raindrop fell from the sky as they stepped into the driveway, splashing against dirt and stone where it left a wet shadow of itself. Thunder groaned in the distance, this time closer. Rory and Greg led the gang of four. The garage pulled them forward.

The front window to the crawlspace was boarded securely. As they rounded the structure and checked the back window, they found two planks warped with recent signs of removal. The vampire slept within—there was no longer any dispute. Mary shivered as if remembering of the thing that had pursued her out of the basement.

The garage’s back window rested several feet off the ground with no way to reach it, but they found the side room unlocked.

The ceiling inside was a maze of spider and cobwebs. Wilted from lack of water, flowers and vegetable plants were spread across a table in containers. As something small scurried into the garage at their arrival, they found vermin droppings covering the floor. A wooden ladder in the near corner led to a trapdoor in the ceiling.

Rory grasped the rungs and began to climb.

“Slow down,” Greg said. “Let's be smart about this.”

“You haven't lost anyone,” Rory said. “I don't expect you to understand.”

He threw his weight into the trap door, but it wouldn't budge.

“Shit! Locked.”

“This thing is careful. I'll give it that,”said Evan.

“We're gonna have to pry the door open,” said Rory.

“Easier said than done,” Evan said, and pointed to the rusted nails which protruded through the ceiling boards. The door was nailed shut from within.

As though to remind them of their insignificance under the angry sky, thunder shook the room. Wind buffeted the structure, and the west window rattled within its pane.

As a dark consternation came over Mary, she clutched the cross in her hands until her knuckles turned white, turning the strangely glowing symbol over in her hand. When Greg centered his eyes on the cross, goosebumps broke out across his skin.

Evan checked the vacated garage and found a pry bar on the far wall.

“That should do the trick,” Rory said.

Rory reached for the tool, but Greg snatched it away.

“We're going to take this nice and slow Rory,” Greg said. “There are more than three hours til sunset. It's not going anywhere.”

Greg located a small picnic bench tipped against the wall and placed it under the ladder. The added height and stability underfoot gave him the leverage that he wouldn't have had hanging from the rungs. He fitted the end of the pry bar into the crack between the trapdoor and the ceiling and carefully tested its strength. The seal was tight.

“I'm going to put some force behind it. Be ready.”

As Greg strained against the pry bar, the door, warped by decades of hot and cold cycles, budged a quarter of inch. The wood squealed like fingernails on a chalkboard, the surrounding ceiling boards splintering and cracking.

“Dammit. This whole thing could come down on us.”

Greg wiped the sweat from his eyes. Evan stepped onto the bench.

“Let me give it a try.”

As the room flashed with hot light, thunder exploded very close to the garage, like a bomb. It shook the walls and sent their hearts racing. The storm struck the garage with torrents of rain and hail that beat against the windows and walls like artillery fire. As though their trunks were made of rubber, trees bent against the wind's fury.

No longer hearing the thunder, Mary ignored the storm. She stared at the ceiling, beyond the crawlspace floorboards. What lurked beyond looked back at her, with hurricane lantern eyes and a Cheshire Cat grin. Her body began to tremble. It was all she could do to speak.

“We're all going to die in there.”

Disgust spreading across his face, Rory glanced at her and quickly disregarded her, turning his attention back to Evan’s struggle with the trapdoor. Rory appeared tired of the waiting, the excuses, and the petulant worrying.

Evan grunted and pushed against the bar. The door shrieked, rising another half inch, as dust cascaded down on his face and left a gritty taste on his lips.

“I've almost got it.”

“Let me do it,” Rory said, pushing past Greg and Evan.

Evan stumbled backward into a wall of tools. Hot pain spread across his back as a pair of garden shears opened his flesh. Greg rushed to him, his stomach churning as the line of blood welling across the back of Evan's shirt. The laceration was deep. Greg removed his own shirt, then ripped off the undershirt and wound it upon itself until it was tight. He gritted his teeth and pulled Evan's shirt upward, revealing the blood which poured from the elongated wound, the skin flapping grotesquely against his hand. He pressed the wrapped shirt to Evan's back, and then Mary came to their side, applying constant pressure to the wound.

“Jesus Christ, Rory. What have you done?”

As Greg looked warily at the overhead boards, something heavy shifted its weight above the ceiling, and more dust and dirt rained through the boards.

“I hear you up there, you fucker!”

Rory's eyes were wild and distant. Hate burned through them, black as coal. As he strained against the bar, the boards screamed in agony and the door wedged upward another quarter inch.

Rory threw his full weight against the bar, his skin crimson. Veins protruded from his neck like snakes coiling around prey.

Wood squealed against wood, followed by a loud popping noise. The nails gave way, the aged binding finally relenting. The door flew open to an alien dimension of absolute black.

Greg paused in his attending to Evan's wound and looked up through the ceiling.

The darkness that rolled out of the crawlspace first grabbed hold of the edges to the trapdoor with searching fingers, and then plunged outward like a black tidal wave that would drown them where they stood.

A stagnant odor drifted downward, followed by a more foul scent. Something skittered across the floor above their heads, perhaps rats blinded by generations of darkness.

As Mary's hands trembled—one hand applying pressure to Evan's wound, the other gripping the cross to her chest—her eyes fixed on the opening to the crawlspace.

“Hold on just a second, Rory,” Greg said. “Let me finish this, and we'll go in together.”

“I've waited long enough. I'm going to kill this thing.”

Rory pulled himself up the rungs. His head disappeared into the crawlspace.

“Dammit, Rory. Give me a second to—”

A louder skittering came from overhead, as though something huge moved across the ceiling of the crawlspace. Then a wicked laugh, and Rory's body shot into the crawlspace.

“No!” Mary screamed at the black hole.

Rory screamed. A horrible crunching noise followed, like egg shells breaking. As crimson fluid poured through the cracks, Greg doubled-over from nausea. Thunder pealed overhead, the windows rattling against the building storm.

There was a thud from above and then a sliding noise which trailed away. The thing dragged Rory into the depths of the crawlspace. A moment later they heard Rory's body hit the floor in the far corner.

Then the boards groaned as something heavy approached the trapdoor. The monster was coming.

Lips quivering, Mary backed herself against the outer door.

“It's okay,” Greg said. “It can't come down. It can't come into the light.”

But there was a hint of doubt in his voice. If the storm left the inner room dark enough that the vampire could descend the rungs, there would be no escape. It would hover over them, a monster out of their darkest nightmares.

The sounds stopped at the trapdoor. It was then that they were sure the monster would drop through the opening. They would look into its hideous face, and their symbols and weapons would be useless against it.

There was a moment of silence within, and even the storm seemed to abate in anticipation of the vampire's appearance.

The trapdoor slammed shut. The thing laughed and crawled back into the depths.

Three

Finding the Barrows' home still unlocked, Greg located a first-aid kit in the upstairs bathroom. He bandaged and taped Evan’s wound, and while it still stung like hell, the bleeding had stopped, and he had regained some mobility.

They were soaked from the storm. The rain had been a deluge during the brief run from the garage to the house, and Evan had slowed them considerably.

As Greg replayed Rory's death in his mind, he thought that maybe it was better this way. Perhaps Rory and Evelyn were together again, someplace safe, where nightmares did not walk the land.

It was 6:20 p.m. Sixty minutes until sunset.

As though pieces of cotton had been shredded and left to float lifelessly through the heavens, the storm moved east and left behind a tattered sky of cloud and blue. The sun emerged through the morass of broken pieces, and already its resultant color had turned golden as it was pulled against its will toward the western horizon. As the uphill creek jumped its banks and rushed downhill, rivers of blood cascaded through the backyards, the water’s color altered by the amber sunset.

While Mary stayed with Evan in the kitchen, Greg revisited the garage, feeling the presence above him. He sensed how the monster loathed him, how it craved him. The vampire would soon be released from its daytime prison, and they would all be finished. The second-hand on his wristwatch moved in double time.

As he searched the side room, he found nothing but the garden tools and implements they had discovered earlier. The single-car garage was unoccupied. Wrought with mildew, an old desk was thrown into the back corner, and several lawn chairs which the Barrows' family would not be enjoying this summer were piled along the far wall.

He had all but given up hope when he located what he sought in the very back of the garage. He smelled the gasoline can before he saw its spouted neck wedged between a wall and a self-propelled lawnmower. The gas was surely stale from the long winter, but that mattered not for his purposes.

As Greg returned to the house with the gas can in hand, Mary rechecked Evan's bandages in the kitchen. He plopped the can down on the counter.

“Found it. We'll burn it alive.”

Evan nodded.

“We had better start immediately. As soon as the sun sets...”

“I know. We're running out of time,” Greg said.

“There's also all of the moisture to deal with outside. It's not going to be easy to keep the fire going.”

“Agreed. Which is why we are going to start the fire from inside the garage.”

“That's risky. You sure as hell better be certain you don't trap yourself inside.”

“I'll douse the inner walls of the garage, then lay a trail out through the side room toward the door. I'll light it from there, then step outside.”

“That should work. Then we can all get the hell out of here?”

“You bet.”

Greg turned to Mary.

“How does he look?”

“You did a good job with the bandages,” she said. “If he doesn't try to do too much,” and she gave Evan a knowing look, “he should be fine until he gets proper stitches.”

It was already 6:40 p.m.

As the sun drifted behind the clouds again, a cool shadow fell over the Barrows' home. The sun reemerged at a lower angle in variegated ruby, like jewels of the devil. The sun seemed to accelerate its downward drift, as though it had made a secret arrangement with the night to conspire against them.

At 6:45 p.m, they entered the garage.

They sensed that the thing knew they were below the floorboards, though they doubted it knew what they intended. Casting elongated doppelgangers eastward across the garage, the trees sent long shadows across the yard. It occurred to Evan as they crept within the dappled light that it might already be dark enough for the vampire to survive outside the crawlspace, if it kept to the shadowed corners below.

A colder thought occurred to him. What if the monster is here with us in the garage right now, waiting unseen in the corners where the light is thwarted by the walls? The glass windows of the garage door faced due north, where ambient light danced and died at the threshold. Was the shadow sufficient for the thing’s survival?

The air was difficult to breathe, awash with stale fuel. Where the wind failed to reach, the odor stagnated within the structure's walls. Red puddles sank into the floor under the trapdoor, causing Mary to gag.

Evan looked up, seeing not the crawlspace floorboards but Rory somewhere beyond, piled in a corner, bled out, eyes lifeless. Soon those eyes would fill with malevolence. Rory would rise again with the night.

Not Rory. I won't allow it to happen to him.

The side room opened into the garage. As ambient light filtered in from the windows to their left, the gray turned murky and faded to shadow within a few yards of the door. The remainder of the garage, including the path directly forward, could not have been blacker. Dust motes sparkled down through the four small windows across the garage door, and then all illumination perished within the gloom.

The vampire could be anywhere within. Waiting.

They had discovered a pack of matches within the Barrows' kitchen drawers. Only four remained, but Evan had no choice but to strike one. Lighting their way forward, the fire threw an orange glow into the abyss. The light withered five yards away.

As the stagnant air pressed down on him, the enclosed confines exaggerated the sounds of his breathing until it was all he heard. His eyes were slow to adjust to the murk, every outline at the edge of his vision screaming danger.

Evan flung the low-burning match to the ground when the heat licked at his thumb. Only three matches remained. He couldn't risk lighting another.

For one terrifying moment they saw nothing ahead of them. Then Greg's eyes readjusted, and he began to see familiar shapes—the lawnmower near the back of the garage where he had found the gas can, the dust-covered lawn chairs, a spare set of tires he had noticed in the far corner.

“Stand back,” said Greg.

He popped the cap off the gas can spout and pulled the plug on the air flow. As the volatile liquid sloshed around inside the plastic container, he swung the can forward and splashed the back wall with the pungent fuel. Evan and Mary shuffled backward across the dirt floor, making room for Greg to douse the east wall.

He reversed course and splashed fuel across the west wall, then walked along the barrier back toward the side room, coating as much of the wall as he could with what little fuel remained. While the dappled light in the side room was blinding in comparison to the darkened garage, he sensed that it was fading quickly.

A heavy weight shifted overhead. The boards groaned.

The vampire knows what we are up to.

Something heavy moved toward the trapdoor. Greg's mouth went dry. At any moment the monster would rip the door asunder.

Through the tall trees pressed thin strands of sunlight, lighthouse beacons which offered them salvation. Mary stood in the closed doorway, the dying rays of the sun brushing the tops of her shoulders.

“Stand within the light. It cannot reach you here,” she said.

