A Gathering of Crows

Copyright © 2010, 2011 by Brian Keene

Acknowledgements

For this new edition of A Gathering of Crows, my thanks to everyone at Deadite Press; Alan Clark; Mark Sylva and Tod Clark; Tim and Brindi Anderson, who fed me while I was writing the last half of this book; Princess Alethea Kontis, who let me use her bucket of snakes; Bob Freeman, who provided a luminol light when I really needed it; Stephen Poerink; Miss Muffintop and the boys in the warehouse; Mary SanGiovanni; and my sons.

DEADITE PRESS BOOKS BY BRIAN KEENE

Urban Gothic

Jack’s Magic Beans

Clickers II (with J. F. Gonzalez)

Take The Long Way Home

A Gathering of Crows

For Skip Novak, Paul McCann, and Grant Riffle

ONE

When the sun went down, and dusk gave way to night, the mountain came alive. A chorus of insects buzzed and hummed in the darkness. Birds chirped from their treetop nests. Tiny frogs—called spring peepers by the locals because of the peeping sounds they made when they came out of hibernation each spring—sang to one another from shallow, hidden bogs and winding, narrow creeks. Nocturnal animals prowled the mountainside—coyotes and deer, black bears and foxes, skunks and raccoons. Leaves rustled, swaying in the light breeze. All of these sounds and more combined to form a natural cacophony as loud as any city street. The mountain thrummed with energy and life.

And then, all at once, sound and movement abruptly ceased. The mountain fell silent. Animal and insect, predator and prey—all were affected. Even the breeze became still. The only remaining sound was the low hum of the power lines, coming from the electrical tower on top of the mountain. The massive steel structure loomed over the surrounding countryside like a monolith, a modern-age Stonehenge, dour and watchful. The ground around its base had been cleared of trees and undergrowth and replaced with gravel and cement. Beyond the concrete base was a man-made clearing that cut through the forest like a scar. The clearing wound all the way down the mountainside, where further towers jutted up above the treetops. Nestled at the base of the mountain, far below the power lines, tucked safely between the river and the limestone foothills, was a small town. Its lights twinkled in the darkness like fireflies.

Mist rose from the ground around the tower’s base and swirled slowly around the arches and girders. For a moment, the electrical hum grew louder. Then, one by one, five large crows with feathers as black as coal appeared, swooping down out of the moonlight and the darkness and the fog-enshrouded trees. They approached each other from different parts of the clearing and landed directly beneath the tower. Then, perched on the tower’s lowest rung, they looked down upon the tiny town far below. The fog grew thicker.

A single black feather fell off one of the birds and drifted lazily to the ground, where it landed in a clump of ferns and weeds on the edge of the clearing. The feather lay there for a moment. Then the vegetation began to smoke, as if on fire, although no flames were visible. Within seconds, the vegetation had withered and turned brown. It crumbled and dissolved, leaving the feather to balance atop a small mound of ash.

The largest of the birds cried out. The caw echoed across the mountainside, seeming to gather strength in the darkness. One by one, the others joined in. The echoes boomed through the treetops. Soon, the birds’ cries drowned out even the hum of the electrical transformers.

***

Nights in Brinkley Springs were usually quiet and serene. On most evenings, the loudest disturbance, if any, was Randy Cummings racing his four-wheeldrive truck up and down Main Street. Sometimes, if the wind was right, residents could hear the Ford’s engine revving far up the mountain as he went off-roading with his friends. The truck’s original paint job was hidden beneath a permanently caked layer of mud and dirt. Occasionally, Sam Harding would cruise by in his black Nissan; it had flames painted on the sides. He didn’t drive fast, because he’d lowered the car to the point where hitting a pothole or a set of railroad tracks at any speed over twenty miles an hour would bottom it out, but he did like to turn the stereo up loud, and the bass would often rattle his tinted windows, as well as the windows of the houses he drove past. But most of the folks in Brinkley Springs agreed that since Randy and Sam would both be graduating in a few weeks, these were just temporary nuisances—at least until the next batch of kids got their driver’s licenses.

The town was composed mostly of small, rundown, oneor two-story houses and a fragile smattering of battered mobile homes. Some of the dwellings had dirty and dented aluminum or vinyl siding. Most didn’t even have that; instead, they showed bare, slowly rotting wood and peeling or faded paint. Shingles had been blown off roofs and never replaced. Porches sagged, waiting for a strong gust of wind to knock them over. For the most part, the homes in Brinkley Springs were built close enough together that you could see the next trash-strewn street or occasional outhouse peeking through behind them. The yards in front of the houses had more dirt than grass. Some held junk cars, engine blocks on cement blocks, tire swings, ceramic gnomes and cracked birdbaths, half-dead trees, stumps, weathered rabbit and chicken hutches, clothesline poles or tattered basketball nets. There was even a rusted, abandoned school bus on one weed-choked lawn. Other yards were completely vacant of even these trappings and contained only dead vegetation. Many of the houses had for-sale signs in front of them, and fully half of those were uninhabited, except by mice or the occasional snake.

No longer idyllic, Brinkley Springs barely warranted a glance from those who drove through it on their way to more exciting destinations. The town had two traffic lights and three four-way stop signs (all three bearing the rusty scars of having been peppered with shotgun pellets at some point in their existence). The town stretched twelve blocks in one direction and fifteen in the other, with a few small cattle, grain and horse farms on its borders. The black, potholed ribbon of U.S. 219 entered the town from the north, became Main Street for fifteen blocks and then transformed back into U.S. 219 again on the outskirts of town.

Most of the people in Brinkley Springs went to bed early, not out of boredom and not because of any quaint, old-fashioned ideas regarding propriety, but simply because they had to go to work the next morning, and that meant a long, arduous drive to other towns. Brinkley Springs had no industry— there were no factories or call centers or machine shops or office buildings. Nor were there any mining or timbering operations, as there were in other parts of the state. Indeed, other than Pheasant’s Garage, Barry’s Market, Esther Laudry’s bed-and breakfast, the small post office, a scattering of threadbare antique shops and the few surrounding farms, Brinkley Springs had no jobs at all. The last business to start up there—a privately owned turkey processing plant—had shut down after five years of operation and moved to North Carolina in search of a cheaper tax rate. Soon after, the abandoned plant burned down. Some said the fire was suspicious—a chance for the owners to collect on insurance money. Others said it was an accident. More than a few just shrugged and said it was a sign of the times. Whatever the real culprit had been, the plant was never rebuilt. All that remained was a burned-out, weedchoked lot full of broken bottles, rats and copperhead snakes. No one expected new construction to change that anytime soon. Brinkley Springs didn’t attract investors or businesses looking to expand. It was far off the major highways and interstate, wedged between the mountains and nestled deep in the heart of the Greenbrier River valley—a bedroom community for those who worked in Beckley, Lewisburg, Greenbank, Roncefort, Roanoke and the other bigger, more prosperous communities within the state or just across the border in Virginia.

Brinkley Springs had never been a big town, and with each passing year, its population shrank just a little bit more. Small businesses like the pizza shop or the movie-rental store closed and never reopened. Houses were abandoned when their owners passed away, and never resold. Potholes appeared in the streets and were never fixed. The town still had a V.F.W. post and a Ruritan Club, but their membership dropped with each passing year. The fire company still had quarterly bean suppers and their annual carnival, but each time, the attendance numbers dwindled. The tiny Methodist church had seating for two hundred people but had a weekly congregation of about fifteen. The Baptist church had been closed for two years, its doors and windows shuttered and boarded over. Brinkley Springs had no police force or school buildings. It was patrolled by the state police, who swung through once or twice a day just to make their presence known, and didn’t show up otherwise unless somebody called 911. Its children were bused to the bigger schools in Lewisburg. They left every morning and returned every evening, until they graduated. Then they went off to college or the military or a job somewhere else, and rarely returned again at all, except for holidays or a family occasion like a wedding or a funeral. And sometimes, not even then.

Still, despite all this, Brinkley Springs had its charms. The Greenbrier River ran along its eastern border and was a popular spot for both local and out-of-town fishermen, hikers and white-water rafters. The lack of posted property attracted hunters during deer, bear and turkey seasons, and a fair number of poachers even when those things weren’t in season. The antique shops were an occasional draw for travelers and vacationers who liked to explore off the beaten path, as was Esther Laudry’s bed-and-breakfast—a remodeled home built in the early 1900s—which catered to them as well as the occasional hiking or rafting enthusiast. But for the locals, Brinkley Springs was simply where they lived. Nothing more. Nothing less. A place to sleep, eat, shit and fuck. A place to play football with the kids on the weekends or watch TV at night. A place to store their cars and pets and clothing. A place to keep their stuff. Their real lives, the places where they spent most of their time, were at those jobs beyond the town limits.

Some people said that the town was dying. They didn’t know how right they were.

***

Concealed in shadow, five human figures sat perched upon the girders and steel crossbeams that the crows had occupied on the electrical tower earlier. They were dressed alike—black pants and shirts, black shoes, black hats, and long black coats that flowed to their heels. A passerby might have found their similar garb strangely reminiscent of America’s Colonial period, except for its color and the way the fabric seemed to blend with the darkness. Even their facial features were similar; they each had pointed noses and chins, dark eyes and even darker hair. They only differed in size, but even that was slight. The largest stood well over six feet tall. The others were within a few inches of that. Each of them seemed to defer to the biggest, who sat idly, head bobbing back and forth strangely on his almost nonexistent neck as he stared at the town below. Finally, he spoke. His voice was like breaking glass.

“It is good to see you again, brothers.”

“Indeed,” the second one replied. “The years between each gathering seem to grow longer with time.”

“Much has changed since we were last together in these forms,” the third figure said, staring at the town and then up at the electrical lines.

“Not really,” said the first. “Their technology has advanced since we were last all together like this, but they are still the same—ignorant, petty little beasts, for the most part oblivious to the larger universe around them. They do not change, even as their world changes around them. They are animated meat.

Nothing more.”

“So were we—once.”

“But then we were freed. We were transformed by his grace. Glory be to Meeble.”

The others nodded in agreement. Then the fourth figure raised one arm and pointed at the town.

“Is that it? This is why we were summoned tonight? This is where we will feed? This is where we will spread his work?”

“It is,” the first answered. “Brinkley Springs, West Virginia.”

“West Virginia?” The third figure arched an eyebrow. “Virginia? Are we close to Roanoke, then?”

“Yes,” said the first, “but it is not the Roanoke you’re thinking of. It is a different town. Named for that one, perhaps. And therein is a great example of irony. As I said, they are ignorant. They know not the importance of naming. They have forgotten it. The more they advance, the less they remember.”

“Brinkley Springs.” The second one frowned. “It seems . . . rustic.”

“They always do,” the first said. “They always have.” The second shrugged. “I do not doubt that, my brother. I just . . .”

“What?”

“I often wonder, with all of their advances, why we don’t feed on a larger scale? Imagine how magnificent our night would be were we to focus our efforts on a major metropolitan area. Think of how much more we could do. To murder an entire city? That would be glorious!”

“Perhaps,” said the first, “but then you are thinking of your own glory, rather than the glory of our master. Until the door is opened again and he walks this Earth once more, we must act only out of necessity, and then with utmost caution. Killing an entire city? To conduct our endeavors in such a grandiose manner would attract unwanted attention. Undoubtedly, there are still a few magi among them whose power matches our own. For all we know, they may have organized in the years since we last walked among them. We may be met with resistance”

“Yes, that is true. Perhaps we may find one who knows how to banish us from this realm.”

The first one ignored the comment but the others murmured to each other. They fell silent when he spoke again.

“And,” the first continued, “were we to focus our attention on an entire city, I daresay we would not finish before the dawn. It would be time to slumber again before we were done, and our efforts would remain incomplete. At the very least, we would certainly leave witnesses behind. They could tell others what had occurred, and when we awoke again, they might be prepared for our arrival. Our master, when he arrives—and he will arrive one day—would be . . . displeased.”

A collective shudder ran through the group. They nodded silently.

“Sunrise comes early,” sighed the third after a few minute’s pause. “Would that we had more than one paltry night.”

“We will,” promised the first. “One day we will. He has promised us it will be so. But for now, let us make the most of the time we do have. As you say, sunrise comes early. Until then, it is good to be with you all again, and it is good to be awake. I need to stretch my limbs after the long sleep.”

“True,” agreed the shortest. “And I am hungry. Nay—famished.”

“As are we all. Let us begin. Let us feast. Let us murder. Let us glorify him from whom we have sprung.”

And then they did.

The electrical tower was the first to fall. It crashed to the ground with a horrendous roar of twisting, shrieking metal and crackling sparks. Immediately, the twinkling lights disappeared in the valley below. The fallen cables hissed and spit, coiling and thrashing like wounded snakes. The leaves, weeds and other debris began to smolder. The figures seemed unconcerned at the prospect of a forest fire.

“Should we take down the others?” The shortest pointed at the other electrical towers looming above the treetops in the distance.

“Why bother?” The large one nodded toward Brinkley Springs. “That has achieved our first goal—to instill unease and seed their fear. The soul cage will do the rest, once we construct it from the five points. Don’t waste time here. Why rend metal when we could be ripping flesh instead?”

Side by side, the five figures walked down the mountainside, laughing as they went. The grass in the clearing withered and died in their wake. The fog grew thicker. Trees groaned. A mother bear, crazed with fear, slaughtered her own cubs rather than letting them fall victim to the presence permeating the mountain. Then she repeatedly smashed her head into a gnarled, wide oak tree until brains and bark littered the ground. Deep inside its den, a rattlesnake swallowed its own tail, jaws opening wider to accommodate its length and girth. Driven by a nameless, unfathomable fear, a herd of deer flung themselves from a cliff and burst open on the jagged rocks below. A pack of coyotes that had been tracking the herd followed along a moment later, dashing themselves upon the deer’s broken bodies. Bones splintered. Blood splattered.

Overhead, a thick bank of clouds drifted over the moon, slowly covering it until it was gone from sight.

Down in Brinkley Springs, the darkness grew deeper and the dogs began to howl.

When the power went out, Axel Perry was sitting in the wicker rocking chair on his sagging front porch, sipping a bottle of hard cider, listening to the spring peepers and thinking about his dead wife. For a few seconds, he didn’t notice the electrical outage. After all, he had no radio or television playing in the background. The only time he watched television was when the West Virginia Mountaineers were playing, and he had no patience for the radio these days—the country stations all sounded like rock stations, and everything else was just the white noise of talk radio. Axel hated talk radio. Everybody was a conservative or a liberal these days, with no room for folks in the middle of the road. All of the good stuff had moved over to satellite radio. He’d thought about buying one, but money was tight and satellite coverage here in the valley was spotty at best. Most of the time, the signals were weak or constantly interrupted. The same thing happened with cell phones and wireless Internet service. Axel had dial-up Internet service that his son and daughter-in-law had bought him to go along with the computer they’d given him for his birthday. They’d come to visit for a week—driving all the way from Vermont to Brinkley

Springs—and had taken him to Wal-Mart and picked it out from the computers on display. Then they’d brought it home and made a big deal out of showing him how to work it. They said he’d be able to stay in touch more often, and that they could send him pictures of his grandkids instantly—he wouldn’t have to wait on the mail. He’d tried it a few times, but his curiosity had soon waned. Looking at pictures of his grandchildren on a computer screen just wasn’t the same as looking at them while paging through a photo album—and neither option compared to actually holding the kids in his arms or hearing them laugh and play in his backyard. Plus, staring at pictures of the grandkids just made his loneliness and sadness that much more complete.

TWO

At least once a day, Axel wished that he would die. If he’d had the nerve, he’d have killed himself. But he didn’t have the nerve. What if he messed up? What if he made a mistake? What if he lay there in his home, paralyzed or wounded and unable to call for help? Who would find him? The answer was nobody, because no one ever checked in on him. He was an old man living alone in an old house, with only his old, waning memories to keep him company.

He missed his wife, Diane—gone ten years now, not from cancer or a heart attack or diabetes or any of the other plagues that came with old age, but from a drunk driver. They’d taken a bus trip together to Washington, D.C., to see the cherry blossoms for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. On the way back home, a drunken driver had drifted into their lane and sideswiped the bus. The bus driver then swerved off the road and hit a tree. A few folks were injured, but most escaped without a scratch.

Except for Diane. She was thrown forward and banged her head against the seat in front of her— hard enough to cause her skull to separate from her spinal column. The doctor had called it internal decapitation. Axel had called it abandonment, and although he missed Diane every day and had been distraught over the loss, there were times when he grew angry with her for going off and leaving him behind to fend for himself. Learning to live on his own had been hard, and he still hadn’t mastered it. Even now, with a decade to get used to the idea, he still found himself opening his mouth to tell her something throughout the day, maybe a passing comment regarding something he’d read in a magazine, or a bit of gossip he’d heard down at Barry’s Market. Sometimes at night, he’d roll over and reach for her and wonder where she’d gone.

Still, he went on. He survived. What else was there to do?

Sitting on the porch at night, drinking a bottle of beer or hard cider (but never more than one; otherwise, he’d pay for it the next morning by spending an hour on the toilet) and listening to the spring peepers brought him peace and comfort—or at least as close to those things as he could get. The tiny frogs usually showed up in late March or early April. By the end of April, their nightly chorus was as ever present as the sky or the moon and stars. A million tiny chirp like croaks echoed from the riverbank and surrounding mountains. Sometimes, their song was muted, but it was never interrupted altogether. It would continue until fall, when the weather started to cool again.

A stray cat darted across the lawn. Axel called to it, but the wary animal kept running. He’d thought about getting a dog or a cat to help ease his loneliness, but had ultimately decided against it because he didn’t know who would take care of it if he passed on.

The chair creaked as Axel leaned back and stretched. He raised the bottle to his lips, took another swig and closed his eyes, letting the sound of the peepers wash over him. Diane had always enjoyed listening to them, too. Unlike most of the other things they’d shared, he didn’t get sad when listening to the frogs. Their sound seemed to buoy his spirits. Listening to them made him feel close to her.

“I miss you, darlin’. Wish you were here tonight.” Across the street, Bobby Sullivan sat on a pile of dirt in his front yard, playing with Matchbox cars. A plastic car carrier—one of the little ones that looked like a suitcase—was open before him, and more cars littered the ground around the six-year-old’s feet. He made vroom-vroom sounds as he guided the cars through the dirt. His mother, Jean, hollered for him through the screen door, telling him it was time to come inside. Smiling, Axel watched the boy linger, slowly putting his cars away, trying to milk as much time as possible before his mother called for him again. Sure enough, she did, her voice more insistent this time. Bobby shuffled toward the house, shoulders slumped dejectedly. He paused to wave at Axel. Still smiling, Axel waved back. Bobby went inside. The screen door banged shut behind him. The Sullivan’s porch light came on. The kitchen light glowed through the window. Inside, Jean and Bobby would be sitting down for supper. Occasionally, Jean brought a plate over to Axel. Most times, though, they ate as a family. Axel didn’t know anything about Bobby’s father, if he was alive or dead or if Jean even knew who he was. He guessed that didn’t matter. The two of them—mother and son—made a fine family.

He glanced down the street. For-sale signs dotted many of the yards. The signs were as weathered and faded as the houses they advertised. Weeds grew up around them, the yards not mowed since the owners had left. Axel had known most of the people who lived in those homes at one time. They’d been his neighbors, and in many cases, his friends. Now they were gone, just like Diane—passed away or moved on, living in a retirement community or with their kids or, in the case of some of his younger neighbors, some place where the economy was better and taxes were lower and jobs still existed. He wondered what would happen to his house when he died. Would it sit here like all these others, dying slowly from wood rot and neglect?

These were supposed to be his golden years, but in Axel’s experience, the only thing ever gold in color was piss. He thought about how excited folks had been at the prospect of a new president and a new beginning for the country. All that excitement had waned now. The nation was back to business as usual. Same old story. Same old song and dance. The media said things were getting better, that the economy was improving and folks were happier again. Axel thought that the media wouldn’t know what things were like for the average American even if that average American were to walk up and bite them on the ass.

Sighing, Axel sat the bottle down and rubbed his arthritic hands. The spring peepers continued with their serenade, oblivious to his thoughts, concerns or mood.

Farther up the street, the porch light was on in front of Esther Laudry’s bed-and-breakfast. Axel assumed that Esther must be happy tonight. She had a boarder, after all. That in itself was rare these days. And this wasn’t just any boarder, either. If the buggy parked outside was any indication, her overnight guest was Amish. Axel had run into Greg Pheasant earlier, and Greg had confirmed this. The Amish fella had come into town around four in the afternoon and had stopped at the garage that Greg ran with his brother Gus. He’d asked Greg if there was a hotel nearby. Greg had steered him toward Esther’s, where he’d taken a room for the night. Greg said that the guy had seemed friendly enough. After parking his buggy along the street, he’d tied his horse down near the river. Axel didn’t know much about the Amish, other than what he’d seen in that movie with Harrison Ford, but he supposed they must travel just like other folks. He’d heard tell that there was an Amish community up near Punkin Center. Perhaps this guy was on his way there to visit kin. If so, then good for him. Family was important.

For a moment, Axel’s attention was distracted by another noise—a faint, far-away groan, the sound a tree might make as it fell over. There was a distant crash and then nothing, except for the sound of the peepers. He couldn’t be sure if he’d imagined the sounds or not. His hearing wasn’t as good as it had once been. He was just about to shrug it off when he noticed that Esther’s lights had gone off. Across the street, he heard Jean Sullivan’s holler, “Oh, come on! I paid the bill.” He glanced in that direction and saw that her lights were out, as well. Then Axel noticed something else.

The spring peepers had stopped singing.

He took a deep breath and counted, waiting for them to start again.

One . . . two . . . three . . . come on, you crazy little things. Sing for me.

He shivered. The air was growing chillier. His skin prickled and the hair on his arms felt charged.

The Sullivans’ screen door banged open. Jean poked her head out.

“Axel,” she called. “Is your electricity off?”

“I believe it may be out all over, Jean. Looks like Esther’s is out, too. Reckon a line’s down somewhere.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I thought they’d turned my power off.”

Shaking her head, she went back inside. Axel strained his ears and heard her soothing Bobby. Then he went back to counting.

Four . . . five . . . six . . . come on, damn it. Peep!

Up the street, the Marshalls’ mangy old beagle began to howl. The sudden noise startled Axel, and he jumped in his chair. The dog howled again. It was a lonely, mournful sound—not anything like the happy call a beagle made when it was chasing a rabbit. A moment later, it was joined by Paul Crowley’s bear dogs in the kennel behind Paul’s house. Then, one by one, all of the dogs in Brinkley Springs joined in. The sound was unsettling, to say the least.

“What the hell is going on?”

Then Axel remembered that there was nobody around to answer him.

He waited for the spring peepers to resume their chorus, but they didn’t. Their silence was unsettlingly loud—much louder than the dogs were. Axel rubbed his hands some more and wondered what was happening. The aching grew more severe. He thought of Diane again, but this time, he wasn’t sure why.

***

Jean Sullivan returned to the kitchen table, where her son, Bobby, sat in the dark. His eyes were big and round, and he had the tip of one index finger stuck in his mouth—something he’d done since he was a toddler whenever he was scared or nervous. She assured him that everything was okay, and then fumbled around in one of the drawers beside the sink until she found some half-burned candles and a box of wooden matches. She lit a candle, blew out the match and tossed the smoldering stick in the sink, and then walked around the first floor of their home, lighting all of the other candles she could find. Since she’d bought most of them at craft stores, the home soon smelled of competing fragrances—vanilla and strawberries and lavender and potpourri. The soft glow slowly filled the house, chasing away her discomfort. Jean wasn’t sure why, but the sudden power outage had left her unsettled. The flickering candlelight made her feel better. She walked back into the kitchen and smiled at Bobby. He smiled back, clearly feeling better too, now that they had light again.

“What happened, Mommy?”

“I don’t know, baby. Somebody probably crashed their car into a pole somewhere. Or maybe a tree limb fell down on one of the lines. I’m sure they’ll have it up and running again soon.”

“Can I watch a movie?”

“Not while the electricity is off. Maybe we can read a book tonight instead.”

Bobby frowned. “But we never read books.”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to fix that. Maybe this is a good time to start. Now finish eating. Mommy’s got to call the power company and report the outage.”

“Okay.”

Bobby used his fork to move his meatloaf and peas around on his plate while Jean reached for the phone. Normally, she was resentful of the old rotary unit. She longed to have a cell phone, but simply couldn’t afford it—not on welfare and WIC. Nor could she afford one of those digital electronic units she’d seen at Wal-Mart. For Jean, her old rotary phone with its antiquated dial had always been a reminder of all the things she couldn’t give her son. Now, it was a lifeline. The folks with digital phones wouldn’t be able to make calls because they had no power. She picked up the receiver, put it to her ear and then paused with her index finger hovering over the dial.

There was no dial tone.

“Shit.”

Bobby gasped, then grinned. “You said a bad word, Mommy.”

“Mommy’s allowed to say a bad word when the phone lines are down.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the phone isn’t working, just like the electricity.”

“Does it mean I can say a bad word, too?”

“No. And eat your peas. I’ve told you before, moving your food around on the plate doesn’t make it look like you’ve eaten any more. All it does is—”

A long, plaintive howl cut her off. Jean and Bobby glanced at the window and then at each other. Another howl joined the first, then several more.

“Why are all the dogs barking, Mommy?”

Jean shook her head. “I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.”

“Maybe there’s a bear outside. Can I go see?”

“No, Bobby. Now I’m not telling you again. Eat your dinner.”

Jean moved to the kitchen window and peered outside. The barks and howls were louder now, seeming to fill the air. Outside, the street was dark, and she couldn’t see much of anything. For a moment, Jean considered going over to Axel’s house and checking on him, but then she decided against it. She didn’t want to leave Bobby alone. Jean didn’t know why, but her disquiet had returned, and this time no amount of candlelight would chase it away.

When Bobby began to playfully howl along with the dogs, she almost screamed.

***

Donny Osborne put the last box—marked on the side with black Magic Marker as PHOTO ALBUMS—in the back of his blue Ford pickup truck, grunting with the effort. Sighing, he slammed the tailgate shut. Both sounds, the sigh and the slam, had the tone of finality. He glanced down and noticed that one of his bootlaces was untied. Resting his foot on the rear bumper, he tied it again. The lace was damp from the dew on the grass. Despite the coolness in the air, Donny was sweating. After tying the lace and wiping his brow with the bottom of his T-shirt, Donny leaned back against the truck and sighed again. He tried not to look at the house because doing so filled him with sadness, but he couldn’t help himself. As he stood there, catching his breath, his eyes were drawn back to it once more.

The house seemed smaller somehow. Maybe that was because he was an adult now. Everything seemed smaller these days. His childhood home. This street. Brinkley Springs. The mountains. Hell, even the whole damned state of West Virginia seemed to have shrunk. As he stood there, Donny wondered why this was so. Was it just a matter of perspective, that he remembered these things through a child’s eyes but was looking at them now as a man? Or was it because he’d seen the rest of the world and understood now just how big it was, and how small this little section of the planet was? Was it because unlike percent of his classmates and childhood friends, he’d gone beyond the state borders and discovered that there was a whole wide world out there, a world full of different cultures and people and outlooks and beliefs that were nothing like what they’d grown up knowing? That there were towns other than Brinkley Springs, populated with people totally unlike themselves—and yet sharing similar hopes and dreams and wants and needs?

Places like Iraq, for instance.

Donny snickered. It was a humorless, spiteful sound.