But the light was nearly snuffed. Though sunset was still twenty minutes away, the tree and ridge line to the west blocked the rays long before the sun was dragged below the horizon. As Greg backed into the side room splattering a trail of gasoline, he was aware of the thing's presence above, hovering over them, ready to strike.

“Hurry,” Evan said.

As Mary opened the door, allowing the overpowering stench of fuel to disperse in the evening air, Evan breathed for the first time in what seemed to have been an eternity. Greg tossed the nearly empty container into the depths of the garage and bent down at the gas trail's end. With Evan kneeling beside him to provide a shield from the wind, Greg struck the match.

He threw the first match into the fuel trail, and a blue flame danced forward and fizzled. The wind sheared the flame apart before it fully caught the fuel. Now only two matches remained.

Greg struck the second match and walked it inside the room a few feet to reduce the wind effects. It was silent in the crawlspace, but he could feel the thing's evil poised overhead. As the match caught the trail with greater vigor, flames spread toward the garage, but also toward the door under his legs. When the fire caught his pant leg, he leaped backward into the grass to pat it out before the flame reached his skin.

A whoosh emanated from inside the garage, rendering the far wall in sharp detail within the flickering glow. As they retreated into the backyard, a virulent mix of torrid fumes rushed through the doorway.

“Go,” Greg said, and they turned for the driveway.

The flames roared higher behind them, the air a mix of gasoline and wood burning. Something crashed in the side room, and Greg was sure the vampire had descended from the crawlspace, but it was just the crash as the flower table collapsing. Just a little longer and the flames would engulf the upstairs.

Fifteen minutes until sunset.

A great weight shifted overhead and began to move, erratically darting across the crawlspace floorboards—to the back window, where the final glowing embers of sunlight washed across the walls; to the front window, where a haze of slate gray waited dangerously beyond the boards; to the opening in the floor, where smoke billowed upward, flames licking at the floorboards like the tongues of wyverns.

The flames raged higher. Time had run out for the lord of all vampires.

As a horrifying roar from somewhere within the crawlspace curdled their blood, they raced toward the truck. Black smoke billowed out of the garage, like a dragon breathing. They heard the rasp of nails being torn from wood, the planks exploding from the north-facing window.

“It can't...Evan, it can’t come into the light!” Mary screamed, but the shake in her voice bellied her conviction.

The sun was behind the ridge line now. Cast in a nondescript gray, the ambient light at the front of the garage seemed to hide as much as it revealed.

As the heat shattered the windows of the garage door, they climbed into the truck, and Greg started the engine. The way forward grew dim, dusk already beginning in the eastern sky. Greg shifted the truck into drive when Greg saw something large drop from the north window of the crawlspace. His mind may have played tricks on him, but he thought smoke rose off of the shadowed form, as though another source of heat had captured the shape in its descent.

It's burning from the light.

As quickly as the huge shadow fell to the earth, it bounded east through the neighboring yard. A window shattered out of view.

“The vampire!”

Evan's eyes were wild with panic.

“Impossible. The goddamn sun hasn't set!” yelled Greg.

The truck lurched to a stop.

“It's in the houses.”

From the crawlspace came another scream—a human scream, trilling with pain and fear. Greg felt his stomach lurch. Rory Dickson was burning to death.

Behind the truck, the soil pulled the sun into its depths. The flames burst in a final crescendo, as though sending a distress signal. Darkness rushed toward Storberry.

Four

As the fiery sun accelerated toward the western horizon, Renee paced the front windows to the farmhouse like a caged animal. Unwilling to accept that the other group members would not return, she had wanted to give them just a little more time before she departed with Tom and Jen.

Her procrastination had cost them dearly. Time had slipped away, as though the fates had robbed the minutes from her while she wrestled with indecision. In a matter of moments the shadows would spread westward. Already they pooled in the sheltered meadow east, like apparitions waiting to take flight.

As though she could will the others to return sooner, she opened the wooden door and stood at the screen. The song of peepers and crickets had already begun. The post-storm air smelled fresh, carrying the scent of ozone and a cleansing humidity. While the teenagers watched her with consternation from the living room, she sighed and turned to them, unable to disguise her building sorrow.

“They're not coming back.”

There. She had said it.

The statement didn't mollify her. If anything it made her feel worse. Though she hadn't known Evan for more than a few days, she had grown fond of him. He was a kindred spirit, someone she believed she could grow old with. As she thought back to their time together at Mary's café, she recalled how alive he had made her feel.

As familiar as the streets she once traveled to the library each morning, the other members of their ragtag group had become a part of her. They couldn't be gone. She didn't want to believe. But it seemed to her that the entire town had gone to the grave, and that they would soon follow if they didn't act now.

“What are we going to do?” Jen asked, watching the light push westward across the fields.

“If we don't leave now we'll be trapped in here ‘til morning. And it's almost dark.”

Suddenly the old farmhouse seemed much larger to Renee. Its cold hardwood floors, its dark passages, the unexplored attic, the basement and root cellar. She looked outside toward the wind-torn barn and tool house. She had felt safe here at the northernmost outskirts of town…or perhaps she had merely thought herself secure, misled by the perceived safety in their numbers. But now they were only three.

The monsters would come. Eventually there would be nowhere in Storberry to hide.

Peering out at the gloom spreading across the meadow, Tom stood in the dappled light of the sun’s last stand.

“They would have waited for us. If the situation were reversed, they would have stayed until we returned.”

“And if they don't return?” asked Jen.

“What if they do?”

“We can get to Winchester Road inside of fifteen minutes,” Renee said. “If we are lucky, we'll hit the interstate before nine o'clock.”

Jen joined him at the window.

“Tom?”

He had promised to keep her safe, to never leave her. When he had first said it, he had meant that he would not leave her alone until her parents returned. So much had befallen them since. He now knew that he had intended much more—a larger promise had been made. The deep blue of twilight spread out of the eastern sky, demanding that he answer.

“Let's go.”

The coolness of the air surprised them. The temperature had dropped considerably since before the storm. False summer had departed, leaving them alone under the darkening sky. As the ground squished beneath their feet where the deluge had saturated the terrain, the humidity remained thick like an invisible mist. A northwest wind chilled their skin, a reminder that winter was never too far away at this time of the year.

As they climbed into the front seat of Doug Masterson's truck, Tom handed Renee the keys. The engine roared to life. Fear gripped Renee, imagining a monster’s decrepit form bursting from the open barn.

As Renee cast one final look at the old farmhouse, regret flowed through her. She realized with a sadness which struck her deep in her belly that she’d fallen in love with Evan Moran. Now she was abandoning him.

He's gone.

The cavernous farmhouse looked down on her with empty eyes, darkness engulfing the home's interior. The neighboring barn faded into obscurity with the dying light, and a chill feeling of being watched came over her. When the truck pulled out of the driveway, she was relieved to leave the farm behind.

Five

When the dirt had swallowed the sun whole and the land was awash in gunmetal gray, another window shattered from the backyards of Maple Street. Something vile entered the night to hunt. The vampire was free to roam the land again, the sun's fire fully extinguished.

Cutting through the evening chill, the heat of the crawlspace fire followed the shifting winds toward the sidewalk. The orange glow of the blaze consumed the garage, a Halloween pumpkin crumbling earthward. By now there should have been a throng of firefighters on the scene. From the high elevation of Maple Street, the blaze would be visible throughout the town, yet no one came. Not so much as a fire alarm blared in recognition.

“There’s no way that thing escape unscathed. It has to be hurt. Otherwise it would have come for us immediately,” Evan said.

His grim features were muted in the fading light.

“You're going to open that wound of yours again,” Greg said. “It's time to get you off your feet. We can't face this thing at night, whether it's hurt or not. I say we get the hell out of here while we still can. Before more of them appear.”

A tree branch snapped behind a nearby house. Swinging her head toward the noise, Mary watched the shadows of the night expand toward them from all directions.

Evan clutched his head in frustration. “We'll never get another shot at it like this. If we press after it—”

“We'll be killed. Hell, Evan, you don't know that it is injured at all. What you saw could have been smoke off the garage.”

“The light injured that thing. I'm sure of it.”

“It was strong enough to survive. That's all I need to know. Now let's go.”

Mary followed Greg without argument. Sensing the evil awakening throughout the neighborhood, the cross thrummed in her pocket. Hairs stood on the back of her neck. Evan relented, apparently feeling the vampire’s presence, too.

But they were already out of time. A loud thump came from above their heads, several houses east, like a large animal pouncing.

Then another, this time closer. A third thud and then a skittering sound across the roof shingles.

The outline of man took form above them. As the flames crackled through a hole in the neighboring garage roof, casting the figure in ocher, they saw him perched atop the roof like a crow, a long object in his hands.

The end of the held object exploded with a brief burst of light, and the rifle’s bullet ripped through Greg’s kneecap. As he shrieked in pain and fell to the sidewalk just ten yards from the police truck, Evan rushed to cover him, the suppressing fire forcing him to his stomach. Mary was somewhere near the front of the truck, prone on the pavement.

Another blast flattened the passenger-side front tire. The windows of the truck exploded. Evan realized the figure's intentions. It meant to strand them here.

When there were no more shots for it to fire, the figure threw the rifle down and leaped from the roof, as Evan crawled to the fallen police chief.

Greg didn’t move.

Evan reached Greg just as the figure landed catlike on his feet in the front yard. As the chief stared back at him with lifeless eyes, Evan saw that there was a hole in his forehead, blood following gravity down the sides of his face. When did that happen? There had been so many shots that he hadn't seen the bullet which found its mark with impossible precision.

Mary shrieked out of his line of vision. It might have been a scream of horror had he not recognized the loathing which pervaded it. Paying no heed to the sniveling woman prone in the street, the figure had made a beeline for Evan. The figure hadn't underestimated her as much as it had completely disregarded her. It never expected her wrath.

As Mary plunged forward, driving the stake deep into Doug Masterson's heart, the force of her momentum slammed him into the waterlogged earth. Blood poured out of his mouth. Razor-sharp teeth snapped toward her neck, but her forward momentum saved her, and she tumbled over him.

His own stake retrieved, Evan drove the sharpened end through Masterson's skull, at precisely the same location that the thing's bullet had torn Greg's life away. Masterson’s legs convulsed, and then he lay still.

Evan rolled to his back, his breath coming in short gasps. Kneeling in the grass several feet away, Mary lowered her face into her hands and began to sob.

Overhead the clouds shifted, and the pearl beam of the moon shone brightly upon them. As he lay panting, surrounded by death, Evan looked into the glowing face and wondered what god it served.

Six

The sound of tree branches snapping behind the houses alerted Evan and Mary that they had to move. It wasn't the thin racket of twigs but the gunshot echoes of small tree trunks fractured by a monster. They knew what came for them.

As she pulled him to his feet, Evan straightened his back, feeling a severe burning sensation as though the flesh across the small of his back was afire. Footfalls grew louder, moving down the slope from somewhere near the Barrows' yard. The crackling red of the crawlspace glowed between the houses, burning like the gates of hell.

They ran eastward. The way ahead was dark and foreboding, blackness dispersed by shallow pools of lamplight at regular intervals. Between the pools lay dangerous shadows. Tree branches were gnarled claws, leaning bushes ghosts that could detach themselves from the gloom. Soulless houses whirred past in a blur of gray.

Following parallel and maybe three or four houses behind them, the beast cut across the backyards. Thunderous footfalls were interrupted by irregular crashes, and Mary imagined swing sets and picnic tables being thrown aside.

As Evan ran on instinct alone, there seemed no hope for escape, not with so many monsters haunting the neighborhood. Yet none had come for them since Masterson, as though they too cowered from the ghoul that had slept within the garage crawlspace. So he continued to run, despite the burning in his lungs and the tearing sensation from his reopened wound.

Something made of glass shattered in the yards behind them as the creature followed. The monster was further back, Evan thought. They had opened some ground between it and them.

At the end of Maple Street, a faint sliver of gray in the moonlight marked the pathway to Becks Pond off to the right. The pavement wound left toward the sharp curve atop Blakely Hill. Ahead stood a thicket of trees and undergrowth, maybe one hundred yards deep.

“This way,” Evan said.

He pulled her toward the thicket, not believing they could traverse the entire expanse of dense foliage in the dark. His hope was that they could lose the thing within its concealment. It was a risk he felt he had to take. Their lungs would not support the speed of their flight much longer, but if they were found crouched within the trees, there would be no escape.

Desiring to stay within a reasonable distance of Blakely, he angled to the left. The hill was their eventual path toward escape if they could elude the thing a little longer, but the ground beneath them was waterlogged from the thunderstorm, and the mud threatened to suck their sneakers into its depths. For the first few minutes Evan thought he had made a grave mistake. But they slogged through the muck, their hearts pounding through their chests from overexertion.

They stopped at a large spruce tree. The needled branches were three feet off the ground and offered just enough headroom for them to crouch under. Mary moved to the base of the trunk and wrapped her arms around the trunk, as a frightened child would her father's leg. As they listened for signs of their pursuer, Evan knelt next to her, their bodies vague outlines in the darkened concealment.

The air inside the boughs was rich with sweet pine. Katydids and crickets chirped in a vast chorus across the thicket. A night bird called from halfway up the spruce. There were no other sounds except for their shallow breathing.

Evan felt his heart rate slow. The burning began to subside, but he struggled against a frightening desire to cough. He recalled years of jogging during his youth and how he would cough for half an hour afterward when he was starting out after a long layoff. The sensation tickled in his chest and lungs as if he had swallowed a family of butterflies. If I cough now, it will echo across the thicket as a beacon to our position.

They heard their pursuer. It had followed them into the thicket but turned right where they had veered left. It became difficult to judge the monster’s position due to the sound bouncing off the expanse of trees, but Evan estimated it to be near the pathway to Becks Pond. For a moment the footfalls seemed to be headed right at them, but he realized the echoes were distorting the distance and making the sounds seem to be everywhere at once.

As his eyes adjusted enough to make out her facial features, he thought anew about the woman who, minutes earlier, had saved him from Doug Masterson, her resolve in this nightmare knowing no boundaries. He thought of the police chief and the military veteran. Of Randy. So many friends had fallen. And yet here she was—a true survivor.

He leaned close to her and whispered.

“That thing is almost a hundred yards from us now. I think we can make a break for the road.”

She nodded. “Where are the other vampires?”

“I don't know. It's like they all cleared out. Maybe they fear that thing as much as we do.”

He winced.

“How's your back holding up.”

“It's bleeding. But it's not going to slow me down.”

Regretting the need to leave the concealment of the spruce, he raised himself into a crouch against the lowest bough of the tree. Helping Mary off her knees, they crept into the heart of the thicket.

The prolonged exposure to the deeper darkness inside the spruce had sharpened their vision. Trees and undergrowth were revealed in greater detail despite the overhead leaves which choked out much of the moonlight. The soggy terrain, as uncomfortable as it was, helped to mute the crunch of twigs underfoot.

The way forward was riddled with obstacles. Bramble—nature’s barbed wire—spread throughout, preventing a straight path to the road and forcing them to double back repeatedly. All the while Evan listened for the thing that stalked them through the night. It terrified him that he could no longer hear it. Perhaps the monster was halfway to the hill forest.

Or maybe it is behind the next tree. Waiting for us.

Evan began to worry that the doubling back may have caused them to lose their way, but then he saw the silver glow of the road some thirty yards ahead through a mass of trees.

Mary saw it, too. “There it is.”

Evan nodded. They had indeed lost their path within the thicket. He recognized the sharpness of the curve, far along on Blakely Hill. They must have wandered at least fifty yards to the north of their intended track. Better that they had migrated north, rather than south toward Becks Pond.

The silvery road became a sort of finish line, inspiring them to rush forward to escape the thicket. Still they kept to a slow pace, careful to walk on the wet leaves and avoid branches which would snap underfoot and give them away.

They broke out of the thicket minutes later to the sound of gurgling water within a steep ditch drop-off along the road. Evan leaped across first, and then helped Mary cross.

Encased in trees to each side, the road swung around to the right. It was a half-mile walk until Blakely veered left into a decline which would take them into downtown. For now, there was only the moonlight to guide them.

Two solid strips of yellow ran down the center of the road. Drawn by the memory of work crews and civilization, they walked along the painted divider.

Mary couldn't remember the last time she had seen another vehicle on the road other than the teens fleeing down Blakely.

Where had everyone disappeared to? The hardware store had been busy the day after the wind struck. Had those people returned home to perceived safety, and then heard something shift in a darkened closet? Or had the terror begun at sunset? It was possible that many residents still lived, but had gone into hiding once they realized what stalked the night.

As she prayed that they were not the last living souls in Storberry and that a world awaited them beyond the town’s borders, she wondered where Renee and the two teens were now. If they had followed the plan to exit Storberry before sunset, had they found safety?

Younger trees beyond the ditches leaned inward toward the road, giving the impression of walls which might topple over and block their path. As the moon reflected off the wet pavement in shiny rivulets, and the straightaway beyond the curve stretched away until it disappeared into gloom, they watched the trees closely, listening for the monster.

The road crested, street lights ahead revealing where the road veered left and steepened toward Main Street. The familiarity of the scenery reassured them, quickening their pace. Greg had thought the police station eliminated, but Mary maintained a sliver of hope that it was still there. Then the night sounds faded, and Mary tried to convince herself that they were too far from the thicket to hear the shrill insects.

As they started down the decline, they heard the vampire crashing through the thicket, small trees snapping like firecrackers from a hundred yards away. The monster had found them again.

Seven

Renee peered through the windshield at the crumbled remains of the old telephone exchange building along Jensen Road. The deformed ham radio tower lay next to it, a fallen paladin. As the high beams painted their path forward in silver tones, the outline of the hill forest blanketed the rear-view mirror like a humpbacked monster that threatened to swallow the town whole.

County route 16 was less than a mile away, then Winchester Road and a familiar maze of secondary roads and highways which would take her to the interstate. It was not far now.

Seeing the town lights of Storberry fade into distant stars, Renee felt the loss of Evan Moran more sharply now. As she glanced at Jen and Tom, she wondered what lay ahead for all of them. I-95 would take them south to Rocky Mount, but she knew not what they would find there.

Maybe all would be normal and they would check into one of those chain hotels with free HBO and a continental breakfast. The desk clerk would chalk their disheveled appearance up to the travails of interstate travel, and then they would be surrounded by families making the trek to Cinderella's Castle via Mobil gas stations and The Waffle House.

She wouldn't let herself believe otherwise. There simply had to be coffee shops, fast-food joints, families paying top dollar to ride plastic soap dishes endlessly through Disney World, and umpires yelling Play Ball!

For if Storberry's plight was but a microcosm of what was happening in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles...

…if undead farmers rode through the fields of Kansas upon reapers, striking down rye and children with indiscriminate lust...if the sands off Rehoboth were stained crimson...if Boston’s Callahan Tunnel was permanently jammed—abandoned vehicles like metallic pill bugs that rusted insouciantly within the darkness, fluorescent fixtures buzzing like bees, a path winding aimlessly forward...

She refused to believe the insanity of Storberry awaited them outside its borders. If she began to believe such a thing, she would not be able to will the truck forward another inch.

As the town's lights became a dim glow in the rear view mirror, she turned onto county route 16 with a cold understanding that the truth of the outside world's fate would soon be known to them. The truck traveled through the countryside, the solid yellow line of the single lane road stretching to infinity.

Doing the math in her head, she estimated there remained five minutes to Winchester Road and another forty-five minutes to the interstate. They would be surrounded by traveling families in under an hour, none of them aware of the tragedy which had befallen the speck on the map thirty miles from civilization.

Instinctively, she reached for the radio knob, almost curious to know what Doug Masterson had programmed into his six AM and FM slots. When the radio crackled to life, she was relieved beyond expression to hear that Dolly Parton was still thinking about love. Her excitement growing, she tuned the radio to the left and found an all-news channel out of Raleigh. Tears streamed down her face. The stock market was up today. Straw polls suggested that Margaret Thatcher would win a third term come June. The St. Louis Cardinals had the best spring training record in baseball, and experts projected them to compete for the National League East title.

Life exists.

As she looked to her right, seeing Tom and Jen laughing and holding one another, for a fleeting second she considered returning to Storberry. Her optimism brimmed. There was a chance that the others were still alive. She could bring them back to the world.

But she couldn't put the teens at additional risk. The light at the end of the tunnel was before them, and she was damn sure going to get them to safety. She pressed her foot on the accelerator and—

She didn't see the tractor and attached hay cart until it was too late.

Life froze for her, like an abstract painting: the tractor in the middle of the road, representing some hidden meaning she couldn't discern; the yellow road stripe leading directly into it, forcing the viewer's eye to follow along; the split second before the violent conclusion; time frozen; all color lost in the silver beams.

Tires squealed against the road, and then the front grille exploded against the metallic bulk of the tractor. Something crashed through the front window, maybe fragments of the tractor's steering wheel. The truck flipped and landed on the driver's side, metal shrieking across the pavement's surface, as the truck continued to ridiculously slide forward, as though it meant to continue all the way to the interstate.

Leaving a trail of orange sparks behind it, the truck finally came to rest on the shoulder of the oncoming lane, the front end leaning into a ditch and the back end tilted upward like a whale tail.

Renee Tennant was dead on impact.

Eight

Tom awoke fifteen minutes later. He blinked twice, not sure where he was or why he was perched sideways. Then the crash replayed in his mind.

Panicking, he surveyed his surroundings.

The front windshield had fallen in on the driver's side, and the center and passenger side of the safety glass was riddled with multiple puncture holes, concentric spider webs crawling outward from each. The sky was a mix of stars and clouds, through which the moon shone a dim glaze of gray across the pavement. Grass grew in clumps out of the top of the ditch where the terrain leveled out, leading to an old, single-story home. A light glimmered in the front window. A small silo and barn framed the residence from behind.

The driver's side window was shattered. As he listened to water gurgling through the ditch, he saw Renee's head resting against the rocks, as though she was sleeping comfortably within the calming brook. But her neck was bowed grotesquely, and blood was splayed across her face. Jen lay crumpled against Renee. They had all been wearing their seat belts, Renee and Tom with the benefit of shoulder straps. Only a waist strap existed in the middle seat, but it had held Jen.

He didn’t see her breathing.

His stomach dropped out from under him. He had lost her in an automobile accident after they had survived so much to this point. I didn't kept my promise to keep her safe. She was all he had left in the world, and now she was gone, too. As clouds drifted across the sky, vague shapes against a sparkling background, he wished to die with Jen and Renee.

Her lips vibrated.

Blood caked her upper lip and nostrils, obstructing her breathing and forcing her to inhale and exhale through her mouth. His heart raced. She was alive, and he might save her yet. But he couldn't know how badly she was injured. If she had internal injuries, it would be too dangerous to move her. He prayed that the bruising was superficial.

Tiny cuts zigzagged across her arms and legs. The remnants of the broken windshield existed as a mound of jewel-like pellets piled into the corner. He wouldn't shake her to bring her back from unconsciousness. That would be too risky given the lack of information he had to work with.

“Jen...Jen.”

As her lips rattled with each exhalation, she breathed with a soft wheeze while resting insentient against the broken form of Renee Tennant.

“Jen. We need to get out of here. Please wake up.”

A gust of wind shook the vehicle, but it remained securely wedged within the ditch. He examined himself for the first time. The left side of his ribcage hurt from where the seatbelt held him. Superficial scratches marked his legs and his left arm. His head throbbed, but his thoughts came clearly. At least I don’t have a concussion.

Feeling along his ribcage with his hands, he found it was ginger, but nothing was broken. He had full mobility of his arms and legs. A little bruising wouldn't slow him down.

Thinking the people inside the residence must have heard the crash, he wondered why no one had come to their aid.

Then he recalled the tractor and hay cart—the perfect roadblock. County route 16 was nearly impassible with the obstacle in its path. The ditches beyond the shoulder were too deep to traverse. A motorcycle could have slipped past with a little work but not a car or truck.

Who blocks the only eastern road leading in or out of Storberry? He began to worry.

The side windows to Doug Masterson's truck were controlled by hand cranks. As he grasped the handle and began to roll the window open, he met resistance, as though something was askew within the door. The window fell halfway open when he heard something pop within the door. The crank turned uselessly, the side window having detached itself from the cranking mechanism. The top lay at an awkward angle, the open space too small for him to crawl through.

He slipped out of the shoulder strap, keeping the waist strap buckled so that he wouldn't fall down the truck seat. He placed both hands on top of the side window and pulled down. He was careful not to pull inward, fearing the window would snap against the pressure.

The window barely budged. He rested a moment, trying to conserve his strength for the multiple step escape he now envisioned. Maybe if he could straighten the window, it might slide freely or re-engage with the crank. He pulled down on the left side where the window was angled higher. The glass resisted him for a moment, and then it seemed to pop back into place.

The lit windows of the isolated house watched him from a depthless sea of black. He shuddered, a cold dread descending on him.

The hand crank was still useless to him, but he was able to pull the window down with steady pressure. As though it had fallen into a mechanical abyss, the window gave way and dropped wholly into the door

Step One.

“Jen.”

She breathed through her mouth, lost within a dream.