Maybe Iraq wasn’t such a good example, although he had to admit, his second tour of duty in that godforsaken place had been much better than his first. By his second tour of duty, the much-maligned troop surge had worked, and as a result, he and the rest of his platoon spent more time interacting with the civilians or watching movies and playing video games back at Camp Basra than they did out on patrol. That first tour had been hell—going from house to house, searching for insurgents, never knowing when you were going to get shot. And it was hard to tell the insurgents from everyone else. They blended with the populace. In Iraq, everyone looked like a civilian, and all of them—friendly or otherwise— had weapons. Just because a family had an old Kalashnikov tucked away inside their cupboard, it didn’t mean they were the enemy. That would have been like rounding up and arresting every hunter in Brinkley Springs who owned a deer rifle. But even the house-to-house searches weren’t as bad as dealing with the suicide bombers and the IEDs. Many of Donny’s friends had lost their legs, arms or eyes to roadside bombs. One minute, they’d been sitting in a transport, and the next . . .

Well, what could you say about a country where you could get your legs blown off while just driving down the fucking road?

The thing that most amazed Donny now was how much he actually missed the place sometimes. Oh, not Iraq itself. Iraq was a cesspool. Iran could move in overnight and nuke Iraq, reducing it to a radioactive crater, and Donny would be just fine with that. But he missed his friends. His fellow soldiers. His brothers. It was funny. Donny had spent six years in the military just marking the days on his shorttimer’s calendar, counting the minutes until he was a civilian again. But now that he was out and back in the world, all he could think about was the time he’d served and the guys he’d served it with. Some of them had never made it back home, like Tyler Henry from York, Pennsylvania, killed when their convoy hit an IED while crossing through the desert; Will McCann from central Ohio, killed by a sniper inside the Green Zone; or Don Bloom from Trenton, New Jersey, who’d been captured by the renegade remnants of Saddam Hussein’s fedayeen, tortured and then, after being rescued, had gone AWOL somewhere inside the country. Nobody was sure why, or where he’d gone, or what had happened to him. The rumors ran the gamut, each one wilder than the previous. Bloom had fallen in love with an Iraqi girl and was hiding with her family. Bloom had crossed the border into Jordan and became a smuggler. Bloom had crossed the border into Syria or Iran and was selling them military secrets. Bloom was working for a private security contractor. Bloom had joined up with Black Lodge, the paranormal paramilitary group that didn’t even exist but was the wet dream of conspiracy theorists all across the Internet. All kinds of crazy theories, and Donny was pretty sure that none of them were true.

Donny thought of Henry and McCann and Bloom often, but he thought even more frequently about his friends who had made it home—and the few who were still there, counting the days on their own short-timer calendars. He missed them terribly and wondered if he’d ever see any of them again. They’d promised to stay in touch. So had he. But somehow, those promises had fallen by the wayside when, one by one, they returned home to the real world—a world of family and wives and kids and taxes and jobs and college and mortgage payments. Donny’s real world was Brinkley Springs, and in some ways, he hated the town more than he’d ever hated Iraq.

Donny Osborne was twenty-four going on eighty-four.

He glanced back at the house again, and his gaze lingered on the for-sale sign in the yard. The sign was new—less than a week old—but already looked weather-beaten and worn, just like the house itself. The realtor (a red-headed woman named Mallory Lau who, despite being twice his age, had mercilessly hit on Donny even though he kept declining her advances) had promised him she’d do her best, but Donny wasn’t holding his breath. Brinkley Springs was full of similar signs, many of them from her real-estate office. With the economy still down, it was a buyer’s market right now—except that there were no buyers. Each morning, new realtor signs seemed to have sprung up overnight. The houses weren’t selling. New construction was nonexistent. In short, the town was old and sick and weary. The town was dying. No, not dying. Maybe the town didn’t know it yet, but Brinkley Springs was dead.

Just like his mother.

Donny could have stayed in the military after his second tour of duty. He’d certainly wanted to stay in. He was decorated—including a Bronze Star— and he’d already made E-. He’d been the type of soldier they needed more of, and the brass hadn’t been shy about letting him know that the army offered him big bonuses and all sorts of extra benefits if he’d re-up again. He’d planned on doing it. It wasn’t that he desired to make a career out of the army. He could do without combat, and the endless hours of monotony in between firefights—the “hurry up and wait” mentality so prevalent in the military.

But he really didn’t have any other options that appealed to him. He could have taken advantage of the G.I. Bill, of course, and let the government pay for his college education, but there was nothing in particular that Donny had wanted to study. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. All that he knew was that he didn’t want to spend that life trapped in Brinkley Springs. The army provided him with a way to do that, a way to escape. Unfortunately, in the end, Brinkley Springs had sucked him back. A line of dialogue from the third Godfather movie ran through his head.

“Just when I thought I was out,” Donny said, doing his best Al Pacino imitation, “they pull me back in.”

He could have re-upped, could have gotten the big reenlistment bonus and the offer of full retirement at age forty, and never had to set foot in Brinkley Springs again, except for the occasional holiday when home on leave, had his mother not gotten sick.

The cancer had been slow but deadly, ravaging her body one cell at a time with unerring precision. The doctors down in Beckley had discovered it by accident. Mom had gone in for a checkup while Donny was still on his second tour in Iraq. They’d discovered a lump in her abdomen, but had assured her it was merely a lipoma, a benign tumor composed of nothing more than extra fatty tissue. And they’d been right. The lump they’d removed was benign, but the tumors they discovered beneath it during the operation were malignant. So were the ones that followed.

His father had died when Donny was ten years old. He’d been coming home from work late one night after a full day of cutting timber on Bald Knob and had rolled his truck down a mountainside between Punkin Center and Renick. After plunging eighty feet, there wasn’t much left of him or the truck. Investigators were never able to determine what had happened. Maybe a deer had run out in front of him. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe another car had run him off the narrow road. Or maybe it had just been one of those things—dumb luck, the kind that altered lives forever. In any case, no matter what the reason, his father had never come home that night.

His mother had never remarried. As far as Donny knew, she’d never even dated again. He had no siblings, so when his mother got sick, he’d returned home, come back to Brinkley Springs to take care of her. He slept in his old bedroom. At night, after his mother was asleep in a haze of painkillers and sedatives, Donny had lain in that old bedroom and stared at the ceiling. It felt like a prison, and with each passing night, the walls had seemed to draw closer.

Mom had lingered for just over a year. They’d tried various treatments, but none of them had worked, and some of them had made her sicker than the cancer itself. In the end, she’d succumbed. Donny had been by her side in the hospital when it happened.

Now she was gone, and in a minute, as soon as he climbed back in his pickup truck and started the engine, Donny would be gone, too. This time for good.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

The street lights blinked out. Donny stared up at them, waiting for the illumination to return, but it didn’t.

“Fucking town. Nothing works around here anymore. Even the lights are dead.”

Something screamed in the night. Donny jumped, startled. It sounded like an injured woman or child. The cry came from the woods, shattering the stillness. After a moment, he realized what it was. The shrieks belonged to a screech owl. He’d been terrified of that sound as a young boy, but had forgotten all about it in adulthood—as adulthood had given him all new things to be afraid of.

“Damn it.”

With a third sigh, Donny turned away from the house and clambered up into the cab of the truck. The seat springs groaned as he climbed inside. He slammed the door, rolled the window down and slipped his key into the ignition. He was about to start it when someone called his name.

“Donny? Donny, wait!”

Surprised, Donny leaned his head out the window and glanced behind him. The streetlights still hadn’t returned, and at first, all he saw was a shadow. Then, as the figure drew closer, he recognized it. Marsha Cummings was hurrying down the street toward him. Her flip-flops beat a steady rhythm on the pavement.

I must be tired, he thought. I didn’t even hear her coming. How could I not have, with her wearing those flip-flops?

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Donny turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

“Shit.”

He tried it again, but the engine refused to turn over. When he tried the headlights, he found that they were dead, as well.

“Donny,” Marsha called again. “Wait a minute, goddamn it!”

Sighing a fourth and final time, Donny let his fingers fall away from the keys. He waited for Marsha to reach him, and repeated the Pacino line under his breath.

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

And that was when the dogs began to howl.

***

“Yo, turn this shit up,” Sam said, reaching for the computer mouse. On the monitor, iTunes had just segued from Redman to Kanye West. The bass line thumped softly from two speakers and a subwoofer hooked into the back of the computer.

“Leave it alone,” Randy warned, smacking his friend’s hand away. “My parents are still awake. We don’t need them coming up here. And besides, Kanye West is a bag of fuck.”

“If you don’t like him,” Stephanie asked after sipping her beer, “then why is he on your iPod?”

“Because I used to like him. I just don’t anymore. Dude be tripping all the time. Too much ego and not enough talent. And besides, his shit’s outdated.”

“Well,” Stephanie persisted, “so are Redman and Ice-T, but you’ve got them on here. Hell, Ice-T was around when our parents were our age.”

“Yeah, but that’s classic shit. There’s a difference between being a classic and just being outdated. Ice-T was an original gangster. Kanye ain’t all that. He’s a squirrel looking for a nut.”

Randy turned his attention back to the video gamhe was playing with Sam. The two sat on the edge of his bed, controllers in hand, staring at the television. Stephanie sat in the chair in front of Randy’s desk. Her gaze went from the television to the boys to the computer, and then back to the television again.

She sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Randy asked her, his tone impatient.

“I’m bored. I mean, I didn’t come over here to watch you two play video games all night.”

Randy’s attention didn’t leave the television. “Then what the hell did you come over here for?”

“To spend time with you guys, asshole.”

“I reckon we are spending time together.”

“No, we’re not. We’re just hanging out in your bedroom.”

Her cell phone beeped. Stephanie picked it up and smiled.

“It’s Linda. Hang on, let me text her back.”

She grew quiet for a few moments as she typed, and Randy tried to focus on the game. Then Stephanie’s phone beeped again as Linda replied, and Stephanie squealed with laughter. Grunting, Randy dropped his game controller in frustration. On the screen, his character died a bloody death at the hands of Sam, who sat back and grinned.

“Now look what you did,” Randy said to Stephanie. “You fucked with my concentration and I lost.”

“It’s not my fault!”

“Sure it is. You and Linda text like twenty-four/ seven. Ya’ll are lesbians or something.”

“Asshole.”

“Don’t you get sick of each other?”

“Sounds to me like you’re jealous.”

Ignoring her, Randy turned to Sam. “I’m done, yo. This game sucks, anyway.”

“Come on, Steph.” Sam fished the controller out of Randy’s lap and held it up. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Okay.”

She hopped out of the chair and took a seat between them on the bed. Smiling, she accepted the controller from Sam, whose hairless cheeks suddenly flushed red. He glanced away from her, shifting back and forth nervously when she giggled. The bed springs squeaked.

“Promise to be gentle?” Stephanie grinned. “I reckon so,” Sam murmured.

Randy stood up and crossed the room. Like Sam, his ears and cheeks were red, too, but unlike Sam, it wasn’t from embarrassment. Sam was supposed to be his best friend. They’d known each other all their lives. They’d known Stephanie all their lives, too, and it wasn’t until this year, when it suddenly became apparent that Stephanie wasn’t just the little girl they’d always known anymore, that the relationship between the three of them had grown so complicated. Randy hated it when Stephanie tried to play him and Sam against each other. Worse, it bothered him even more that Sam was sucker enough to fall for it every time. Sometimes, she genuinely seemed to want to be with him. Other times, she seemed more interested in Sam. Randy hated how the whole situation made him feel.

Not for the first time, Randy wondered what would happen to them all after graduation. It was only a few months away. They’d have the summer together. He supposed that he and Sam would have to find jobs, although he didn’t know how in the hell they’d do that when there weren’t any jobs to be had. Stephanie would be going off to college in the fall. She’d gotten into Morgantown. What would happen then? Would she be like everybody else who left Brinkley Springs, and never come back?

“Where’s your sister at tonight?” Sam asked.

Randy turned around to answer and noticed that

Sam and Stephanie were sitting very close to each other on the edge of the mattress. So close, in fact, that their thighs and shoulders were touching. Neither seemed inclined to move. Randy wondered if they were even aware of it. A lump rose in his throat and something churned in his stomach.

“She went out,” he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “Donny’s leaving tonight. She wanted to confront him before he goes.”

“She ought to just let it drop,” Sam said. “Hell, he’s the one who left in the first place. Went off to Iraq and shit. Left your sis and his mother here. And what with his Mom being sick and your sister in love with him—that shit wasn’t right, yo.”

“She’s in love with him,” Stephanie declared. “It’s easy to see why, too. Donny’s . . .”

“What?” Randy and Sam asked at the same time. “Never mind. All I’m saying is that it’s easy to see why Marsha is still stuck on Donny. Love makes you do strange things.”

“Randy?” The voice came from downstairs.

“Shit. It’s my dad.” He waved at Stephanie and Sam to be quiet. “What?”

“Turn that music down. The bass is coming through the ceiling.”

“Okay,” Randy yelled.

Muttering to himself, he walked toward the computer. As he did, the background music changed, switching from Kanye West to Foxy Brown and Kira singing “When the Lights Go Out.”

“Oh,” Stephanie said, “I love this song.”

And then the lights went out, along with the computer, the television, the video game and all of the other electronics. Stephanie gasped. The bedroom grew dark. The windows were open, allowing the night air to come through the screens, and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains.

“Uh-oh,” Sam said. “Must have blown a fuse.”

“Listen,” Randy said, holding a finger to his lips.

“Ya’ll hush up a minute.”

Downstairs, Randy and Marsha’s father was cursing, and their mother was asking him where the flashlight was. Outside, a dog howled. And then another. And then a dozen.

“Come on,” Randy said. “Let’s go see what’s happening.”

Sam and Stephanie stood up and followed him to the bedroom door. Randy reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back, and her teeth flashed white in the gloom as she smiled at him.

“Besides,” Randy whispered, “maybe it’ll be more exciting than sitting here playing video games.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I was sort of having fun kicking Sam’s butt.”