There was no point to attempting to open the door, as gravity would just slam it shut again, probably at a precarious moment when his fingers were between the door and the truck.

As he clamped his right arm against the outside of the door to hold him in place, with his left hand he clicked the seat belt mechanism. The strap fell away, and he caught himself before he slid into her.

Grasping the door with his left hand to pull himself up, he strained against his own weight, feeling the hot pain in his ribs. He tugged his waist through the window. The truck was still wedged into the ditch, and he was thankful for its prodigious mass. No matter how much he jostled the vehicle, it didn't budge. He swung his legs out of the window and shifted his body around so that he lay across the open frame.

Step Two.

The flow chart branched in two directions at this point. The first option was that he drop to the pavement and try to find help. Knowing the farmer's tractor had blocked the roadway discouraged him from seeking aid at the house. Since the population of 16 and Winchester Road was sparse at best, there was no reason to wander up the road looking for help. He might wander for several hours before he found assistance.

Regardless, he had no intention of leaving her alone, and he wouldn't. However long it took, he would stay perched atop the window until she awoke or until help arrived by chance.

Or until something finds us.

“C'mon, Jen. We're almost out of this.”

He rested his head on his arm. His back ached as he lay planked across the open window. He had no idea how long he had lain unconscious, nor what time of night it was. The sky was black from horizon to horizon, which only told him that it was well after dusk and well before dawn.

She coughed, causing his hope to surge.

As Tom slid his body down the truck and ducked his head through the window, she coughed again and then came awake. She had panicked, her breathing coming in sharp gasps which would lead to hyperventilation if she continued.

“It's okay. It's okay, Jen. You're all right.”

She turned her head toward him. He looked like an apparition perched in silhouette across the window. For a moment, the terror in her eyes suggested that she thought he was a vampire, too, but his voice reassured her.

She noticed the broken body of Renee Tennant, and she began to sob.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God, she's—”

“Shhh. Slow down. There's nothing we can do for her now.”

“What happened to us?”

“There was an accident. The important thing is that we are still alive. But I need you to slow down and listen to me so I can get you out of here.”

The accident came back to her. The insanity of the tractor blocking the road from side-to-side. The screech of rubber against pavement. The jolt of the impact and the truck flipping to its side. The horrible squealing of metal.

“I can't move, Tom. There's no way I can crawl out from here.”

“Does your neck or back hurt? Can you move your legs?”

She complained of a dull pain down her neck and back, but that was to be expected considering what she had been through. Her arms and legs moved on command.

“They're fine.”

A wave of relief washed over him.

“Thank God. Hold tight. I'm going to get you out of there.”

He fumbled for the leather belt around his waist, unbuckled it, and pulled it free of the loops while holding himself steady with his left arm. He took hold of the buckled end in his right hand and dropped it into the truck.

“I'm not going to have enough leverage to pull you out with one arm. You’ll need to stretch up far enough to grab it and inch yourself up until you can grab the window frame.”

While the end of the belt dangled a few inches beyond her reach, she looked back at him doubtfully, still trusting that he knew what he was doing.

“Can't reach it.”

“You'll have to push off of her with your legs. Try to stand.”

The thought of propping her feet against Renee's broken body made her cringe, but there seemed to be no other way. Even if she tried to push herself off the steering wheel, she could only place one foot on the wheel at a time. And if she slipped, she would be in the dead woman's lap.

As she unbuckled the waist strap, gravity pulled her into Renee. Renee’s body was still warm, and for a moment she held out hope that the woman was still alive. But she had seen Renee's warped neck. She silently apologized to the woman who had been so good to her and shifted her body on the seat until her feet were planted against Renee's side.

She slowly straightened her legs, her body inching upward until the leather touched the tips of her fingers. She grasped the lifeline.

“Got it.”

“Good. Now look, my back isn't going to hold up much longer. The best I can do is to hold the belt while you use it to crawl out. There's no way I can pull you up from this angle. Try to plant your feet against the seat back. Just don't make any sudden jerks, or you'll rip my shoulder out of its socket.”

Jen lifted her right foot off of Renee's body and pressed it against the back of the seat until it felt secure. Trying her best to avoid any sharp movements that might injure him, she twisted her body, until she faced the rear of the truck with both feet planted into the seat back. She began to inch her way up the cab.

His shoulder screamed against the resistance. He didn't think he could hold her weight, but then he saw the determination in her eyes, and he knew he would not fail her. The half minute he supported her weight seemed like hours, but then the tension on the belt gave way and she grasped the outside of the window with her left hand.

“You're almost there, Jen. Now, I want you to carefully let go of the belt and grab the bottom of the window with your right hand. But keep your feet against the seat so you don't slip down.”

She had to get it right the first time. He didn't think his shoulder could handle a second attempt. With her legs shaking like a newborn calf's, she released her grip on the belt and grasped the window before she lost balance. Panting, she held on with trembling arms.

“I'm going to grab your arms now and pull you forward until you can balance yourself on the window frame.”

Her legs continued to shake. Her arms burned with muscle fatigue.

“I'm not strong enough.”

“Yes, you are. Just think about getting out of there. It will be over in a few seconds.”

He swung his body to the side so that his legs were draped across the back side of the truck, using his arms and mass to pull her forward through the window. She hung precariously out of the window, sure she was going to fall headfirst into the rocky ditch, but he dropped to the ditch below her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

Catching her breath, she pulled her legs through the window to sit on the edge of the frame. She dropped into the ditch, her sneakers soaking through within the flowing creek. She was free.

Step Three complete.

They bounced out of the ditch onto the unkempt lawn fronting the farmhouse. He hugged her against him, and they held each other for a long time without speaking. Like specters, dappled shadows drifted through the grass as the moon moved in and out of clouds. The field across the road had vanished into a building fog, the saturated terrain condensing into the crisp night.

“Where the hell are we?” she asked.

“Somewhere on route 16. A long way from town. Not that I'd consider going back.”

She nodded in agreement, and—

She gasped.

She saw a face in the farmhouse window, but it had disappeared behind the wall.

“There's somewhere in there, Tom.”

As he looked at the farmhouse, the orange glow of a lone lamp shone through the window. Nobody was at window now, but he believed her. No, they would not find help here. The road blockage was deliberate. He was certain that it was meant to prevent anyone from entering or exiting Storberry, which meant that the person inside was either insane, or worse.

His flesh crawled with goosebumps, as though a black window had dropped down the back of his shirt. The night closed about them. Fog advanced out of the field to cross the road, an ethereal army of gray on the march.

The truck lay shattered in the ditch, the ghostly outline of Renee Tennant crumpled within. Several metallic pieces from the tractor were strewn across the pavement, though its main bulk stood unwavering, spun slightly on the center lane. The hay cart had disintegrated against the far ditch, its contents waiting to compost within the tall grass. County route 16 continued apathetic beyond the carnage and faded to black.

“We should go,” she said.

He nodded without taking his eyes off the farmhouse.

They jumped the ditch and walked along the left shoulder. As Tom glanced back at the tractor, the steadfast mountain of metal shrinking with each step forward, he recoiled from the prospect of another car discovering too late the massive roadblock.

No lights existed ahead. They would have to make do with the dim light of the moon. Winchester Road couldn't be too far ahead, but the gloom would be no less thick there.

Katydids chittered and crickets filled the night with song. As gravel crunched under their feet on the endless stretch of blacktop, the ocean of fog thickened below them until their legs vanished below their calves.

But there was another sound in the night.

Tom grabbed Jen, and they stopped on the shoulder.

Footsteps coming, not far behind.

A look of dread crossed her face, silver in the moonlight. He pulled her by the elbow, and they ran into the unknown.

Nine

As Blakely Hill leveled out near downtown, Mary looked behind to see the humongous shadow coming. From fifty yards away and closing on them, its silhouette towered above the lower tree branches framing the sidewalk.

The town center was straight ahead, but the storefronts were dessicated bodies of inactivity. The crosswalk sign commanded, DON’T WALK, in bloody red letters.

Evan glanced left and right at the juncture, looking for somewhere for them to hide. Mary realized she didn't even have the keys to her café with her.

They crossed the desolate intersection and raced toward their final vestige of hope: the police station around the corner from Washington Street.

Their legs became rubber bands that would not support their pace much longer. Lungs burned with exertion, and Evan's back tore with every jolt of foot against pavement. Halfway down Washington he glanced back to see the thing crossing the intersection, the red hue of the intersection traffic light revealing its ghoulish countenance in an eerie glow.

They cut right through an alley between two office buildings along an unlit pathway as shadows seemed to reach for them. When they passed a dumpster pockmarked with rust, which bled ocher in elongated drips, something shifted within at the sound of their coming, and Mary quivered at what lay waiting.

The alley opened to a lighted parking lot, fronted by two smaller buildings and another alley to the left. They cut through the lot, hoping they would throw the thing off their path. Mary turned back to see a shadow rise along the office building, growing against the wall.

The second alley deposited them onto the sidewalk of Court Street. The police station was less than one hundred yards away, not far from Jensen Road. They cut across rectangular lawns fronting the buildings along Court, avoiding the sidewalk and remaining within the shadows. The vampire hadn't found them yet, but Mary knew the monster would come for the fools who had attempted to kill it.

Overexertion gave way to the beginnings of nausea, yet they carried on even as their legs screamed at them to stop. Please let there be help inside, Mary silently prayed as the Storberry Police Department came into view.

As they pushed through the door, the overhead bell announcing their arrival, a wide-eyed officer with the badge name Kendrick turned on them with gun drawn. His eyes lacked conviction. His hand trembled, his face pallid and drawn.

Evan clutched the stake but quickly realized he was not facing evil. The graying officer was terrified.

“Who are you?” Kendrick asked.

“Friends of Greg Madsen,” Evan said.

“Thank God. Nobody has seen the chief since yesterday. Do you know where he is?”

“Dead,” Mary said.

The officer went limp, all hope lost in his eyes.

“Are there any more officers here?” Evan asked.

“No...no...well, yes...there's Stultsy. But he's s-sick. Awfully sick.”

“Is he well enough to defend this place?”

Kendrick's heart rose into his throat. He told them it had been nearly 36 hours since he had last seen normal activity on the streets. He was a religious man, and while he was not superstitious, he had suspicions of why everyone had disappeared—house windows boarded against the daylight, shapes that only emerged after sunset. Though the suspicions had seemed mad initially, he had seen the things that had once been his neighbors, crawling through the shadows of the night.

Now something far worse came for them all.

“He just sits there, staring at the wall. I found him when I came on shift this morning. I couldn't leave, you know? I wanted to get him to the hospital, but nobody else showed up for work.”

“Where is he now?”

“Next to the cells. He don't want the lights on. I think it hurts his eyes.”

The tremble in Kendrick's voice suggested he suspected something worse than sickness.

“Lock the door and take us to him,” Mary said.

As he spared a wary glance out the glass door, Kendrick fumbled for his keys and turned the deadbolt. The concrete sidewalk leading to the department was lit by lampposts which ran four to a side along the parking lot, the shadows of the posts reaching across the chalky surface like fingers. The sidewalk ended in the deep shadow that extended into the frontage of Court Street.

Evan felt shiver run down his spine. Death stalked the night in Storberry.

As they hurried around the front counter through the rows of desks, Evan noticed Greg's bike parked along the right wall, and a lump formed in his throat.

Kendrick stopped at the closed door which led to the twin cells beyond. He put a key into the lock, and Evan shot a glance at Mary. Why did he lock Stults inside?

Kendrick stopped before he turned the key.

“You sure you want to see Stultsy? Like I said, h-he's pretty s-sick. Maybe it would be best if we just left him alone—”

“Open it,” Evan ordered.

“Okay, okay.”

Kendrick's hand shook. The bolt unlatched with a pop that echoed across the barren walls.

The door swung open, creaking on its hinges like the laughter of witches. Kendrick nervously flipped the wall switch, and two rows of fluorescent lighting flickered and buzzed to life. Two empty cells lined the wall in front of them.

A portly officer sat unmoving in the far corner, back slumped against a wooden chair.

Evan hoped the man had died within, legitimately ill. As Evan approached the figure with Mary at his side, Kendrick waited by the door, wound tighter than a spring. If Stults so much as moved, Kendrick might come apart at the seams.

“St-Stultsy...got some f-folks here to see ya...”

No movement.

“Me and Stultsy...we go way back ya know...came into the force together and...”

Evan and Mary came closer, and each brandished their stakes with obvious intention.

“There's no need for that,” Kendrick called from over their shoulders. “He's just sick, that's all.”

But the officer could probably guess what the primitive weapons were for. He unconsciously performed the sign of the cross.