Sam laughed behind them and Stephanie’s smile grew wider. Randy let go of her hand and walked out into the hall, barely realizing that his hands had curled into fists.

Outside, the barking and howls grew louder.

***

Five black crows swooped in over the town and then split up, each heading to the outskirts. One glided to the town’s northern point, another to the southern tip. One went east and another west. The fifth crow hovered over the center of town. When all were in position, each simultaneously shed a single black feather. The feathers floated slowly downward. As each one touched the ground, the birds croaked in unison. Their voices sounded human rather than crowlike—as if they were chanting.

The air around Brinkley Springs changed. A glow briefly surrounded the town, and then vanished.

***

When the lights went out, Esther Laudry had finished brewing hot water in her electric tea kettle. She’d just poured some into two dainty, porcelain tea cups decorated with red and pink roses when the power died.

“Oh, fiddlesticks . . .”

She tugged on the teabag strings and left the cups and saucers on the kitchen counter, allowing the tea to steep for a moment. Then she made her way to the laundry room, moving slowly—it wouldn’t do to slip and break her hip in the darkness—and checked the fuse box by the light of a match. Everything seemed normal. None of the fuses were blown.

“Esther,” Myrtle Danbury called from the sitting room, “do you need some help, dear? Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Esther said, coming back into the kitchen.

“The electricity is out.”

“That’s strange. It’s not storming.”

“No, it’s not. Maybe somebody crashed into a pole. Or maybe a tree branch knocked down one of the wires. Just give me a moment to call the power company.”

Esther reached for the phone, but when she tried dialing, she found that the phone lines were out, as well. She placed the phone back in its cradle, went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a pink flashlight. When she thumbed the button, nothing happened. Either the batteries were dead or the flashlight was broken. Shaking her head, she picked up the teacups. They rattled softly against the saucers as she carefully carried them into the dark sitting room.

“It’s chamomile,” she said, sitting the cup and saucer down in front of her guest, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to drink it in the dark.”

“That’s okay,” Myrtle said, her voice cheery. “I like the ambience.”

“You would. My flashlight isn’t working.”

“When was the last time you changed the batteries?”

“I don’t know.”

“I change mine twice a year, just to be sure. You can never be too cautious.”

Esther frowned. “Just let me light a few candles.”

She moved around the room, lighting a series of votive and decorative candles that were scattered among the knickknacks on various shelves and end tables. Soon the sitting room was filled with a soft glow and the competing scents of honeysuckle, strawberry, cinnamon, vanilla and peppermint. Sighing, Esther took her seat, and after an experimental sip, pronounced her tea too hot to drink. ***

“What did the power company say?” Myrtle asked.

“Did they give you any idea how long it would be?”

“I couldn’t get through. The phone lines are down, too.”

“Well, that’s odd.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Should we check on your boarder?” Myrtle asked. Esther shook her head. “No, I’m sure he’s fine. I imagine the poor man is asleep already. He said he’d ridden all day in that buggy. He was pretty tired when he checked in, and he asked not to be disturbed. You saw for yourself.”

“I know. But still . . .”

“You just want to bother him with questions, Myrtle. Be honest.”

“Well, don’t you? You can’t tell me you’re not just as fascinated with him as I am.”

“Sure, I’m interested, but I don’t intend to bother him about it. Not tonight. He’s worn out. And besides, it’s not like he’s the first Amish person we’ve seen. There’s a whole colony of them up near Punkin Center.”

“I thought those were Mennonites?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“I don’t think so.” Myrtle shrugged. “People from the Mennonite faith can drive cars and trucks. Only the Amish still insist on riding around in horse-drawn buggies. I think they are different facets of the same faith. Like Methodists and Lutherans.”

Esther frowned again. She’d been a Presbyterian all of her life and had little interest in other denominations, especially when they were incorrect in regards to interpreting the Lord’s word.

“But that’s my point,” Myrtle continued. “It would be fascinating to talk to him—to learn more about his faith. The Amish are a very spiritual people, you know.”

Esther tried her tea again and found that it had cooled. She took a sip and sighed.

“You’re forgetting,” she said, “that when he checked in, and you asked him, he specifically stated he wasn’t Amish.”

Myrtle waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Then how do you explain his clothes and his beard? And why else would he show up in a horse and buggy? Mighty odd to be going around like that if he’s not Amish.”

“Lots of people have beards. And I daresay he’s not the only person around here to use a horse.”

“When he checked in, what did he list for his address?”

“That’s personal information, Myrtle. I can’t tell you that.”

“Oh, nonsense. That’s never stopped you from gossiping in the past.”

Esther’s frown deepened. Myrtle was her nextdoor neighbor and, she supposed, her best friend. Even so, she didn’t appreciate being spoken to like this—even if Myrtle was right.

“Marietta, Pennsylvania.”

“I know that area,” Myrtle said. “I wrote about it in one of my books. Powwow magic was very big there at one time.”

“Oh, here we go. You and your New Age books.”

“Don’t you scoff. I make a living from them.”

Myrtle sounded slightly offended. Esther considered apologizing, but then decided against it. She knew all too well that Myrtle’s self-published volumes barely made enough money to break even. In truth, Myrtle lived off the life-insurance policy left behind after her husband’s death three years ago from the sudden and massive heart attack he’d suffered while turkey hunting. Esther suspected that the books were Myrtle’s way of dealing with his death.

“And anyway,” Myrtle continued, “powwow isn’t New Age. It’s sort of like what we call hoodoo around here, but based more in German occultism, Gypsy lore, Egyptology and Native American beliefs. It’s uniquely American—a big old melting pot.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound very American to me. Germans and Gypsies and Egyptians and Indians? The only American part of that is the Indians, and Lord knows that didn’t work out so well. Sounds occult to me.”

“Oh, you’d like it. It’s a mix of folklore and the Bible, with a little bit of white and black magic thrown in. Sort of like potluck supernaturalism.”

“Hoodoo isn’t magic.”

“Well, sure it is!”

“My mother could work hoodoo,” Esther said, “but she’d have struck you down if you’d called it magic. Her abilities were nothing more than the Lord working through her.”

“You say tomato. I say—”

“Listen.” Esther held up one hand and sat upright in her chair, head cocked to one side. “Do you hear that?”

Myrtle was quiet for a moment. “Dogs? It sounds like all the dogs in town just went crazy. Maybe there’s a deer running through the streets or something?”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway,” Myrtle said, “we got off track. My point was that Marietta—where this man is supposedly from—is in Lancaster County, which is the heart and soul of Amish country.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. West Virginia is full of rednecks. Does that make us rednecks?”

“Of course not. But this is different. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man upstairs is Amish, no matter what he says.”

Esther murmured her consent, but in truth, she was barely listening to her friend. Her attention was focused on the howling outside and the darkness in the room. It suddenly felt to Esther as if her entire bed-and-breakfast was holding its breath. She shivered.

“Is it me,” she whispered, “or has it gotten colder in here?”

“It has,” Myrtle replied. “I didn’t notice it until you mentioned it, but it definitely has. Do you want me to get you a shawl?”

“No, I’m okay. I hope the lights come back on soon.”

“Me, too.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the dogs and wondering what was going on. The temperature continued to drop—not enough that they could see their breath in the air, but enough to make them both uncomfortable. When Esther reached for her tea, hoping that it would warm her up, she noticed that the flames were dancing atop the candles, as if blown by a slight breeze.

“Did you see that?”

“The candles?” Now Myrtle was whispering, too.

“Yes. I reckon you must have left a door or window open.”

“No,” Esther insisted, “they’re all closed. I closed them as soon as the cats came in for the evening.”

Outside, the frenzied howls suddenly stopped as if someone had flicked a switch.

***

Levi Stoltzfus was asleep when the power went out. He lay on his back, legs straight, arms folded across his stomach, snoring softly. He dreamed of a girl in a cornfield. Her light, melodic laughter drifted to him as she danced through the rustling, upright rows, always staying two steps ahead of him. He wanted to catch her. Wanted to hold her to him, out here in the middle of the field where nobody could see them. He wanted to smell her scent and feel her skin. He wanted to run his hands through the long, blonde hair she kept hidden beneath the mesh-knit bun on her head.

She danced out of sight again, and Levi called her name. Her laughter came to him once more, borne on the summer breeze. The cornstalks swayed around him. Grinning, Levi continued the chase.

But when he finally caught up with her, he saw that something else had found her first. She lay on the ground, eyes open but unseeing, legs splayed, dress torn, skin the color of cream, and there was blood. So much blood. Too much . . .

Levi’s eyes snapped open just as the electricity died. He did not scream or shout. In fact, he made no sound at all. But the girl’s name was on his lips and her memory left him shaken and drenched in sweat.

He sat up, semi-alert, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Until the dream, his rest had been a good one, but not nearly long enough. He’d been on the road all day, riding along eight hours’ worth of West Virginia back roads. (There was no way he could take the buggy onto a major highway or Interstate.) He was sore and tired. More importantly, his horse, Dee, had also been sore and tired. Levi had been grateful when he came across the bed-and-breakfast in Brinkley Springs, and he was certain that Dee had been grateful, too.

He became aware that there were dogs howling outside. Yawning, Levi glanced around the unfamiliar room and tried to get his bearings in the dark. Mrs. Laudry, who had insisted that he call her Esther, had pointed out the digital alarm clock on the nightstand when she’d shown him the room earlier. When he looked for it now, he saw that it was dead. There had been a light on out in the hallway. He remembered the soft glow creeping under his door before he’d gone to sleep. Now, the light was extinguished.

Downstairs, he heard the murmur of voices. Both were female. After a moment, he recognized one as Mrs. Laudry. He assumed the other must be her friend Mrs. Danbury. He decided that it would be better not to let them know he was awake. Levi had no doubt that Mrs. Danbury would jump at the chance to pepper him with questions about his supposed faith. Like most, she’d automatically assumed that he was Amish, even after he’d denied it. Levi had always found such assumptions mildly irritating. He’d tried explaining to people over and over again that he was no longer Amish, but after all this time, they still insisted on referring to him as such. They never understood that he simply preferred the long beard of his former people and enjoyed adhering still to their plain dress code—black pants and shoes, a white button-down shirt, suspenders and a black dress coat, topped off with a wide-brimmed straw hat. Why should his mode of dress and method of transport matter to people? Why should they find it so odd? He drove a horse and buggy because it was more economical than a gas-guzzling SUV. And because Dee was one of his closest constant companions (along with his faithful dog, Crowley, who was back home).

Yes, he had been Amish at one time, but that was long ago. Levi didn’t like to dwell on it. In truth, his excommunication from the church and his professed faith still chafed at Levi’s pride, even after all this time. When he was cast out, it had cost him everything—his love, his friends, his community. Still, he’d had no choice. He did what the Lord expected of him, using the talents the Lord had given him. If the church didn’t see that, then so be it. He just wished it didn’t hurt so bad.

He’d tried to fit in among the “civilian world” (as he often thought of it), but soon discovered that he was an outsider there, as well. Away from the Amish, he was nothing more than a curiosity. An oddity. He was pointed at and discussed behind his back. He didn’t fit in among the English (the term his fellow Amish used to describe people not of their faith). Levi didn’t like being an outsider. He didn’t like being alone. But like everything else in life, it was God’s will, and Levi’s cross to bare. Sometimes, the weight grew so heavy . . .

He was no longer Amish. Now, he was something else, and it was that something else that he didn’t need Myrtle Danbury discovering. She’d introduced herself as an author, and the foyer of Mrs. Laudry’s bed-and-breakfast had featured several of the woman’s books on display—slim, cheaply produced trade paperbacks with garish lettering on the covers. A quick glance had told Levi everything he needed to know. The subjects ranged from healing crystals to channeling ancient Lemurian deities. Mrs. Danbury was a New Ager, the bane of Levi’s existence. Nothing annoyed Levi more than New Age amateur mystics, except for maybe Evangelical Christians. In his experience, the majority of both were hypocrites and con artists, wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing, preying on those who refused to think for themselves and discern God’s truths from mankind’s lies. In Levi’s opinion, that was the problem with religion in general. The Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Sikhs, Satanists, pagans, Hindus, Cthulhu cultists, Scientologists and every other religious group or cult, no matter how big or how small, thought that their way was the right way. In reality, none of them had it completely right, for it was not meant for them to know all of the universe’s secrets. They fought each other, killed each other, committed atrocities against each other, all in the name of their particular god or gods, without any understanding of just how wrong—how completely off base—they really were.

New Agers were the worst. At times in life’s journey, when the Lord gave him a task to complete, Levi had needed the assistance of other occultists and magicians, those not given to practicing the same disciplines that he followed. Levi had always seen this as a necessary evil. The old adage, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” quite often applied. But no matter how dire the situation or its consequences, he had never sought help from the crystal-worshipping, herbal-supplementing, Atlantean-spirit-channeling crowd. And deep down inside, Levi knew that even if he had, they wouldn’t have welcomed him. Even the New Agers would have turned their backs on him.

In the end, Levi always walked his road alone, even among the splintered ranks of occultism’s lunatic fringe. He was a stranger to everyone but himself . . . and God.

Outside, the howling increased, disturbing his maudlin ruminations. Their cries grew more frenzied. Levi wondered what was going on. He reached out to the nightstand and fumbled for his cell phone, which he’d plugged in to charge before he went to sleep. Like everything else in his life, the cell phone was often a point of confusion among those who assumed he was still Amish. He wondered what they expected him to use instead. A carrier pigeon? Two paper cups tied together with string? Telepathy? Actually, he had used telepathy a handful of times in his life. He tried to avoid it as much as possible, however, because he didn’t like the nosebleeds that came with it.

All at once, the dogs stopped howling. Somehow, the silence seemed worse than the noise had been.

Levi flipped open the cell phone and was surprised to see that it was dead. If there had just been no service, he could have understood. His service had been spotty for the last three days, ever since entering the mountains. But there was no power whatsoever—no backlight, no time, not even a tone when he experimentally pushed the buttons. He wondered if a power surge could have done it, and glanced at the electrical outlet in the wall. He could barely make it out in the gloom, but from what he could tell, there was no cause for alarm. The outlet wasn’t smoking or sparking.