The stench of decay hit Evan like a wall. Now he was close, yet Stults still hadn't moved. He began to think that Stults really was dead, but when Mary pulled out the cross, Stults opened his eyes.

Stults swung his body in the chair to face them, much faster than would have been possible for the overweight man when he was alive. His eyes were bloodshot and ghastly, his skin white paste.

Stults sprang forward before Evan could react. Evan crashed against the wall, rockets exploding under his eyelids. Stults skittered past them toward Kendrick. Before Mary could turn, she heard the tortured scream of the officer. She bounded after Stults, cross aglow in her hand.

As Evan shook off the throbbing pain in his head, he heard a splattering sound and turned to see a clump of Kendrick's flesh on the floor. A gaping hole had taken the place of the side of his neck, and Stults eagerly lapped at the torrent of gore which poured out.

Stults never saw Mary coming from behind. She plunged the stake into the back of his shoulder blade. Stults howled in anguish, something between wolf and man. He swung at her, and the back of his arm sent Mary crashing to the floor.

As Stults spun around, Evan jammed the stake into his heart, the wooden implement digging inward as though yearning. Stults collapsed to his back with Evan astride him, Mary's stake still protruding at an angle out of his shoulder. His face had changed, no longer timeless. Decrepit flesh hung from his bones like bloody strips of wallpaper.

Mary climbed to her feet and yanked her stake free as Stults trembled in death throes. She wasn't taking any chances. She bit her lip in sorrow before sinking the weapon into Kendrick's prone form. The officer stared back at her with haunted eyes.

Evan hadn't known the officer. He was regarded as a good man who had been born and raised in Storberry before making the choice to defend it. Kendrick had deserved better than this.

As Mary slumped to her knees, the weight of the world around her shoulders like heavy chains, Evan stood above her, extending his hand. After a moment, she took it.

Ten

For twenty minutes they ran along the barely visible shoulder of route 16. The fog had expanded, rising off the ground until it sat steadfast and silent, like a cloud across the saturated terrain. The white stripe which marked the shoulder appeared briefly, then disappeared within the murk. Their sneakers scuffled along pavement and stone as their tired bodies continued on.

Still their pursuer came.

Twice they thought they had lost whatever followed, yet whenever they slowed to catch their breath, the sound of footfalls were never far behind. The thing’s pace was relentless, never tiring.

Without warning, the shoulder stripe disappeared, and they stood on a wide strip of pavement. A double-yellow line ran perpendicular to them, the fog so thick that they had run into the intersection of Winchester Road without noticing.

“Which way?” Jen asked.

“This way,” Tom said, taking her east through the fog.

The gray murk seemed alive, a breathing thing that clouded their vision and clung to their skin. The fog was a ghostly presence, with tendrils that whipped about them like misty vines.

Water gurgled off the shoulder. As the morass drained into the roadside ditch, night birds raised their voices to the murk, joined now by peepers who found the waterlogged terrain reminiscent of their swampland home. And another sound...work boots scuffling along the shoulder of Winchester Road. Even in the heart of the fog, they had been found.

They both ached from the crash, and their energy stores were drained. Jen's breathing became labored. She wouldn't quit, but Tom knew they would have to stop soon and make a stand if necessary. Make a stand with what? The stakes are back in the truck.

They needed shelter or transportation. If the thing in the fog never tired, it would soon have them.

“A little farther,” he said, his voice strained from exhaustion and thirst. “There are houses on this road.”

He had ridden with his family down Winchester enough times to remember the sparse population of farmhouses. The question was, would they be able to see the residences in the fog? They could hardly see past arm's length in the murk, and the moon and stars had vanished overhead. Only the enduring gray mass and the occasional glimpse of pocked blacktop existed.

He recognized that he had slowed his pace to stay by her side. Her weakening happened gradually, like eyes which grew heavy before sleep arrived. Her adrenaline was all that carried her forward now, and she would soon give out.

He could still hear the footfalls coming. Are they closer?

He stumbled over gravel and loose stone. He nearly fell, but she steadied him. Halting their slow jog had been a mistake, for lactic acid surged through their legs, urging them to cease. Yet it was the brief respite which allowed them to recognize the loose stone along the shoulder as part of a longer stretch of stone and gravel—a driveway.

Muscles screamed in protest. They ignored the pain, pushed onward by new found hope.

As he surveyed the stone driveway curving upward, Tom instantly knew where they were. He had seen the farmhouse and barn, situated up a small incline beyond the stone driveway, many times on trips to and from Storberry. He recalled that the barn had been no more than fifty yards off to the left.

He couldn't hear their pursuer coming, but Tom knew that they would never lose it.

He grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her off the driveway into the dewy grass toward the barn, which stood somewhere within the concealing fog.

Their footfalls became silent in the grass. Their pursuer would no longer be able to track them by sound, but they wouldn't hear it coming, either.

As the dew-laden grass soaked through his sneakers, Tom noticed some things about the lawn’s nature. It wasn't field grass. It was St. Augustine grass, the same type that proliferated his backyard on Maple Street. His hope soared, noticing that the grass was cut short as though recently mowed. He would have given anything to see another human.

The barn rose out of the fog, a wooden stalwart against the mists. Sturdy-looking double doors fronted the edifice, its fresh red paint black in the night.

They were relieved to find the barn unlocked, and the doors swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. Tom closed the doors behind them, as Jen located a metal spike off to the side which was used to bolt the doors together from the inside. She threw the latch over and pushed the spike down.

The inside of the barn seemed like another world. Their vision seemed more acute, the texture of the barn's inside like an overexposed still-life. The interior was well organized. Potential weapons in the form of spades, axes, and pitchforks were hung along the walls. A loft, accessed by a wooden ladder which seemed to stretch upward forever, as though it had sprouted from Jack's magic beanstalk seeds, ascended deeper into the barn,

As the muted night songs continued beyond the doors, they could feel the fog press against the barn walls, trying to slither inward. The mist watched them with gunmetal eyes through the window. They both knew there was something in the night more nefarious than the impenetrable mists. It walked upright and wore the work boots of a man, and it would not stop until it had them.

Somehow moonlight found its way through the mists. The diffuse radiance washed against the barn window and spread a thin, hazy glow across the dirt floor. Shadows rolled off support beams and stretched toward them, like black swords.

The wind brushed against the barn and sheared the fog into disparate apparitions that rose against the window. Jen crouched in the shadow of the loft, arms wrapped around her knees.

As Tom grabbed the pitchfork from the wall, a faint movement caught his eye. The latch to the double doors had quivered for just a second, the left door opening a crack. How long had their pursuer been outside the door, stealthily searching for a means of entry?

He hoisted the weapon at the door, expecting it to fly off its hinges at any moment. She began to sob, the horrors of the last three nights shredding her emotional stability.

Fury flashed across her eyes. She jumped to her feet next to him, armed with a burning hatred for the thing outside—for their families, for friends they would never see again, for their childhood, forever lost.

The double doors shook as though they might soon disintegrate. The wind whipped the fog into a frenzy. The rattling became deafening, and when it ascended into delirium, he heard her scream. Her cry sent shivers down his spine, for it was not a scream of terror but one of boundless rage.

The doors ripped off their hinges with a squeal of metal against wood, the frame splintering. Fog rolled inward like an unearthly fiend. The silhouette of something baleful moved within its expanding mass.

The thing had no sooner materialized than Tom lunged forward with the pitchfork. As the points plunged into the figure’s chest, the thing howled in pain, hands reaching out for him, grasping incessantly despite the weapon protruding from its chest.

The man, who had once been a farmer living at the edge of Storberry, had blocked the road, causing the accident which had resulted in Renee's death. Tom drove his legs forward, propelling the vile excrescence toward the barn wall. The farmer grasped for him with gnarled claws, his bloody eyes burning with fury.

The farmer shrieked as the impaling force pinned him to the wall. Gore oozed from the wound, black and silver in the dappled moonlight. Jagged fangs snapped in the air, blood and spittle running off his lower lip.

Jen ran to Tom’s side, grasping the spike which had fallen off the broken latch. She swung the spike into the farmer’s skull, knocking his neck into a grotesque angle. She swung again, the impact cracking his head open.

He straightened his neck and smiled at them.

Tom backed away. The farmer had both hands on the pitchfork, trying to pull it free. As they ran toward the ladder to the loft, followed by wicked laughter, the farmer slid the implement out of his chest.

Tom propelled her up the ladder ahead of him. The rungs seemed to stretch on endlessly, fading into shadow halfway up before moonlight from an upper window caught the loft. Boots scuffled along dirt and hay behind them, and he wondered if the farmer remembered how to climb.

At the midpoint of the ladder, he looked down. Already, they were frighteningly high, the barn floor a dizzying mix of gloom and moonlight far beneath. The thing approached, its shadow monstrously stretched by the moonlight.

As he concentrated on moving up the ladder, his hands gripping the wooden rungs, he nearly collided with her. She had made the mistake of looking down, frozen, three stories off the unforgiving earth. A fall from this height would shatter her.

“One step at a time,” he urged. “Don't look down.”

She moved with trepidation, her legs shaking and her feet sliding along the rungs in tremors. He didn't think he could catch her if she slipped. It was all he could do to keep hold of the rungs himself. He imagined her foot slipping off the rung, her body tumbling into his, and then the earth hurtling upward to meet them with devastating force.

And then she did slip. Her left sneaker lost traction on the next rung. She grasped the rung above her with both hands, her legs flailing wildly over his head. She screamed as her body swung into the ladder, the wooden edges digging into her ribcage.

But she held on, and he was able to ascend to her height and press his body against her, their shoulders heaving with each breath. As blood surged into his head, his vision grew dark and his heart pounded as though it might burst. Praying the dizziness would soon pass, he concentrated on holding the rungs,

The ladder spun across his vision, as though he had just stepped from a merry-go-round. Nausea boiled out of his chest and into his throat, and it was all he could do not to wretch. After several seconds the spinning subsided, leaving his skin clammy and his arms shaking. The taste of bile burned at the back of his throat.

She moved again, starting up the ladder.

He waited until she had cleared him before he resumed his ascent, but he couldn't help thinking that they were jumping from the frying pan into the fire. How will we defend ourselves once we reached the loft? There would be no escape if the farmer followed them up.

When her head poked into moonlight at the loft, she saw that the rungs stopped several inches below the landing with no continuation beyond. This required her to release her grip on the ladder and fall forward onto the planks. For one awful moment, vertigo overcame her, and Tom was certain she would plummet backward.

But then the rough surface was beneath her body. She crawled forward, and he pushed himself onto the landing next to her.

He heard the farmer wheezing up at him, as though he was confused by the ladder.

Tom contemplated the time. He had no idea how long he had lain unconscious after the crash. As the flight from the scene had taken close to an hour, he guessed it was sometime between 2 am and 5 am. The salvation of sunrise might be hours off.

As moonlight shone brightly against the wall behind them, casting the landing in silver, he spotted a small mound of hay clumped against the wall, with a second pitchfork sticking outward like a flagpole. The glint of steel caught his eye. He reached down to find a handsaw, beside which wood was stacked in the corner near a hammer and a small bucket of nails.

“It's coming.”

Jen bent over the landing to see the farmer two rungs off the barn floor, a wicked grin stretched across his face. At his deliberate pace, he would reach the landing in a few minutes.

She pushed against the ladder, but it was well constructed and firmly secured to the landing. As she grasped the pitchfork, Tom sorted through two-by-fours, putting one aside as a bludgeoning weapon. If worst comes to worst, maybe I can knock the thing off the ladder.

He splayed the stack across the flooring and laid the top piece across, sawing the corner off the two-by-four. While the sweet smell of sawdust wafted upward, he sawed as quickly as he dared, not wanting the blade to slip and tear through his fingers.

“Where is he?”

“Hurry, Tom. He's almost halfway up the ladder.”

The sawdust piled up into a miniature dune. When the corner of the two-by-four snapped off, he turned the piece over and started to saw off the opposite corner.

The blade's teeth were dull from repeated use, tiny rust spots dotting the steel in red blotches. The worn edges cut slowly, and his shoulder was starting to burn from exertion. The blade slipped and caught his index finger, tearing through skin. Blood pooled out of the wound. He had cut his finger deeply.

He had no time to stop the bleeding, for the farmer was nearing the top of the ladder. Tom resumed sawing, and at last the second corner fell off. He regarded the weapon in his hand. There was no way to whittle the end down to a sharper point, but he had cut the corners steeply enough to provide the wood with a dangerous edge.

As he rushed to Jen's side and leaned over the landing edge, he saw the farmer several rungs down the ladder, his eyes burning like hurricane lanterns through the darkness of the barn interior.