Levi slid out of bed and shivered as his bare feet hit the floor. Was it his imagination, or had it grown noticeably colder in the room? Gooseflesh prickled his arms and the back of his neck. He stood up, walked quickly to the small, plain dresser and opened the top drawer. He quickly pulled on his clothes and shoes. He patted the pocket over his left breast and felt a reassuring bulge where his dog-eared and battered copy of The Long Lost Friend was. The book was a family heirloom. It had been his father’s, and his father’s before him. Levi never went anywhere without it. The front page of the book held the following inscription:

Whoever carries this book with him is safe from all his enemies, visible or invisible; and whoever has this book with him cannot die without the holy corpse of Jesus Christ, nor be drowned in any water, nor burn up in any fire, nor can any unjust sentence be passed upon him.

Levi had never had any reason to doubt the inscription’s truth, except for maybe the last part, the bit about unjust sentences. He knew about those all too well. Sometimes it seemed to him that life was nothing but a series of unjust sentences.

Once he’d gotten dressed, Levi dropped his hands to his sides, closed his eyes and waited. His breathing slowed. The world seemed to pause as he concentrated.

After a moment, he felt it. His eyes opened again. Something was coming.

No, not coming. Something was already here.

“Oh, Lord . . .”

Pulse racing, Levi ran to the window, no longer caring if his host and her annoying friend knew he was awake or not. He looked out the second-story window and surveyed the scene below. Then, as his heart began to beat even faster, Levi crossed the room and yanked open the door. He dashed for the stairwell, reciting a benediction against evil as he took the stairs two at a time and plunged toward the first floor.

“Ut nemo in sense tentat, descendere nemo. At prece denti spectaur mantica tergo. Hecate. Hecate. Hecate.”

He leaped the last four stairs; his boot heels landed on the floor with a loud thump and his teeth slammed together. Picture frames and other fixtures shook on the wall. A ceiling fan swayed back and forth, sending flecks of dust drifting to the floor. Mrs. Laudry and Mrs. Danbury bustled into the room as Levi headed for the exit.

“Mr. Stoltzfus,” Esther gasped. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Levi turned to them, and the fear and uncertainty he saw in their faces mirrored what he felt in his heart. He tried to project a calm demeanor.

“I’m sorry to alarm you, ladies, but I’d like to ask you both to stay here.”

“Why?” Esther’s eyes shone in the darkness. “Does this have something to do with the power outage?”

He nodded. “Perhaps.”

“The phones are out, too. What’s going on?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, but I thought I’d check around your property and make sure everything is okay.”

“Did you hear something?” Myrtle asked. “Is there somebody outside?”

“Not at all. At least, I don’t believe there is. It’s just a precaution. Nothing more. But I’ll take care of it. The two of you shouldn’t be out on a night like tonight. It’s the least I can do to repay your generous hospitality. Plus, it will give me an opportunity to make sure my buggy is secure. I don’t have much, but I wouldn’t want my belongings getting looted during the blackout.”

“Oh,” Esther said, “that would never happen here. Nothing ever happens in Brinkley Springs. Especially bad things like that.”

Levi wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that something bad was indeed happening in Brinkley Springs right now, but he didn’t. Instead, he forced a smile. A sour taste rose in his mouth.

“I’m sure you’re right, of course. But still, better safe than sorry. You ladies stay here. I’ll be right

back.”

He reached for the doorknob and hoped they couldn’t see how badly his hand was shaking. Then he stepped out into the night, shivering as the darkness embraced him in ways the girl in the cornfield from so long ago never could.

THREE

Stephen Poernik had just passed the green and white sign on U.S. 219 South that said WELCOME TO BRINKLEY SPRINGS, AN INCORPORATED TOWN, when his faithful Mazda pickup truck suddenly died. There was no advance warning. One moment, he’d been doing a steady forty-five miles an hour and scanning the radio, searching for some heavy driving music, or anything other than bluegrass, preaching and talk radio, which seemed to be the only three programming choices this part of West Virginia had to offer. The next instant, the engine, lights and radio all went dead. The truck didn’t stall. It simply shut off. The headlights and the rest of the electrical equipment shut off with it. Cursing, Stephen coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, just past the welcome sign.

“Well, shit.”

He glanced down at the dashboard gauges, but had trouble reading them in the dark. Stephen reached above him and flicked the switch for the dome light, but it was dead, as well. He leaned over the steering wheel, squinting at the gauges. They seemed fine. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a problem with the engine temperature. He put the truck in park and then turned the key. His attempts were fruitless. Nothing happened. He didn’t even hear the starter clicking. Apparently, he’d lost all power.

Stephen didn’t know much about fixing vehicles. He knew that he’d be up Shit Creek under the hood, but decided to give it a try anyway. Maybe it was something simple like a loose battery cable. He hoped so. Otherwise, he was screwed.

He reached down beneath the heater vent and tugged the hood release. Then he opened the door and hopped out of the truck. Stephen was immediately struck by the silence. He’d spent enough time on these rural back roads to become familiar with the sounds of the night—crickets and other insect songs, the chirping of spring peepers, the occasional call of an owl or whippoorwill, the barking of a dog or even just the sound of another car approaching on the road. He heard none of these things. It was almost as if Brinkley Springs existed in some sort of noiseless vacuum. Even the wind seemed nonexistent. Standing on the road next to the truck, with one hand on the open door, Stephen felt uneasy. For a moment, he considered reaching into the glove box and grabbing his SIG Sauer P225. He never left home without it. (Stephen’s thoughts on handguns were that he wasn’t on parole and didn’t live in New York, so fuck the permit.) He paused, and then decided against it. For one thing, he might need both hands to look at the engine. For another, if a cop or somebody pulled up, they’d be a lot less sympathetic to his plight if they saw him brandishing a weapon. Besides, he was just being silly. His unease was just a bad case of nerves. Nothing more. He’d been driving all day and needed some sleep.

Sleep. Not that he slept all that well anymore. Not since losing his job as a cabinetmaker, thanks to the disastrous economic policies of the last two presidents. He’d been suffering from bouts of insomnia and depression ever since. He was trying to be patient, of course. Trying to give this new presidential administration more time to fix things. After all, they’d been handed a shit sandwich. It was hard not to become disillusioned with something as inherently fucked-up from top to bottom as the American political system, but he’d given them a chance, hoping they could turn things around, hoping for the change that had been promised over and over again during the campaign. And he had to admit, things were starting to look and sound better. But at the end of the day, he was still unemployed. These days, there just weren’t many job openings for cabinetmakers and glassblowers. The only other thing Stephen had ever worked as was a blackjack and roulette dealer. At age fifty-five, with both his beard and his long black hair that hung to the middle of his back now shot with gray, he was too old to get back into that game. That’s why he was out here on the road. He’d been driving around with a book of sample pictures, trying to find craft markets and antique stores that would sell his woodworking and stained-glass wares. Stephen wasn’t much of a people person, and he disliked going from business to business, but he had no choice. His hope was that he could find enough outlets and sell enough goods to support his family full-time. If not, at least it would supplement his meager unemployment checks.

He’d been fortunate, and with his third marriage lasting twenty-three years now, Stephen considered himself a lucky guy. Things would turn around.

Things would get better again.

They had to.

“Look on the bright side,” he whispered. “At least you’ve still got your health.” And he did, too. Standing at a few inches over six feet tall and weighing about one hundred ninety-five pounds, Stephen was in remarkably good shape, especially considering the life he’d led. Granted, he wasn’t in prime workout shape. He didn’t have the physique of a bodybuilder, but he was still healthier than he’d ever thought he’d be at this age.

He walked around to the front of the truck and placed his palms on the hood. The metal was warm, but not hot. He didn’t see any steam or smoke drifting out from underneath. He felt around beneath the hood, found the latch and released it. Then he raised the hood and stared at the engine. Even if he’d known what to look for, it was hard for him to see anything clearly in the dark. He turned around and glanced at the welcome sign, and noticed that someone had peppered it with buckshot at some point. Shaking his head, he let his gaze wander toward town, and then it struck him that there were no lights on. Sure, it was nighttime, and most of the townspeople were probably asleep, but even so, there should have been some illumination. The streetlights weren’t functioning. There were no nightlights glowing in the windows of any of the houses. The entire town was dark. Maybe the power was out?

A flutter of motion caught his attention. A large black crow swung down out of the coal-colored sky and landed on one of the dead streetlights. It tilted its head and stared at him. Then it opened its beak and croaked. The sound reminded Stephen of rusty hinges. It didn’t sound like a normal birdcall. It sounded almost like some garbled, guttural language. The sound seemed very loud in the stillness.

“Hey buddy,” he said to the bird, “any chance you could call Triple A for me?”

The crow continued staring at him. It croaked again.

“No? I didn’t think so.”

The crow cawed a third time. If he hadn’t known better, Stephen would have thought he heard distinct syllables in the cry.

“Get the fuck out of here, you weird bird.”

Stephen turned his attention back to the motor.

He leaned down and sniffed, but the engine didn’t smell hot. He smelled antifreeze and oil, but neither seemed to be overpowering, as they would be if he had a leak. Clueless as to what else to do, he slammed the hood and moved back around the side of the truck again. He climbed into the cab and reached for his cell phone. Then he glanced at his watch and checked the time. His wife, Noralyn, was probably still awake, curled up on the couch with their two Siamese cats, Princess and Eddie (short for Edgar Allan Poernik). He’d call her, let her know what had happened, and then he’d call for a tow truck.

Except that when he flipped the cell phone open, it, like the Mazda and the lights in town, was dead. Stephen pressed the button twice, just to make sure, but there was no power. That didn’t make sense. He’d given it a full charge the night before, plugging it into a wall socket at a Motel 6 he’d stayed at in Walden, Virginia. He’d used it only a few times today— once to call Noralyn and tell her good morning, and twice to check his voice mail, to see if one of the antique stores or craft markets he’d stopped at had called him back. Both messages had been from automated telemarketing machines—one offering him an extended warranty on a car that he and Noralyn no longer owned and the other for some kind of ringtone service for his cell phone. He’d quickly hung up on both of them. Other than those three calls, he hadn’t used the phone all day. There was no way the battery should have been run down already. As if trying to prove this, he thumbed the power button again. The cell phone remained dead.

“Goddamn it!”

The crow squawked again, almost as if it were laughing at him. Stephen whirled around and raised his middle finger. The bird seemed nonplussed. It stepped off its perch and glided down to the ground, where it stood in the middle of the street, head cocked to one side, and continued to stare at him. Stephen stomped his foot at it.

“Go on. Get the hell out of here. Scat!”

The crow remained where it was. Defiant and aloof. Almost dismissive of him. It croaked again. He could have sworn it was laughing.

“Suit yourself, you stupid fucking bird.”

Stephen decided to walk into town and find some help. Even though the lights were out, there had to be somebody awake. A twenty-four-hour convenience store or a gas station. A cop making the rounds. The local insomniac, up late and listening to Coast to Coast AM or maybe watching infomercials on the tube. Kids out partying. Someone. Anyone. He’d find out if there was a mechanic or towing service who could help him tonight. If not, he’d find a place to sleep— hopefully a hotel room or a bed-and-breakfast—call Noralyn from their phone and let her know what had happened and then take care of the truck first thing in the morning.

He leaned into the cab and grabbed his large duffel bag off the floor. Inside the bag were his clean clothes, toiletries, iPod, the sample book, which displayed pictures of his handiwork, and other assorted items he’d carried with him on this road trip. Next to the duffel bag was a black plastic garbage bag that held his dirty laundry. He decided to leave that in the truck but bring everything else along. If someone wanted to break into the Mazda and steal his dirty skivvies, then let them. Obviously, if they were that desperate, they needed underwear more than he did. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out the handgun. Then he grabbed the box of bullets. Stephen knew better than to drive around with the pistol loaded. If he ever did get caught with it, that would just make matters worse— the difference between a small fine and a possible felony charge, depending on which state he was driving through and who was in office at the time.

He also tossed the useless cell phone into the bag.

Stephen was suddenly overcome with an immense feeling of homesickness. He missed Noralyn and the cats. He wished he were there with them now instead of stranded along the side of the road in Bumfuck, West Virginia. Stephen had a fairly large personal library, well over two thousand books, most of which were horror, suspense or mystery fiction. What he wouldn’t give right now to be curled up and reading one of those, rather than here.

Before zipping the duffel bag shut, Stephen pulled out his iPod and inserted the headphones. He used it quite a bit back home, whenever he was watering or mowing the yard. The only reason he hadn’t been using it tonight was because he’d lost the cigarette lighter adapter that powered it, and he hadn’t wanted to run the battery down before he could recharge it again. Now, he didn’t care. He felt sad and dejected and more than a little angry at his current situation, and he needed some music to cheer him up. He didn’t care what kind. Stephen’s musical tastes had always been eclectic. As he went for help, he’d put the iPod on randomize and let the music carry him away—ride a wave of Fred Astaire, White Zombie, Steve Howe, Black Sabbath, Yes, King Crimson, Judas Priest, Blue Öyster Cult, Robert Fripp, AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses, Robin Trower, Jimi Hendrix or whatever else the iPod decided to surprise him with. Sometimes, Stephen forgot that he owned certain songs or albums until he heard them played back to him while the iPod was on randomize.

Stephen smiled. He felt better already. He stuck the tiny headphones into his ears, pressed play, and nothing happened.

“Oh, goddamn it! Not the iPod, too.”

He glanced down at the piece of equipment. Like the truck and the lights and the cell phone, it was powerless.

“What happened in this place? Did somebody set off an EMP or something?”

He stuffed the useless iPod and headphones back in the duffel bag, locked the truck, climbed down out of the cab and shut the door. Then he turned toward town and jumped, startled. The crow was gone. Standing in its place was a tall, thin man dressed entirely in black.

Or is he? Stephen thought. What kind of material are his clothes made out of? It looks almost like he’s wearing the night itself—like the darkness is reflecting off him. That can’t be right. I must be more tired than I thought.

Slowly, the man in black began walking toward him. The figure kept his head lowered, and Stephen had trouble making out any distinguishing characteristics. He wore a large, floppy-brimmed black hat, and it concealed his features. All that Stephen could see was a shock of jet-black hair sticking out beneath the brim of the hat, a long, pointed chin with a cleft in the center and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth.

“Excuse me,” Stephen called. “Any chance you have a cell phone on you? I broke down, and mine’s not working. Hell, nothing’s working.”

The man didn’t respond.

Stephen tried to meet his eyes as he drew closer, but the stranger’s face remained hidden in shadow.

“Or maybe you could tell me where the closest gas station is?”

Still the man didn’t respond. He moved in silence, swiftly closing the distance between them. Stephen’s heart began to beat faster. There was something wrong with this guy. Stephen had seen some odd things in his life. He wasn’t necessarily a believer in the supernatural, but he’d experienced enough not to discount it either. He didn’t count anything out— including this dark man. Maybe the guy was a serial killer. Or maybe he was possessed.

Oh, stop being stupid, he thought. You’re freaked out and now you’re putting it on this guy. He’s probably just deaf. Or has special needs. Or doesn’t speak English.

“Hey, friend,” he tried again, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. “You’re kind of creeping me out here. How about we try this again?”

The man did not respond.

“Do you speak English? Habla español?” The man shrugged.

“Okay, so you can hear me. What’s with the attitude, man? I just want some help. I broke down.”

The stranger stopped in front of him, only a few feet away, and raised his head. Despite his proximity, Stephen still couldn’t get a good look at his face. He did see the man’s eyes, however. They were set deep in his face and glinted in the dark like embers on coal.

But there’s no light, Stephen thought. That’s weird.

What am I seeing reflected in them if there’s no light?

The man smiled, revealing white, even teeth. Stephen couldn’t be sure, but he thought they might be pointed. He took a half step backward.

“What do you want?”

“To kill you,” the man said simply.

“W-what? Hey, what are you . . . ? Shit.”

Stephen wasn’t much of a survivalist. He’d just lucked out in the lottery drawing for the Vietnam fiasco and had always considered himself fortunate that he didn’t have to face that horror. He’d known people that had served, of course. Guys who’d been less fortunate, and even a few who’d volunteered. Some of them had talked about their experiences in Vietnam. Most hadn’t. While Stephen knew full well that he’d never truly understand what it had been like, he knew himself well enough to understand that if he had gone to Vietnam, he’d have been one of those guys who came home irreparably damaged—if he survived at all. But he was no coward, either. He might not have been a badass, but he could handle himself just fine. He didn’t know any martial arts, but that didn’t matter. In Stephen’s opinion, fights by definition weren’t fair. Plus, he had another advantage. Stephen’s father had been a cop, and as a result, though he wasn’t much of a hunter, he could shoot the shit out of a handgun.

“Seriously,” Stephen said, “quit fucking around. I’m not in the mood, buddy. Not tonight.”

The man stepped closer. Stephen caught a whiff of him, and winced at the stench. The smell was bad enough to make his eyes water. The stranger reeked of roadkill, like he’d just rolled around in a five-daydead possum or something.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Is not here right now,” the man in black replied.

“And even if he were, he could not save you.”

Stephen stopped, setting his feet shoulder width apart and facing his opponent. He held his breath so he wouldn’t get nauseous from the stranger’s awful stench. The man hadn’t displayed a weapon. He didn’t seem to be carrying a knife or a handgun. Still, there was no telling what he might have hidden beneath the folds of that long coat. The man was only an arm’s length away now, and Stephen decided that there was no time to open the bag and pull out the SIG Sauer P225. He had three choices—try to talk the guy down, run away or rely on his fists. Stephen decided to go with the first and follow with the last. Running away wasn’t an option. This stranger was obviously mentally ill, and if he abandoned the truck, the guy might vandalize it instead.

“That’s far enough,” he said, fighting to keep his tone firm but even. “I’m warning you, freak.”

The man in black ignored him and continued to draw closer.

Stephen decided that, if forced, he’d lead with an elbow to the nose and then follow it up with a quick kick to the outside of his opponent’s knee. That should make the guy think twice about continuing to fuck with him.

And then, before Stephen could do any of these things, the man in black raised one hand and wiggled his fingers. As Stephen watched, the stranger’s fingernails began to stretch and grow, turning into long black talons. Stephen blinked, and the man laughed hoarsely. The sound was like dry leaves rustling in the wind.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” In truth, it had, but Stephen wasn’t about to let the guy know that.

“No,” the man replied. “It’s not supposed to scare you. It’s supposed to distract you.”

“What do you—?”

The man leaned forward and, with his other hand, punched Stephen just below his chest. Stephen grunted, more from surprise at the unexpected blow than from pain. In truth, there wasn’t much pain. Instead, there was just a cold sensation that spread rapidly across his chest and abdomen. His eyes filled up with water.

“Now that,” the stranger said, “is supposed to scare you.”

The man’s arm was still extended. Stephen tried to pull away from him and found that he couldn’t.

Startled, he tried again. As he did, Stephen coughed, and tasted blood in the back of his throat. Then the dark man pulled his arm back and held up his hand. There was something gray and pink clutched in the stranger’s fist. His hand glistened wetly.

That looks like . . . raw meat? Where did he get that?

Stephen became aware that something warm and wet was running down the side of his chin. He smacked his lips together. They felt dry all of a sudden, and the coldness was spreading to his arms and legs.

“I’m not sure what this is,” the man in black said, frowning as he glanced at the grisly trophy in his hand. Shrugging, he tossed it to the side of the road. It landed in the grass and gravel with a squelch. “You people have too many useless things inside of you. It’s a wonder you ever made it out of the oceans. As a species, you’re so inferiorly designed. Then again, you were made in His image. And our kind has the unfortunate luck of manifesting in your image, rather than our own. We were once you, you see? Now we are something better. But never mind that.”

He punched Stephen again. Blood flew from Stephen’s mouth, splattering the stranger’s coat. This time, there was pain—a sharp, overpowering agony that seemed to jolt through him as if he’d been shocked. It blazed, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pain faded again, replaced by the coldness. Stephen choked as the man held up his hand again, revealing a new item.

“This is your heart, of course. A bit easier to recognize than that last piece.”

Stephen toppled backward, barely feeling it as his head cracked on the blacktop. He heard the sound it made, but he couldn’t be bothered to wonder what it was. Dimly, he thought that perhaps someone was cracking eggs on a stove.

“And these are your intestines. I can divine your future just by looking at them. Hmm. Your future does not look bright. Here, hold this.”

The attacker slipped something warm and slimy into Stephen’s hand, but he couldn’t see what it was. The last thing Stephen was aware of was the man in black crouching low and leaning over his face. Then the stranger’s terrible, cruel mouth opened wide, and Stephen Poernik died before he could scream.

FOUR

“You fucking asshole!”

Marsha raised her hand to smack Donny, but he grabbed her wrist and squeezed—light enough not to hurt her, but firm enough to make her stop. Her anger was evident in both her expression and tone, loud enough to be heard over the howling dogs.

“Calm down,” he said calmly, trying to soothe her. Marsha stomped her heel down on the arch of his foot. It hurt, even through the thick leather of his boots. Yelping, Donny let go of her wrist and Marsha pulled away. Before he could react, she punched his chest. Donny shook his head, confused, and seized both of her wrists.

“Stop it, Marsha. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” Her tone changed from angry to flustered. “What’s wrong with you? Were you really going to just leave again without saying anything? Just like before?”

Donny opened his mouth to respond, but all he could muster was a choked sigh. He released Marsha’s wrists and let his arms hang limp at his sides. Then he stared down at the pavement, unable to meet her wounded, accusatory glare.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “I’m an asshole, and I’m sorry. I just figured that—”

“That what? You’d take off again, just like you did after graduation? That you’d mess with my head some more? Is this how it’s going to be from now on, Donny? Just when I get over you and start to move on, you’ll come waltzing back into town again, play me and then leave?”

“No. I told you, it’s not like that.”

“Well then, explain it to me.”

The dogs quit howling, but neither of them noticed.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you the first time. But this town, Marsha . . . I just couldn’t take it. When we were growing up, I always hated it here. You know that. And you were going away to college, and I couldn’t handle the idea of you going away and leaving me stuck here.”

“So you decided to do it to me first? You ran off and joined the army and I’m the one who got left behind instead.”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen. You wanted to be a veterinarian. You were supposed to be going to Morgantown in the fall.”

“And I was, until you left. And then, instead of college, I got months of therapy and shrinks and drugs. I got Prozac instead of a degree.”

“I didn’t mean for you to—”

“To try to kill myself? You can’t even say it, can you?”

His silence was answer enough.

“Well, that’s what happened, Donny. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not. I tried to kill myself.”

“And I’ve told you before that I’m sorry about that, Marsha.” He raised his head and met her eyes. “You don’t know how sorry I am. I loved you.”

“I loved you too, asshole. And if you’d really fucking loved me, you’d have said good-bye. That’s the worst part. Remember when we were kids, and you and Ricky Gebhart spent all day one summer gathering garter snakes and putting them in a fivegallon bucket?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“And then you assholes dumped the bucket over my head. I was so mad at you, and you followed me around for the rest of the summer, apologizing every single day. Because you cared. But after all those years growing up together—not to mention that we were supposed to be in love—you didn’t care enough to say good-bye when you left.

“I wrote you letters.”

Marsha paused. “When?”

“Once in boot camp. And a couple of times in Iraq. Once while we were on leave in Kuwait. And I tried calling you from Italy, but I wasn’t used to the time-zone change and it was the middle of the night here. I woke your dad up.”

“He never told me.”

“That’s because he didn’t know it was me. When he answered, I couldn’t say anything, so I just hung up.”

“Bullshit. I don’t believe you. And I definitely never got any letters.”

“That’s because I never mailed them.”

“Why not?”

Donny shook his head. “I don’t . . . It’s hard to explain. I know why, but I don’t know how to put it into words. It . . . things were different over there. I mean, we grew up here, and all we knew was Brinkley Springs. That was our whole world.”

“You make it sound like we never went anywhere else. What about Myrtle Beach and the state fair and that class trip we took to New York City when we were juniors?”

“Yeah, but that’s still America. The world is more than just America. You see that when you get out there. We’re just a small part of things, and Brinkley Springs . . . hell, it ain’t even on the map. All the stuff that happens here, all the trivial bullshit and drama and gossip in people’s lives? That doesn’t mean shit out there.” He swept his hand toward the horizon.

“I don’t understand,” Marsha said. “What does any of this have to do with why you never mailed me the letters?”

Donny took a deep breath and leaned back against the side of his truck. “Like I said, it’s hard to explain. I changed. I saw some shit that . . . well, it wasn’t very pretty. I did things that I ain’t proud of. We all did. It was war, you know? Everything was different, and Brinkley Springs just seemed so far away. It was like you were part of another life. You were somebody that another version of me had known— and that other me was dead. He didn’t exist anymore. He was back here in Brinkley Springs, and that was a million miles away.”

“You could have told me.”

“I tried. I told you in every letter. But I never sent them because I figured you’d already moved on, and I didn’t want to make things worse. I didn’t know about the suicide attempt or any of that. Believe me, if I had, things would be different. I just figured you’d gotten over me and gone to college and met somebody and forgotten all about me. It wasn’t until I came back home, after Mom got sick, that I found out the truth.”

“You must have heard from other people. You must have known.”

Donny shook his head. “Not really. Mom sent me e-mails and letters, but she didn’t tell me what was going on with you. She never even mentioned you. I reckon she thought it would have upset me. And she’d have been right about that. And I never heard from anyone else. The church sent me Christmas cards, but that’s about it.”

“And now you’re leaving again.”

“Yeah.”

Marsha wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara.

Donny reached for her, but she pushed him away.

“Leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage already.”

“Marsha . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you. I loved you. Hell, I still love you.”

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it! If you love me, then why are you running away again?”

“I’m not running away. It’s just this town. This place. I don’t like it here. I never have. Growing up, I couldn’t wait to leave. The only things that ever tied me to this place were my mom and you. And now Mom is gone.”

“And I’m not enough to keep you here.” Her tone was flat and resigned. “I never was.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is.”

“You could come with me.”

“I told you before, Donny. I can’t do that. My family is here.”

“You were gonna leave them for college.”

“That was then. This is now. They’ve been here for me. You haven’t. I can’t just leave them now.”

“Well,” Donny sighed, “then I guess that’s—”

Somebody screamed, a high, warbling shriek that echoed down the street and was then abruptly terminated. Both Donny and Marsha jumped, startled by the sound. They glanced around, peering into the darkness.

“What was that?” Marsha reached out and clutched his hand, squeezing hard. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know. Stay here.”

Marsha squeezed his hand tighter. “What? Where are you going?”

“To check it out. Somebody is—”

Another scream ripped through the night. This one came from a different direction. It was joined seconds later by more shrieks. A dog yelped in pain or fright. Then the streets fell silent again. Donny was reminded of the uncanny quiet that often followed a firefight.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “What the hell is going on? The power, the dogs and now this . . .”

“I’ll call 911.” Marsha pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, flipped it open and then frowned. “My battery can’t be dead. I just recharged it.”

Donny reached for his and shook his head. “Mine’s dead, too.”

“What would make that happen? The lights are out, but what would kill our cell phones?”

“An EMP.”

“What’s that?”

“Electromagnetic pulse. I mean, the cell-phone towers could be down, but even then, the phones would still have power. Only thing I know of that would knock them out completely is an EMP. But that’s—”

A woman’s voice interrupted, hollering for someone named Brandon. She sounded distraught and panicked.