He pulled her away from the edge, thinking that if he hadn't, she would remain transfixed by the farmer’s eyes. She snapped back to reality as though awakened from a dream, still holding the pitchfork. It took her a moment to remember where she was.

A cackle sent goosebumps across their flesh. A gnarled hand reached over the landing, then a second. The farmer’s head drifted wraith-like above the planks with a grin that displayed misshapen fangs. Fangs that could tear flesh and sever bone.

“Little boy and little girl.”

The farmer sprang upward onto the landing with shocking quickness, work boots thudding against the planks, shaking the loft. Jen was ready. She impaled the monster with the pitchfork and drove him toward the edge. But he was too strong. He stalked forward, the weapon protruding uselessly from his chest.

He swiped at her with unearthly strength, and she hurtled into the wall at the back of the loft. There was a sickening crunch as her body met the unwavering wall, and she fell limp to the planks with her legs dangling off the landing edge. She was going to fall.

“Jen!”

Now the farmer turned for him.

“I will tear you into little pieces, boy.”

He knelt beside her crumpled form as the farmer stalked forward, the pitchfork hanging out of his chest, shaft bouncing with each step forward.

Tom purposely cowered from the farmer, who wheezed in laughter. He waited patiently, not hiding the terror which welled out of his eyes.

He smelled the farmer’s rancid breath as the vampire closed in on him. Tom sensed his overconfidence.

When the farmer reached for him, he drove the stake upward into the thing’s soft underbelly. As the monster howled in shock, Tom pulled the stake back and again drove it up into the farmer's chest. The stake penetrated ribcage with a sickening crunch, like egg shells cracking.

Gore bubbled from an open belly wound, but the farmer was relentless. It snatched Tom by the neck and whipped him into the wall. Agony spread across Tom’s back, and he momentarily lost feeling in his lower body.

As he lay prone, the farmer stalking toward him with deliberation, Tom could see that the thing’s pace had slowed. The shallow puncture from the stake had caused a serious injury. He willed himself to his feet, pins and needles causing his legs to wobble, and when the farmer lunged forward, he drove the weapon back into his stomach. The point of the stake caught the open wound, meeting less resistance this time.

As the monster toppled backward, a look of fear flashed in the farmer’s eyes. Tom yanked the stake free, and blood spurted like a geyser across his face and arms. He turned the weapon around, swinging it like a baseball bat. The two-by-four cracked against the farmer’s head, the sound echoing off the barn walls, and the farmer fell to his back in a daze.

He jumped over the farmer’s body, feet to either side of his stomach, and drove the stake down into his chest. Vermillion eyes widened. Blood poured out of the farmer’s mouth. Tom reached behind him for the hammer and pounded the end of the two-by-four, and the point buried itself through a heart as black as pitch.

The farmer's body went into spasm, as Tom hammered the stake deeper. After another spurt of blood from his mouth, and the farmer finally went still.

Tom threw down the hammer and rushed to Jen. He pulled her by the shoulders away from the edge until her legs no longer hung off the landing, but she wasn't moving.

Anguish surged through him. They had come so far together. He couldn't lose her now.

“C'mon, Jen. You've gotta wake up. We're gonna make it.”

Her face was pallid in the silver moonlight. He put his head close to her mouth. Was she breathing? Breathe, Jen, please!

As he held her in his arms, seated against the wall high above the barn floor, sawdust floated in motes through the gray, like fireflies descending through a meadow sunset. The barn was silent, save for the boy's sobs.

“We're safe now. All you have to do is wake up. Open your eyes, and you'll see.”

Her neck lolled in his arms. He put a supporting hand under her head, his tears falling onto her face like raindrops.

Outside, the fog receded from the window, its chill breath slinking toward the morass of the surrounding fields. The stars and moon had returned to the sky, and twin silver beams poured through the two windows, creating sharp delineations of light and shadow within. A hush fell over the night, as though it wept for the lifeless body he held to his chest.

“Please come back to me. I love you.”

He bent his head and cried into her shoulder, the sobs rushing out of him like a waterfall. He had lost everyone. In the end, he had failed her.

But as the stars flickered above the red barn, and the first sliver of gray appeared on the eastern horizon, her eyes opened.

Eleven

The center of Storberry was a ghost town. While the digital clock outside The Storberry Savings Bank displayed 4:00 a.m., traffic lights directed empty streets, their reflections animate along the blacktop. The Red Lion Tavern, where Chuck Kingsley had once held court, echoed inside with the forgotten voices of those who had once found solace in its gatherings. Already a thin layer of dust covered the counter, like the first killing frost of autumn.

The crimson malevolence, the atrocity of the haunted forest, the lord of all vampires found Mary and Evan.

The shadowed monster had seemingly materialized out of nowhere in the center of Main Street, following the police cruiser Evan and Mary had commandeered. There was no escaping the vampire. No matter where they went, it would find them. But they were no longer running.

Evan pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and the tires screeched against the blacktop. The cruiser hit 40 mph as the car turned right from Main onto Jensen, putting distance between the vampire and the cruiser. The monstrosity disappeared from the rearview mirror when they reached 60 mph on the straightaway. The engine roared with power, drowning out the steady drone of static from the communications radio.

After he turned right on the first side street and worked his way through a small neighborhood, he snaked his way up the rising terrain along a twisted dirt path and came out near Liberty Cemetery. The cruiser pulled into the cemetery, winding upward through the tree-lined roadway before coming to a stop at the western edge. The dashboard clock read 4:17 a.m. In the next twenty to thirty minutes, the vampire would find them.

He popped the trunk, and they stepped from the vehicle. The trunk held two guns, originally belonging to officers Kendricks and Stults. Two stakes remained, along with a can of gasoline courtesy of The Last Stop (nobody had turned off the pumps before the madness started), and a lighter.

“Are you sure about this?” Mary asked.

He set the gasoline can on the ground and pulled a flashlight from the cruiser's glove compartment.

The headstones stretched down the slope, like fossils bathed in silver light. As dense fog receded off the hill toward Maple Street, leaving behind thin tendrils which wormed between the headstones, the still waters of Becks Pond shimmered like a dragon's eye.

The trees of the hill forest loomed over the cemetery. He could feel the forest watching him. His mouth was dry, and his legs felt as though they were sandbags.

“I'm killing two birds with one stone.”

As he stood at the tree line, shining the flashlight against the interior sentries, he realized that this was as close as he had ever willingly come to the forest. But he would have to enter. The vampire would find them soon, as it had repeatedly through the night. He would have one chance to entrap the monster.

Just as he had anticipated, the upper branches and leaves of the forest had caught most of the rain. The interior ground was damp, but the trunks were dry. There was no question in his mind that the trees would burn. But he couldn't shake the sensation that the forest had eyes.

Jesus, it knows what I am planning to do!

“Evan?”

He jumped at her voice. As the sound of crickets carried up the slope and through the meadow, the hill forest lay silent.

“I'm okay. Let's get started.”

He handed her the flashlight, and they walked side-by-side into the depthless black of the hill forest. The beam cut through the thin outer wall and came to rest on the monstrous trunks deeper within. As the light panned the horizon, seeming to die against the gloom, he remembered the ruby eyes of Brian Nedson burning through the blackness. But something far more terrifying than the undead boy lay waiting in the trees on this night. He shivered.

Two minutes into the forest, the sentries towered above them until their tops disappeared into the void. The monster would come for them now. The forest knew they were here, and so too would the vampire. Evan’s skin crept with gooseflesh.

As comforting warmth built along Mary's right thigh, she pushed her hand into her pocket and found the wooden cross pulsating with a faint glow. Evan saw the cross and looked into Mary's face. Her skin was ashen in the unnatural glow, her eyes wide as though she sensed the forest’s corruption pressing inward from all sides.

The presence of the forest was palpable here. The vile stench of its floor, reminiscent of animal carcasses and evil, alerted him that they had gone far enough.

The forest was drier within, the precipitation shunted by the tangle of gnarled limbs above. It was here that he doused a fallen deadwood, its shriveled skeleton laid across the forest floor. The odor of gasoline smelled overpowering in the stagnant air.

While they covered their noses to stave off dizziness, he poured a trail of fuel along a mass of dead leaves which ran up against a huge oak. He splashed the massive trunk, gasoline sparkling like fireflies within the flashlight beam. They swept through the trees in a wide arc, circling back to within a few feet of the starting point at the skeletal deadwood.

Now it was 4:45 a.m. A sliver of gray perched along the eastern horizon, the first sign of the coming dawn. Sunrise was a little over two hours away.

An owl hooted from the copse north of Becks Pond. As the distant song of peepers carried out of the meadow, silence crept through the hill forest with murderous intent.

Ten minutes passed. They waited within the fuel arc, Mary grasping the strangely-glowing cross like a lifeline. Her teeth chattered, not from the cold. The air within the trees was neither cold nor warm, feeling as utterly lifeless as the breeze that perished at the forest's outer edge.

Yet the vampire did not come.

Why hasn’t the vampire come for us?

As they sat silently upon the deadwood, two guns and the sharpened wood stakes at their feet, Evan listened for the thing’s footfalls, expecting them to carry through the graveyard grass before amplifying upon the debris of the forest floor. He anticipated that there would be time to react to the vampire’s coming.

By 5:15 a.m. the pall had become unbearable.

He started to see things among the trees, prowling deep within the forest at the edge of his vision. As the shapes crept nearer, his eyes grew heavy, not from exhaustion but from the shapes’ hypnotic movements. As the glowing shapes darted from tree to tree, they billowed like afternoon cumulus clouds. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his instinct rising up to alert him to the danger. But the lights urged him to sleep, comforting him.

When he reached the edge of sleep, his mother came to him, her face parched and drawn as it had been when cancer had taken her. She drifted above the dead leaves, a ghost gliding out of the trees. A tear formed at his eye, as she reached a hand toward him, promising him reunion with his father, who waited at the forest’s center. They would be a family again, if only he would take her hand.

Evan stood up from the deadwood and took a step forward. Mary, watching the forest entrance, hadn't noticed Evan until he was several steps from her.

“Evan!”

He walked with a greater urgency. She darted off the fallen tree in a state of confusion. She grasped his arm, and he swung around with madness in his eyes. He threw her to the forest floor, the stench of death wafting out of the soil in escaping fumes.

As she landed on her side, the wind momentarily knocked out of her, the rasp of her breathing knocked him out of his stupor. He blinked and the ethereal lights were gone. He rushed to help her.

“My God, what have I done? What's happening to me?”

A branch snapped.

As he pulled her to her feet, Mary's eyes were wide with fright. The trees seemed to close in about them, their great branches reaching through the gloom like misshapen claws. They turned in a circle, backs to one another. The snapping had come from deep within the forest, not from the entrance.

He felt his back bleeding through his shirt, but the laceration did not slow him. He pulled the lighter from his pocket. Just burn the whole damn thing to the ground and be done with it! He knew the fire wouldn't spread well. The wind was nonexistent and the ground still moist.

Another branch snapped, about twenty yards away.

They turned toward the sound. Mary's cross radiated between silver and white. Evan swept the flashlight beam across the trees.

Nothing.

The hairs stood on the back of his neck.

The vampire is here. It has to be here!

The shadows shifted at the edge of the gloom—the vampire had been here all along.

As the vampire swept out of the trees, a hulking silhouette moving at an alarming speed, Evan picked up one of the guns, momentarily forgetting the lighter. He fired two shots, which struck the vampire in its chest. The force of the blasts knocked the shadowed form back a step, but it kept coming. Evan hear raspy laughter.

“The lighter!”

Mary's voice cut through the forest interior, shrill and frantic. He flicked the lighter on and swept it across the deadwood. Flames leaped into the air, driving them backward before the heat could catch them. The blaze swept around the arc, through the natural kindling along the forest floor, to the great trunks of the monstrous trees.

The lord of all vampires swung in a circle, alarm spreading across its face as the fire built into an inferno. While the thing was caught up in the confusion, Evan grabbed Mary by the hand. He raced through the open part of the arc near the deadwood, sweeping the gasoline across the opening to close off the circle behind them.

The fire burst into a mushroom cloud when doused by the fuel. The force of the blast knocked them to the ground, as flames licked at the underside of overhanging boughs and caught gnarled branches. As escaped their limbs, Evan thought he heard the trees screaming. The inferno engulfed the trees, and the circle of fire raged higher. The weapons lay unreachable within the blaze.

The vampire’s vile scream carried through the deafening roar of the fire. The flames had caught the monster as it tried to break through the circle, and now it whipped about in a frenzy, causing the fire to spread more rapidly across its torso.

Mary pulled Evan off the ground.

“Let's go!”

“No! Not until we're sure it's dead!”