“That’s Mrs. Lange,” Marsha whimpered. “Brandon is her little boy.”

She raised one trembling hand and pointed at their house. Donny glanced in that direction just as the front door banged open. A little boy dashed outside and ran down the porch, followed by a woman.

“That’s them,” Marsha gasped. “What’s happened?”

Donny and Marsha started toward the fleeing figures, but skidded to a halt as another figure emerged from the dark house. Neither of them recognized the man. He was tall and thin, and hidden beneath a long, dark coat and a wide-brimmed black hat. They only caught glimpses of his shadowed face as he raced after the fleeing mother and son. The man moved quickly, seeming to almost glide across the porch and down the steps. He caught up to Mrs. Lange and slashed at her legs with one hand. Donny and Marsha noticed that his fingernails were like talons. Mrs. Lange belly flopped onto the lawn. Her son paused and turned around, screaming when he saw what was happening.

“Run, Brandon,” she hollered as the black figure loomed over her.

“Stay here,” Donny told Marsha, and then charged across the street.

The attacker straddled Mrs. Lange’s prone form and grasped her ponytail. Then he placed one foot on her back, right between her shoulder blades, and yanked her head up. Mrs. Lange wailed as her entire scalp was torn away. Brandon, Donny and Marsha howled along with her. As Donny reached the screaming boy, the dark figure grabbed Mrs. Lange’s bare head with both hands and slammed it repeatedly against the ground. She jittered and shook, and then lay still. The man knelt over her body, rolled her over and then placed his mouth over hers.

“Mommy!”

Donny grasped the boy’s shoulders, and Brandon screamed.

“Let me go! My mommy . . .”

“I’ll help her,” Donny said. “You run over there to my friend Marsha.”

Brandon stared at his mother’s still form with wide, terrified eyes. Mucous and tears coated his upper lip. He whispered her name one more time and then turned and fled toward Marsha.

“Hey,” Donny shouted at the killer. “Don’t you fucking move, motherfucker!”

The man in black raised his hand and waved, beckoning Donny forward. His lips were still pressed to Mrs. Lange’s mouth. Gritting his teeth, Donny ran toward him. As he approached, the killer raised his head. Donny caught a glimpse of something white and glowing—like cigarette smoke with a light inside of it—drifting from Mrs. Lange’s gaping mouth. The man seemed to suck it into himself. Then he stood up and laughed.

“Donny,” Marsha screamed.

Donny halted in his tracks and risked a glance over his shoulder. Another similarly dressed figure was racing down the street toward them. The odds were no longer in his favor—especially against an opponent who could rip a woman’s scalp off with his bare hands.

“Fuck this,” Donny whispered. “I need a gun.”

He turned and ran back to Marsha and Brandon.

Behind him, he heard footsteps racing after him. He glanced to his right and was alarmed to see that the second arrival was also closing the distance between them.

“Run,” Donny hollered.

Marsha grabbed Brandon’s hand and they ran down the street, but then Brandon twisted out of her grip, turned and ran back toward Donny. Ducking as he fled, Donny reached out to grab the boy, but Brandon darted past him, screaming for his mother.

“Hey,” Donny yelled. “Get back here!”

He spun around, pausing long enough to see that their second attacker had been distracted by a man who had emerged from his home, apparently to investigate all of the commotion. Donny knew the man’s face, but not his name. The guy stood on his front lawn, dressed only in a ratty pair of boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He clutched a shotgun in his trembling hands, but instead of raising it, he simply stood gaping as the black-clad figure bore down on him.

Marsha shrieked. Donny’s attention went back to Brandon, and he cried out in despair when he saw that it was too late. The boy dangled in the air, his feet kicking ineffectively at the killer’s stomach and crotch. One of the man’s hands encircled the boy’s throat. The other hand was buried deep in Brandon’s guts. The dark man chuckled as he withdrew his fist and pulled out the child’s intestines like a magician producing a stream of scarves. As the glistening strands looped around his feet, he pulled Brandon close and kissed him. Next door, the second killer had taken the shotgun from its owner and was repeatedly skewering him with the barrel.

Donny struggled with his instincts. Part of him wanted to rush to Brandon and aid the boy, even though he knew it was probably too late. Another part of him wanted to charge the boy’s killer and beat him to a pulp. He knew how unrealistic this was. Both men had displayed uncanny—if not inhuman— strength and speed. He doubted his fists would do much good against such a foe. It would be smarter to take advantage of this momentary distraction and get Marsha out of here before the strangers turned their combined attention back to them. Weeping, he turned and ran.

Even after all Donny had seen and experienced overseas, abandoning Brandon and the next-door neighbor was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

Marsha was behind the wheel of his truck. The driver’s-side door hung open, and Donny saw that she was repeatedly turning the key with one hand and smacking the steering wheel with the other.

“It won’t start,” she cried.

“Come on. Move, damn it.”

Taking her hand, he pulled her from the cab and led her across a front yard and between two houses. He heard somebody shout inside one of the homes, but he didn’t stop. He guided Marsha through a backyard and onto the next street, and tried to figure out what to do next.

All around them, Brinkley Springs continued to scream.

Levi heard the first scream as he darted out the front door. He ignored it, focusing instead on the task at hand. Whatever was happening, whoever was screaming, he wouldn’t be able to help them without first obtaining his tools. The Lord had put him here. That much was certain. Earlier, Brinkley Springs had seemed like nothing more than a good place to stop for the night. He had planned on leaving early the next morning, just after breakfast. Levi had been traveling to the Edgar Cayce Association for Research and Enlightenment headquarters in Virginia Beach. While their library was renowned as one of the largest collections of metaphysical studies and occult reference works in the world, there was a second collection—one not open to the general public—that Levi needed access to. Among the library’s invaluable tomes was an eighteenth-century German copy of King Solomon’s Clavicula Salomonis, which Levi needed to make a copy of for himself. His stop in Brinkley Springs had been intended as nothing more than a brief respite from the long and arduous journey. Both he and Dee had needed the rest. But there would be no rest tonight. No rest for the wicked, and no rest for God’s warriors, either. He’d been placed here on purpose, because only he could combat the threat that the town now faced. This was what he did. This was his calling, his birthright and, quite often, his curse.

Back home in Marietta, Levi’s neighbors thought that the nice Amish man who lived in the small one-story house next door was a woodworker—and they were partially right. Half of the two-car garage at the rear of his property had been converted into a wood shop (the other half was a stable for Dee). During the week, he spent his time in the wood shop making various goods—coat and spoon racks, chairs, tables, dressers, plaques, lawn ornaments and other knickknacks. Each Saturday, he’d load the items into the back of his buggy and haul them to the local antiques market. It was an honest, decent living and paid for his rent, groceries, utilities and feed for Dee and his dog, Crowley.

But what his neighbors didn’t know was that Levi also had another, more secret vocation. He worked powwow, as had his father and his father before him. Usually, he was sought out for medical treatments. His patients were mostly drawn from three groups: the elderly (who remembered the old ways), the poor (who didn’t have health insurance or couldn’t afford to see a doctor or go to the hospital), and people who’d forsaken the mainstream medical establishment in search of a more holistic approach. Patients came to Levi seeking treatments for a wide variety of ailments and maladies. He dealt with everything from the common cold to arthritis. Occasionally, he was called upon for more serious matters—stopping bleeding or mending a broken bone.

But powwow went beyond medicine. It was a magical discipline just like any other, and once in a while, Levi was charged with doing more than helping the sick or curing livestock. Once in a while, the threats he faced were supernatural, rather than biological, in origin. Levi knew that tonight would be one of those times.

More screams rang out as Levi reached the buggy and climbed up into the back. His weight made the buggy shift, rocking the suspension. Even though the wheels were chocked, the axles groaned slightly. The buggy’s floor was as messy as that of any automobile. Road maps, emergency flares, a flashlight, assorted wrenches and screwdrivers, a pack of tissues and empty fast-food cartons were strewn about haphazardly. He’d meant to clean it out in the morning. Now he had more pressing concerns.

Levi crawled forward through the debris on his hands and knees, careful to keep his head down and out of sight as much as possible. The night had grown dangerous. As if to punctuate this, a gunshot echoed through the night. Judging by the sound, the shooter was only a few blocks away. If the echo was any indication, the weapon was a large-caliber rifle rather than a handgun. He listened carefully, but heard no police sirens—just more screams and shrieks.

A man peeked out of a house across the street and then ducked back inside, slamming the door behind him. As Levi reached the rear of the buggy, he heard footsteps coming toward him. He turned around and saw two men, each carrying a hunting rifle, running his way. They appeared nervous and unsure of where to go. He raised a hand in greeting and they stopped.

“You know what’s going on?” one demanded.

Levi shook his head. “No, but it sounds bad, whatever it is. Perhaps you gentlemen would be safer inside, with your families.”

The second man scoffed, looking at Levi as if he’d just offered them a rabid dog.

“Screw that noise,” he said. “I reckon the best thing we can do for our families is to find out what the hell’s going on. First the power goes out. Then all the damn dogs start acting crazy. Making a fuss. Now everybody’s screaming and shooting.”

“I bet it’s the Al-Qaeda,” muttered the first. “Reckon they could be going after Herb Causlin’s beef farm.”

“You think so, Marlon?”

“Yeah. I figure they’re hitting America’s food supply. Herb’s cattle would be a good place to start.”

“That’s true.” The second man adjusted his grip on the rifle. “Reckon you could be right.”

“I really don’t think it’s Al-Qaeda,” Levi said. “And if it was, why would they go after a small beef farm in West Virginia?”

The men stared at him, frowning. One spat a brown stream of tobacco juice onto the street. The other let his eyes travel up and down, taking in Levi’s garb.

“You’re a weird fucker, aren’t you?”

Levi smiled. “You have no idea.”

“Haven’t seen you around town before, come to think of it. What’s your name, fella?”

“You may call me Levi Stoltzfus. And you’re right, I’m not from around here. I was passing through on my way to Virginia Beach. You should be glad that providence brought me here.”

“Provi-what? That place in Rhode Island?”

The second man nudged his friend in the ribs as another, more distant gunshot echoed through the streets. “Come on, Marlon. Let’s see what’s doing.”

The two ran off without another word. Levi watched them go. When they were out of sight and the street was empty again, he pulled a dirty canvas tarp off a long wooden box at the back of the buggy. He laid the tarp aside and wiped his hands on his pants. The box was padlocked and covered with powwow charms to protect its contents from thieves, witchcraft and the elements. The sigils were painted onto the wood, and in some cases, carved deep into the surface. There were holy symbols and complex hex signs, as well as words of power. Levi ran his fingers over the two most dominant etchings.

I.

N. I. R.

I.

SANCTUS SPIRITUS

I.

N. I. R.

I.

SATOR

AREPO

TENET

OPERA

ROTAS

He’d carved them himself, just as his father had taught him, carefully inscribing the words from The Long Lost Friend—the main powwow grimoire—as well as words, charms and sigils from other occult tomes he owned that dealt with other magical disciplines. Most of the books had been passed down to him from his father, but since then, Levi had gained access to books that his father would have frowned upon. As he often did during times like this, Levi wondered what his father thought of him now, as he looked down on Levi from the other side. Was he proud of his son? Did he approve? Did he understand that sometimes you had to use the enemy’s methods and learn the enemy’s ways if you were to defeat them? Or like the rest of Levi’s people, did his father disapprove even in death of how Levi used his talents?

There was no way of knowing, of course. It would remain a mystery until the day when Levi saw him again. The day when the Lord called him home. Sometimes, Levi prayed for that moment. Yearned for it. But he feared it, too. Feared what the Lord’s answer might be when he finally stood before Him in judgment.

“Your will be done,” he whispered. “That’s what it’s all about, right, Lord? Your will?”

Another scream pulled him from his thoughts. Levi shivered. The night air was growing chilly and damp. He reached into his pocket, produced a key ring and removed the padlock. Then he opened the box and, despite the growing chaos around him, sighed in a brief moment of contentment. The interior of the box smelled of kerosene and sawdust and dirt. They were comforting smells. They spoke to Levi of hard work and effort and honesty. Many people had boxes like this on the backs of their buggies or in the beds of their pickup trucks. Usually, they held tools of some kind. Chainsaws, shovels, screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, spare engine parts, oil or gasoline cans. Levi’s box held tools, as well, but they were different tools, the ones of his trade.

A rapid volley of gunshots erupted. Levi could tell from the sound that it was two different weapons—a rifle and a handgun. They were far enough away to not immediately concern him, but close enough to tell him that whatever was happening was coming closer.

He reached into the box and sifted through the contents. Normally, a duct-tape-wrapped bundle containing a dried mixture of wormwood, salt, gith, five-finger weed and asafedita—a charm against livestock theft—was at the top of the box, to protect Dee during those times when Levi left the buggy unattended. He’d had her since she was a foal, and the horse—along with his dog—was Levi’s closest companion. She was descended from an old line, and her family had aided his family for a very long time. Her safety was of paramount importance to him. Since she was stabled beyond the town’s outskirts, he’d tied the bundle around her bridle. No harm could befall the horse as long as the bundle remained with her. He felt satisfied that Dee would be safe. He wished that he could say the same for the people of Brinkley Springs.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his slim, battered copy of The Long Lost Friend. Written on the cover in tiny, faded gold lettering was the following:

The Long Lost Friend

A Collection

of

Mysterious & Invaluable

Arts & Remedies

For

Man As Well As Animals

With Many Proofs

Of their virtue and efficacy in healing diseases and defeating spirits, the greater part of which was never published until they appeared in print for the first time in the U.S. in the Year of Our Lord 1820.

By John George Hohman

I N R I

Just holding the volume in his hand made him feel better. This was his primary weapon—an unabridged edition, unlike the public-domain versions one could find online. Those were watered down and edited. This was the real thing.