His face was awash in the orange reflection. The heat of the blaze radiated at them in waves as the inferno grew higher still. The flames surged with frantic need up tree trunks. Massive chunks of bark broke off and fell into the circle, feeding the vampire’s funeral pyre.

As Mary turned toward the forest edge, the eastern horizon had turned to silver, with a faint stripe of orange at the center as though the fire wrapped around the earth. It was not long until sunrise. For the first time, she began to think that time was on their side.

The towering monster crashed through the wall of fire.

Mary saw to her horror that the fire was smoldering across the monster’s body. She choked on the rancid smoke that drifted off its limbs. A wicked grin spread across the vampire’s face, its fangs dripping with blood. The monster stumbled toward them, injured but seemingly unstoppable.

As Mary raised the holy symbol before her, the cross radiated with a brilliance that rivaled the blaze. The monstrosity shielded its eyes from the glow.

The vampire lowered its arm and regarded her. It appeared to remember her—she was the only one it had not taken. The monster would take her now.

“Foolish whore.”

The monster staggered forward, unhindered by the cross. Mary looked back and forth between the cross and the approaching ghoul, unbelieving that it still came. The cross’s glow faded. The ghoul laughed.

Evan jumped in front of her, his shoulder smashing into the vampire lord's stomach and catching it off balance in its weakened state. He drove his legs against its resistance, pushing the monster toward the inferno. He felt the heat of the approaching blaze growing against his body.

Still he pushed against the ghoul, willing his body to overcome his exhaustion for just a few more seconds.

In the hissing inferno of the forest, boughs cracked and smashed to the earth, exploding like fireworks. In Liberty Cemetery, the insurgent saplings came to life and tried to pull themselves out of the soil. The blaze reflected off the surface of Becks Pond in wicked reds and oranges.

The flames snapped toward Evan. If only exhaustion slowed him, he could have pushed himself beyond his perceived limits, but it was more: the icy terror which chilled his bones at the feel of the vampire lord, the feeling that the forest was alive with a million eyes, the memory of the boy with red eyes, the fear that his parents were burning.

All lies! My parents were never here!

He planted his feet into the soil and pushed, pushed, pushed against the monstrous beast.

“Run, Mary!”

That was when Mary screamed, a piercing cry in the inferno.

“No!”

As her voice reached him, the wounded monster faltered and Evan toppled the vampire lord into the blaze. The flames exploded around their bodies, lapping hungrily at their flesh.

Mary collapsed. She cried from deep within, her scream ripping through the haunted forest.

Flames raged over the two prone bodies, cracking whips against the roar. Boughs tore off the charred trees and crashed to earth, sending an explosion of sparks into the air.

As tears rolled off her cheeks, she realized that he had sacrificed himself for her. He had saved what remained of their town. Like old photographs fading, she tried to remember all who had given their lives since the coming of the darkness.

For a long time she wept on the forest floor, the sounds of the forest exterior exploding around her. Over time, the inferno decreased until it was little more than a slow burn. The charred remains of two bodies lay in reminder at the front of the circle.

When she found the strength to carry on, she noticed that the eastern sky had brightened. Hopeful oranges and reds pushed up from the center. The sun would rise again.

She stumbled out of the forest, vaguely aware of the first rays of sun which caressed her face with caring hands. The warm glow cascaded across Becks Pond, fish leaping from its depths in irregular parabolas as if to celebrate the new day. A welcome breeze drifted across the meadow, sending the tall grass into motion. As the flaxen rays touched the tree line, the breeze entered the hill forest, where it was no longer forbidden.

The police cruiser waited inside the cemetery, but it was of little use to her as the keys had been in Evan's pocket.

She sighed.

It was a long walk back to town.

Chapter Nine

On April 4, 1987, the North Carolina sky was a cerulean blue, and the earth was resplendent with fallen cherry blossoms. It was a glorious spring day, not too hot and not too cool.

Twin bicycles cleared the incline along route 43 and coasted into a suburban neighborhood. Nobody paid the bicyclists much attention, for it was a picture-perfect Saturday.

As garden hoses sprayed dirt off of vehicles, filling the air with the scent of wet blacktop, the cul-de-sac to the bicyclists’ right bustled with activity. Multiple garage sales competed for the attention of browsers looking to score a used microwave or an old Elvis LP for a few dollars.

An enterprising girl, probably no more than ten years old, had erected a lemonade stand at the corner of the cul-de-sac and route 43. Twenty cents for a cup, thirty cents for two. The girl's blonde hair was tied in pigtails which extended past her shoulders. She wore a yellow summer dress and had powder-blue eyes that spoke of innocence and optimism.

When the first bicyclist pulled to the curb in front of the lemonade stand, the girl's excitement to make not one but two sales was offset by her curiosity with the two strangers. They were teenagers, probably boyfriend and girlfriend, she reasoned. She didn't recognize them from the neighborhood, and Mom and Dad had always told her to be wary of strangers, but these two looked pretty friendly.

She wondered why the girl on the bicycle had tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. Her mom sometimes cried when she was happy, and that just seemed plain weird to the little girl.

“Thirty cents for two?” the boy asked.

“Yes, sir. It’s my own special recipe!”

The boy raised his eyebrows, seeing the yellow Country Time lemonade mix in the grass behind the stand.

“Well, if it's your own special recipe, then maybe two isn't enough?”

The girl stirred with excitement. A few more customers like these two, and she might be able to close shop early and go swimming with her friends.

“How about fifty cents for four cups?” he asked.

“Oh, come on, Tom. I'm so thirsty I could swallow the ocean,” Jen said. “Stop haggling with her.”

Jen’s tears had dried, leaving smudges of gray beneath her eyes. The girl correctly ascertained that they had spent a lot of time outside in recent days. Maybe they were campers riding into town.

“Fifty five cents for four cups,” she said.

“Deal!”

As Tom pulled two quarters and a nickel from the pocket of his shorts, the girl handed them each two cups of her special recipe lemonade.

The drinks were most welcome, for they had run out of water a day prior. It would have made sense to ride farther up the road to find a free drinking fountain in a park, but then they would not have met the enterprising girl with the lemonade stand.

The family who owned the big red barn on Winchester Road had found Tom and Jen sleeping in a bed of hay after sunrise, not long after Evan Moran and the monstrosity had perished inside the hill forest inferno. At first the family had feared that the teenagers were more of them. The father had aimed a gun, but his children had protested that the two teenagers were just resting, and fortunately the mother had agreed with her children.

After giving Tom and Jen a day of hot meals, the family nursed their wounds and allowed the teenagers to sleep in the barn at night. They were sad to see the teenagers leave the next morning and warned them of the dangers after sunset. The father had given them two canteens and enough money to make it through the week, while the mother insisted on making a full day's worth of sandwiches for their trip.

Tom and Jen later discovered bicycles outside of an abandoned home near the end of Winchester Road. From there they had biked along the back roads of Virginia and North Carolina, heading toward Rocky Mount for no better reason than to reach the destination Renee once promised they would reach.

The shadows never descended upon them after dark as they had in Storberry. Tom wondered if the others had destroyed the vampire in the attic crawlspace and if that had been enough to bring the nightmare to an end as he had theorized. Of this, he prayed.

As they put distance between themselves and Storberry, they had begun to see more people. Hope grew inside of them, like crocuses emerging from the soil at winter's end. But it wasn't until they reached the neighborhood with the lemonade stand that they were certain the world still existed outside of Storberry's borders.

Relief poured through them, complete with the happy tears that so confused the young girl. They had made it.

Two blocks south of the cul-de-sac at the edge of Rocky Mount proper, they cut right and followed a patchwork quilt of side streets into a nearby park that the lemonade girl had told them of.

Maples, oaks, and spruce bordered the roadway around the park, casting cool shadows across the pavement. Inside, they found a drinking fountain to refill their canteens with.

As laughter and cheers drew them toward a baseball field lined with parents and siblings, they discovered a bittersweet Norman Rockwell little league painting come to life. It was a painful reminder of what Saturdays in Storberry had once been like but would be never be like again.

The ping of the aluminum bat against the ball was followed by more cheering. She put her hand on his back and bent to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you for keeping your promises, Tom Kingsley.”

Two

As Tom and Jen quenched their thirst with the not-so-secret lemonade recipe, Mary Giovanni flipped the Closed sign over to Open on the front door to the Sweet Nothings Café.

What remained of the town had begun to emerge after sunrise on the morning Evan had destroyed the vampire lord. Appearing a few at a time, the residents had peeked out of windows and through doors, like meerkats upon hearing of the lion's departure.

The population had not been whittled to nothing as Mary had feared. She estimated the new population of Storberry was somewhere around 2000, enough to rebuild around. Maybe even enough to support a little café with the best cheesecake in southern Virginia.

The prior days had been spent saying goodbye to old friends in her own way, all the while praying that she could one night close her eyes without seeing the crimson face of the vampire lord.

She thought often of the others. Especially Evan. Had it not been for his final sacrifice, Storberry would have vanished. While she wondered about Renee and the two teenagers and if they had made it out of town, mostly she vacillated between tears of loss and a steadfast determination to carry on.

Her darkest hour since the hill forest would come on the following morning.

Her curiosity had drawn her to the Moran farm, and so it was that she made her way to the northeastern corner of Storberry and the vacant farmhouse.

Under a slate-gray sky of low stratus that promised rain, the red barn, an iconic piece of Storberry's culture, gazed back at her with hollow eyes.

She entered through unlocked doors to find the first layer of dust forming on the stairway bannister. Dappled morning sunlight beamed through open curtains. The farmhouse carried a greater sense of emptiness, as though the home awaited Evan's return like a loyal dog waiting by the door for its lost master.

Dust motes sparkled through the illumination, rising and falling with the only air movement the room had seen in days. Quiet engulfed the empty corridors, as though the starved interior swallowed whole the new sounds of activity.

The memories of those lost crashed down upon her. It seemed like just minutes ago, and in some ways like an entire lifetime ago, they had been seated together around the kitchen table. A single tear ran down her cheek. The town may never know how much they had sacrificed.

As she listened to the low hum of electricity, strangely deafening within the silent interior, it seemed preposterous to her that the home was still powered, appliances at the ready for no one. A heavy stillness suffocated the interior.

Something drew her deeper into the farmhouse. She followed the hallway out of the kitchen toward the back of the ground floor and found a closed door to her left.

The basement.

The black knob stood out from the white paint, cold and hard in a home which had been built on the warmth of family and togetherness. She reached for the knob and then pulled her hand back, as though the metal was a coiled snake. She was aware of her heartbeat, which pounded like thunder, drowning out the white noise from the kitchen.

Mary took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

The smell of rot hit her like a wall at the top of the stairs. She turned her head away in disgust, subconsciously feeling for the wooden cross that she had long since removed from her pocket. A smaller version hung around her neck, draped inside her shirt against her heart. She couldn't see the cross, but she thought she felt it stir like an animal awakening from hibernation.

She wondered. If she were to pull the chain from about her neck and examine the symbol, would it pulse with an unearthly glow? Would the cross light her way down the darkened staircase, guiding her into the gloom below? What atrocity waited below the Moran home?

Impossible! she thought. The vampires had been destroyed.

Yet when her imagination drifted spectral down the staircase without her, it encountered the towering monstrosity—skin as red as a foreboding sunrise, fangs of razor blades, eyes aglow in the endless night.

The odor was probably just a dead animal, or more likely, food which had spoiled in the last week. But the familiar goosebumps along her flesh warned her of something more.

She reached for the pull string above her head, and the basement flooded with light. Wooden stairs stretched downward for an impossible distance. How big was this farmhouse? She pressed her hand against her heart, feeling for the reassuring holy symbol. An almost imperceptible tremble followed, but the smaller version did not respond to her with the strength of the wooden cross from her bedroom. Will it protect me?

As Mary started down the long staircase, she took extra care, aware that a fall within the abandoned house would doom her. When she passed through shadow halfway between the unshielded incandescent fixtures at the top and bottom of the staircase, a sudden gloom chilled her, like swimming through a warm lake and drifting into a cold pool leftover from winter. The open stair steps increased her sense of insecurity, as though she expected a gnarled hand might reach through the steps from below and grasp her by the ankle.

At the base of the stairs was a concrete floor which stretched left into a room lined with shelves of canning jars. The vile odor of death was stronger here, overpowering the hint of must from deeper within.

The basement was more of a root cellar or storage facility than a living area. There was no washer or dryer. No finished room with a dart board, pool table, and cable television. It was not a place Evan likely spent any time visiting, as evidenced by the thick layer of dust that tickled at her nose and the cobwebs which hung off the shelves like garish Halloween decorations.

She moved between the shelves, the smell of decay increasing. Her heart pounded through her chest. And for one horrifying moment, a disturbing thought gripped her. What if Evan lurks beyond? What if the one who kills the vampire lord becomes the vampire lord?

Ridiculous.

And yet she shivered anew at the possibility.

The shelving ended with an open space at the back of the basement. The light bulb from the center of the ceiling did not reach the far walls, and she had to wait a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim shapes.

Several wooden crates were piled haphazardly in the corner, next to a broken bed frame and a mold-coated antique dresser.

And something else, crumpled on the floor between the bed frame and the dresser.

Her mouth went dry, pulse racing to the point where she began to feel lightheaded. She strained her eyes until she discerned the crumpled form to actually be two separate forms.

Two bodies.

They were vastly different in size. One appeared to be the size of an average adult. The other was much smaller—a child's body.

She stepped back, expecting the forms to spring to their feet. The cross stirred against her heart.

She watched their forms for what seemed an eternity, the seconds feeling like hours. Yet the forms did not reanimate. They lay upon the cold concrete as she had found them, oblivious to her presence.

She pushed past her trepidation and knelt closer.

What she saw made her teeter between madness and sanity.

The flesh had rotted off their bodies, leaving behind skeletal forms. She recognized their clothing, and had known who they were the moment that she knelt next to them. How long had they been down here, waiting for Evan or one of them to venture into the dark confines of the basement? Anticipating the coming nightfall to stalk them within the cavernous farmhouse...

Randy and Benny Marks had come home.

Connect With Me

Dan Padavona is the son of the late heavy metal icon, Ronnie James Dio. Padavona’s parents separated when he was four, and he was raised by his mother, Loretta.

Dan reads and writes for several hours each day and has a particular affinity for fantasy and horror. He makes his online home at www.danpadavona.com.

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If you liked Storberry, you will definitely enjoy my post-apocalyptic thriller, Dark Vanishings. CLICK HERE to start reading Dark Vanishings: Episode One Now!

A Post-Apocalyptic Horror/Thriller Mix. The Stand meets Tales From The Darkside!

Dark Vanishings - What would you do if almost everyone on earth disappeared? Where would would you go? What choices would you make?

A teenage girl harboring a horrible secret flees across the country from a deranged stalker. A boy who discovers he was secretly adopted is pursued by a dark, cloaked figure through upstate New York.

A Florida man moves into a luxurious amusement park resort, where he meets a beautiful woman. But they are not alone in the resort.

A young man with an addiction to fast cars and absolute power clashes with a bounty hunter. A father and daughter search for each other in a lost world where rules no longer exist and danger lurks around every corner.

Dark Vanishings: Book 1 is the first episode of the serialized, ground-breaking post-apocalyptic horror series from Dan Padavona.

Ready to be scared? DOWNLOAD DARK VANISHINGS and turn the lights to low.

Dark Vanishings

Read on for an excerpt

From

Dark Vanishings: Episode One

“[Dark Vanishings] will be leaving its serialized footprint all over the subgenre, making Padavona a well-known name in post-apocalyptic horror.” - Horror Novel Reviews

In the gold-and-flaxen late afternoon sun, cumulus clouds threw cottony shadows against the land, and the park unwound in a lord’s ransom of jade and ruby.

Where am I?

Tori awakened to the thick scent of cut grass. Bleary-eyed, she raised herself up onto her elbows and examined her surroundings. Her mountain bike dozed on its side like a sleeping lion. Fifty yards ahead was a blacktop parking lot dotted by three cars. Behind her bicycle, the grass tunneled down between bordering elm rows and sprawling blackberry bushes embellished with white flowers.

She remembered biking to the park after lunch. But had she stopped to rest? She didn’t recall.

She did remember promising her mother to be home by three so she could shower and make it to the hairdresser by five. Ted Harrison was picking her up at seven for dinner before the high school prom, which gave her just enough time after her hair appointment to slip into her dress and—

I am so freaking late. Mom is going to kill me.

Her red, shoulder-length locks, ablaze in the late day sunshine, were littered with bits of grass and leaves. She thought of Rip Van Winkle and a beard which grew for years and years while life passed him by. How could she have slept for four hours in the town park? Hadn’t the park been crowded with picnickers and fishing boats when she had biked in after lunch?

Within the desolation of the park, she felt strangely exposed.

What if Jacob had come for me while I was asleep?

Jacob Mann, the boy from third period study hall who stared at her daily with a twisted grin that never touched his slate-gray eyes. Jacob Mann, who she had seen last summer, standing among bed sheets hung to dry in her backyard, watching her through her bedroom window. Jacob Mann, who was permanently expelled for threatening Mr. Gilder, the school guidance counselor, with a switchblade.

Last December she had volunteered to distribute food at the Red Oak homeless shelter, and he had been there, standing across the street among leafless deciduous trees, winter cloak billowing like a vampire’s cape, his dead stare burning holes in her.

And last month, when the ground had thawed and the community garden had become ready for planting, she had looked up from her trowel, over the rows of leafy greens, to see him watching her from the sidewalk. Crow-black hair matted to his forehead. Those lifeless eyes. That grin: at-once, vacant and baleful.

Feeling eyes upon her, she sprang to her feet. The copse of elms bordering the decline swayed to the lake breeze, and as dappled light danced amid the branches, she thought she saw a pallid face watching her from the trees.

Jacob?

Her heart thundering, she turned her head toward the bike. If Jacob burst from the trees, would she be able to pedal her way to the parking lot before he cut her off?

When she turned back, the face was gone. Shadows ran deep within the copse, as though night was pooled within, waiting for the sun to depart. But there was no deranged stalker watching her, and she began to feel a little embarrassed for letting her imagination get the best of her.

Feeling along the back pocket of her cutoff jean shorts, she pulled out her phone and checked the time.

4:51 p.m.

She still had time to make the hair appointment.

As she ran to her bike, her shadow followed her, stretching as though it was reflected in a fun house mirror. Clutching the phone, she double-clicked her mother’s smiling face. After a burst of dial tones, the phone began to ring. And ring. No answer. Stuffing the phone back into her pocket, she pedaled across the bumpy grass and hopped the bike onto the blacktop, picking up speed.

She whipped past a black Volvo—unoccupied—and accelerated across the lot, catching a glimpse of an empty red Honda Civic. The lot branched out to a winding, tree-lined park access road. She leaned to the left, taking a blind turn without checking first for traffic. Her heart pounded, and she expected to hear a car horn blare before the metal grille crushed her from the side. But the road was empty of traffic, and there was only the leafy-green smell of summer’s approach on the air as she rushed toward the town center.

Below the shoulder-less two-lane, the land dropped away from a rocky cliff to a gurgling brook thirty feet below. The rear tire caught the edge of the pavement, and as the bicycle wobbled, she leaned hard to the left, righting her balance.

Two minutes later she left the access road behind and coasted into Red Oak proper, past the town courthouse and village green. Catching her breath, she pedaled harder.

4:55 p.m.

As Tori veered north onto Main Street, the modest three blocks of the town center came into view. She passed the police station on her right. Set off to her left was Bob and Mary’s 24-hour diner, the gray, aluminum-sided rectangle flying past in an indistinct blur as her legs pumped faster. Beyond the diner, a half-mile west, meandered the sparkling waters of Cayuga Lake.

A landscaped island divided Main Street with parking spaces aligned diagonally against the island and along the sides of the street. Though the spaces were choked with vehicles, Tori never saw their red brake lights flare to life. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a single car moving along the street.

At the center of downtown, on Main Street’s east side, stood Barbara’s Boutique—a red, brick-faced square squashed between a florist and the Red Oak Cafe. Squeezing the brakes, she wiggled the bike between two SUV’s and hopped the curb onto the empty sidewalk.

That was the moment when she started to worry. Where is everyone? Downtown was resplendent with potted flowers and cardinal splashes of low-angle sunshine. On such a warm Saturday in the upstate New York village, the street should have been busy with pre-Memorial Day shoppers and people going out for an early dinner. But there wasn’t anyone to be seen despite the rows and rows of cars up and down Main Street. She half-suspected that everyone was hidden inside the shops, waiting to jump out in unison and yell Surprise! as if part of a “Twilight Zone”-inspired version of “Candid Camera.”

Leaning the bike against a maple tree which spread a blanket of shade across the sidewalk, Tori ran up the steps. Her heart sank at the sight of the empty boutique. The boutique never closed its doors early on prom night, yet the interior was vacant.

Tori grasped the door handle and pulled, expecting to find the boutique locked. She was surprised when the door opened and the chill of air conditioning spilled down her legs.

Black leather swivel chairs were aligned along the mirrored walls. As she stepped past the cash register into the heart of the boutique, she had the impression of walking through a graveyard. Her reflection paced her on both sides of the elongated room, following her like twin phantoms.

“Hello?”

Her voice reverberated hollow against the walls.

“Mrs. Donnelly? It’s Tori Daniels. I have a five o’clock appointment?”

Barbara Donnelly did not answer because Barbara Donnelly was not there. Yet the lights were on, the air conditioner was rattling through the ceiling vents, and the front door was unlocked. Anybody could have walked through the doors and cracked open the cash register.

“She probably just stepped out for a moment. Maybe I should wait for a few minutes,” Tori said to herself. She sat upon one of the swivel chairs at the back of the store, idly spinning back and forth as her doppelgangers watched from the mirrors. The cool air felt nice on her skin.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she dialed her mother again. The phone went on ringing.

“I know you’re there, Mom. Pick up. Please.”

Apparently Cheryl Daniels lay hunkered down with the rest of the townsfolk, playing their little game of hide-and-go-seek on Tori. She nervously scrolled through her messages and noticed no one had written her for several hours. Several text messages had arrived during lunch hour, the last a 12:30 p.m. note from Jana Davies, suggesting that Tori and Ted meet up with Jana and her boyfriend after dinner. Since then, nothing. No missed calls. No frantic voice mails from her mother wondering where Tori was.

Is the network down?

The cooling system whispered white noise. Beyond the front door, shadows grew longer along Main Street, spilling off cars and trees like black ink.

She glanced at a set of black double doors at the back of the store. The supply room. It occurred to her that anyone could be waiting behind those doors, watching her through the slit. She felt her skin prickle.

“Mrs. Donnelly? Are you back there?”

The double doors watched her. The cooling system clanged and bucked as though something was stuck in the pipes. Suddenly the elongated store felt like a crypt, the swivel chairs like torture devices in which scissors sliced and curling irons burned. Tori pushed herself up from the chair.

The knobs to the double doors rattled behind her. Surely her imagination was playing tricks on her and she actually heard the pipes expanding and contracting, as the air conditioner pumped polar air against the afternoon heat. Tori walked straight toward the front doors. Between the swivel chairs. Past the combs and brushes set in jars of blue liquid like preserved body parts. She didn’t dare look back. Because if she did, those black doors would creak open, and something unspeakable would stalk out of the darkness, running its claws along the backs of the swivel chairs as its maw opened to reveal rows of blood-soaked fangs.

No matter how fast she walked, the exit door never seemed to draw closer, as though she were walking on a treadmill. The pipes shook harder. Neglected hinges creaked behind her—the sound of the black doors inching open.

Tori ran for the front door, pulling when she should have pushed. The impact rattled the plate glass, resounding as though a kettle drum had been struck. In her panic, she thought she was locked inside the boutique. Her head cleared. She pushed through the front door and ran for the mountain bike.

The warm air felt stifling after the chill of the boutique. She threw her leg over the bike seat and pumped the pedals, racing northward past empty vehicles neatly aligned along Main Street. The streets were devoid of people. Her hair appointment and the prom long forgotten, she pedaled toward her house. As the hour passed six o’clock, Tori did not yet feel her world tearing apart at the seams. But she would. Soon.

Ready to be scared? DOWNLOAD DARK VANISHINGS NOW and read what happens next.

Author's Note

Writing a novel is a journey which is often full of solitude, but never traveled alone. I would like to thank my wife Teresa Padavona, and our two wonderful children Joe, and Julia Padavona, for supporting me on this journey. You gave me the courage to see this through to its conclusion, and without you this would not have been possible.

To my editor, Jack Musci, I owe more thanks than I can possibly give. Thank you for the advice and tips which made Storberry possible, as well as for helping me track down those nasty typos, misspellings, wrong words, indefinite pronouns, and other assorted gremlins. There are 110,000 words in this novel, so surely a few slipped through the cracks. But without them the world would never have Gremlins 2.

Although some of the locations surrounding Storberry are actual places, Storberry itself is wholly of the author's imagination. Any resemblance between the people in this book and people in the real world is purely coincidental and unintended.