Smiling, Levi returned the book to his pocket and then focused his attention on the box. He sorted through the books and trinkets. It was an odd assortment. The first item was an e-book reader loaded with the unabridged versions of Frazer’s The Golden Bough, Francis Barrett’s The Magus and Parkes’s Fourth Book of Agrippa, as well as the collected works of John Dee and Aleister Crowley and a scattering of scanned pages from the dreaded Necronomicon and other esoteric tomes. Also in the box were a knife, wooden matches, a cigarette lighter with a cross emblazoned on its side, a small copper bowl, plastic freezer bags filled with various dried plants and roots, a peanut-butter jar filled with desiccated locust shells, a black leather bag filled with different stones and gems, a vial of dirt, a second vial filled with water, a third filled with oil, a small compass, a mummified hand wrapped in cloth, pendants and other assorted jewelry, a lock of hair tied together with red string, fingernail clippings held together with a strip of masking tape, flint arrowheads, baby-food jars filled with various powders and debris, his Rods of Transvection and Divining and many other items. There was also a black cloth vest with many deep pockets.

He put on the vest. The garment was snug around his middle, but it would suffice. He selected the compass, a small bundle of dried sage, another of dried rose petals, a canister of paprika, a second filled with salt, the vials of oil and water, the cigarette lighter and the knife, and stuffed them into his vest and pants pockets. His pants bulged around his thighs when he was finished, and he had to tighten his belt in order to keep his pants from falling down around his ankles. Satisfied, Levi quickly shut and sealed the box. The padlock snapped into place with a sound of finality.

The buggy’s axle groaned again as he hopped back down. Levi stood in the street and glanced up at the moon. It was bright and full and cold. The breeze brushed his face and ruffled his hair. Bowing his head, Levi murmured a prayer.

“The cross of Christ be with me. The cross of Christ overcomes all water and every fire. The cross of Christ overcomes all weapons. The cross of Christ is a perfect sign and blessing to my soul. Now I pray that the holy corpse of Christ bless me against all evil things, words and works.”

He hoped that the prayer and the items in his pockets would be enough to face whatever evil had been visited upon the town. Ideally, he would have fasted for several days before undertaking this task, but these were far from the ideal circumstances. The screams grew louder and more numerous. Armed against whatever might be causing them, Levi waded into the night, ready to do battle.

FIVE

Trish Chambers danced around in her darkened living room, singing ELO’s “Shine a Little Love” in a breathless falsetto. Her treadmill had died when the power went out, and her iPod had stopped working, too, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from getting into shape. She was dressed in a faded gray T-shirt and a pair of black loose-fitting sweatpants. The sweats hadn’t always been so baggy, and it was their distinct lack of snugness that kept her going, no matter how exhausted from her exercise routine or disillusioned with her diet she became. Two months of working out every night—of running on the treadmill or dancing along with Richard Simmons and sweating to the oldies—had delivered results. All she had to do was keep going, and she did. Electrical outage be damned. She was divorced, thirty-two and desperate to find someone again.

Not that Brinkley Springs offered her many choices when it came to finding someone to date. Trish worked at the bank in Lewisburg, and the choices there weren’t much better. All of the male employees were either married or gay. A friend of hers had suggested she try one of the online dating websites, but Trish hadn’t quite worked up the nerve yet. She decided to wait until she was happy with her body.

After all, she’d spent the last twelve years of her life trying to make someone else happy—her ex-husband, Darryl. Now it was time to focus on herself. If she was happy with who she was, then it would be easier to find someone else who’d be happy with her. A man like she’d always dreamed of. Someone who would take her breath away.

She switched from ELO to Garth Brooks’s “Friends In Low Places,” singing out the vocals with an exaggerated drawl, and did a series of jumping jacks. The knickknacks on the shelves trembled and the ceiling fan swayed back and forth, but Trish didn’t care. She pressed herself for another three minutes and didn’t stop until she heard the gunshot.

Gunfire was a normal sound in Brinkley Springs. Lots of people hunted in the mountains around town, or engaged in a little backyard target shooting from time to time. On the Fourth of July, many residents often celebrated by firing their guns into the air. Normally, the sound of gunshots was nothing to be concerned about. Trish was just about to start exercising again when she realized that the gunfire was accompanied by multiple screams.

“What in the world?”

Breathing hard from the past half hour’s exertion,she padded to the front door and looked out the window. The streets were dark, and she couldn’t see anything. More shots echoed down the streets, followed by more cries of alarm. Trish was just about to open the door and peek outside when she heard glass breaking in her bedroom. Her hand fluttered to her chest and her breath caught in her throat.

More glass tinkled, as if falling to the floor. Then she felt a slight breeze drift through the house. Someone had broken in.

She reached for the phone, picked it up and dialed 911. Then she brought the receiver to her ear. There was only silence. No emergency operator. No ringing. Not even a dial tone. Whimpering softly, she placed the phone back in its cradle and tiptoed toward the kitchen. Her cell phone was lying on the counter. If she could reach it in time . . .

Laughter drifted from her bedroom, cold and malicious and definitely male. Her heart rate, already rapid from her exercise routine, increased.

Trish kept a pistol in the house, a Ruger .22 semiauto. She’d bought it at the gun store on Chestnut Avenue after she and Darryl split up because she’d been nervous being alone in the house at night. She kept it loaded. (“No sense having an unloaded gun in the house,” her daddy had always said.) The weapon was in the top drawer of her bedroom nightstand— right next to the window the intruder had gained entry through, judging by the sound.

Fat lot of good that does me.

She wondered if the intruder could be Darryl. She wouldn’t have thought so. He’d been pretty satisfied with the divorce, because it meant he could cat around at the bars and elsewhere without fear of getting caught. But if he’d been drinking, she wouldn’t put it past him. Maybe her lawyer had been right.

Maybe she should have gotten a restraining order.

Trish reached the end of the living room and was just about to step into the kitchen, when her bedroom door banged open at the far end of the hall and a figure dressed entirely in black leaped out into the hallway and rushed toward her. Trish backed away, screaming, aware that other people were shrieking right outside her house. She collided with an end table, sending a lamp her aunt had bought her as a wedding present crashing to the floor. Then the dark figure was upon her. He stank like something dead. The last thing Trish noticed was how big the man’s mouth was. Darkness engulfed her. She opened her mouth to scream again, and her attacker stifled her cries with a savage, forceful kiss that suffocated her. She was aware that he was laughing as he did it. His body shook and jiggled against hers as he wrapped both arms around her and squeezed.

Trish heard her spine snap as he took her breath away.

***

Clutching a 12-gauge shotgun, Paul Crowley stood in his backyard and squinted, peering into the darkness. The air was chilly, and Paul shivered as the breeze rushed over him. He was clad in a dirty pair of jeans and a loose-fitting, faded John Deere T-shirt with mustard stains on it. The stains were fresh— leftovers from his dinner, which he’d eaten in front of the television again, sitting in the recliner and watching a nature program on PBS.

Paul didn’t care much for PBS’s liberal bias, but he enjoyed shows about wildlife and nature, and since he didn’t have cable or satellite, PBS was his only option. Tonight’s program had been about crows. Paul didn’t have much use for the damned things. Nasty little creatures. They carried the West Nile virus and other diseases. In the spring, they rooted through his garden and ate up all the seeds he’d planted. In the fall and winter, they fluttered around in the woods, making a fuss and alerting wild game to his presence. Paul had missed shots at plenty of deer and wild turkeys over the years thanks to motor mouthed, obnoxious crows. When he’d been a boy, Paul’s daddy had told him that a group of crows could kill and eat a newborn lamb. Maybe that was why a group of crows was called a murder. He’d been surprised to learn from the program that crows could imitate a human’s voice. Apparently, they were highly intelligent and cunning. Paul didn’t care. Just because they were smart didn’t mean they were any less of a nuisance.

He’d fallen asleep in the recliner during a segment about scientists training crows to pick up trash, and had slept until the sound of his dogs’ barking woke him, causing Paul to jerk upright and almost tumble out of the chair. That might have been bad. He certainly wasn’t old yet—at least, not what he considered old—but living alone; had he broken a leg or hip or knocked himself out, there’d have been no one to find him.

Since his retirement seven years earlier, Paul had spent every day out in the woods with his six bear dogs. They were mutts—crossbreed mixes of black and tans, beagles, German shepherds and Karelians, mostly. He loved the dogs and they loved and respected him. Each day, except on Christmas, Thanksgiving and Sundays, Paul got up at the crack of dawn, loaded the dogs into his pickup truck and headed up into the mountains. During bear season, he hunted. When black bears weren’t in season, he allowed the dogs to track and run them. They did this all day long, usually returning home just before sundown. Paul enjoyed it, and all of the walking across ridges and hills kept him in great shape. It kept the dogs healthy, too. Each one was equipped with a radio collar and GPS device so he could track them if they got lost in the mountains—which they often did, especially if a mother bear or her cubs gave them a long chase.

He knew the dogs better than he knew most people. He’d come to recognize the subtle changes in their barks and what the differences in tone meant, and that was how he knew upon waking that the dogs were upset by something. He’d stood there in the living room, yawning and blinking and wondering how long the power had been out, and realized that the dogs weren’t just distressed. They were absolutely terrified.

Wondering what had gotten them so riled up, Paul had hurried through his darkened home, grabbed the 12-gauge and rushed outside just as the dogs fell quiet. He checked the pen and found them huddling together at the back, trembling and frightened, their pink tongues lolling as they panted. He whispered soothing words to them and then crept around the property. He couldn’t find anything amiss. There were no signs of a trespasser—no footprints in the wet grass or evidence indicating someone had tried to break into the house. He was just about to go inside when the disturbance erupted again. This time, instead of the dogs howling in fright, it was his fellow townspeople. The cries and screams seemed to be coming from all four directions at once. An occasional gunshot peppered the commotion. Curiously, there were no sounds of car engines or screeching tires or sirens. “I don’t like this,” Paul told the cowering dogs. “I don’t like this one bit. Sounds like somebody’s done snapped and gone on a killing spree, like you see on the news. You boys stay here. I’ll go have a look.”

He tiptoed around to the front of the house and glanced both ways. As far as he could tell, the electrical outage wasn’t confined to his street or block. It seemed to have affected the entire town. The yells and other noises seemed distant, but as he stood there listening, they slowly began to draw closer.

Paul ran back into the house, found his cell phone and started to dial 911, only to discover that the phone wasn’t working. He stared at the blank, lifeless screen and then tossed it onto the counter in frustration. He hurried into the living room and went to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves he’d built into one wall. They were lined with paperback and hardcover books—western novels by Ray Slater, Ed Gorman, Al Sarrantonio, Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour, history books about Vietnam, World Wars I and II, and the Korean Conflict, and nature books, including a massive, two-volume field guide to North American fish and game. In between the books were framed pictures of his wife (taken away from him by pancreatic cancer two months before his retirement) and their son and daughter-in-law (all grown now and living on the West Coast). A few dusty knickknacks occupied other empty spaces. On top of the shelf was a radio that played extreme weather alerts for Brinkley Springs from the National Weather Service, bulletins from the Department of Homeland Security and FEMA, and announcements from local law enforcement and emergency-response crews. He’d bought it on sale at the Radio Shack in Beckley several years before, and it had proven invaluable time and time again, especially during the winter months. One of Paul’s favorite features was the battery back-up, which kept the radio functioning during a power outage.

Except it wasn’t working now. Like the cell phone, the emergency radio sat lifeless.

“Well, if that don’t beat all. Cheap piece of Chinese junk. Don’t nothing work anymore the way things used to.”

Muttering to himself, Paul stalked back out of the house as the noises outside grew louder. Someone ran down the sidewalk as the screen door slammed shut behind him, but Paul couldn’t see who it was. He wondered if they were running to something or away from something. He noticed that the dogs were still cowering in their kennel. Hefting the shotgun, he approached it again. Being in their proximity made him feel more assured.

“That you, Paul?”

Startled, he jumped at the voice, nearly dropping the 12-gauge before he recognized the speaker as Gus Pheasant, who lived next door. Gus owned the local garage, along with his brother, Greg. Although both men were twenty years younger than Paul, he liked them very much and often got together with them in the evenings. Greg was divorced and Gus had never married, so they had their bachelorhood in common. They’d often invited Axel Perry— another widower—to join them, but the old man never did. Paul got the impression that Axel liked to be alone. It was a shame. He didn’t know what he was missing. Although he would have never said it aloud, Paul found that spending time with them made his own evenings a little less lonely. He liked the gruff companionship, liked playing cards and drinking a few beers and arguing sports and politics and women.

“Yeah,” he called, “it’s me, Gus. What in the hell is going on?”

“I don’t rightly know. Sounds like World War Three’s done started though, don’t it?”

Gus stepped out of the shadows. He looked shaken. His complexion was pale and his eyes were wide and frightened. His hair stuck up askew, and his pajamas were soaked with sweat and stuck to his body, including his prodigious beer gut. Paul’s gaze settled on Gus’s feet. The man wore a pair of fuzzy Spider-Man slippers. The costumed character’s big red head adorned the toe of each and seemed to stare up at Paul.

“Gus, what in the world are you wearing?”

The mechanic glanced down at his feet and then shrugged, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh, shoot. Forgot I had those on. I rushed out of the house so quick . . .”

“What are they?”

“Bedroom slippers.”

“I can see that. But they seem a little—”

“I didn’t buy them,” Gus interrupted. “Lacey Rogers bought them for me.”

“Lacey Rogers is eight years old, Gus.”

“I know that. Do you really think these are the type of slippers an adult would buy for me?”

“Well, what’s Lacey Rogers doing buying you a present, anyway? That don’t seem right.”

“Remember last year when they did the Secret Santa thing at church?”

Paul nodded. Each member of the congregation had pulled a slip of paper out of the offering plate. Written on the slip was the name of a fellow parishioner. They then purchased a gift—under twenty dollars—for that person. Paul’s Secret Santa had been Jean Sullivan, who’d bought him two pairs of wool socks for hunting.

“Lacey pulled my name,” Gus explained. “Her parents said she picked these out herself down at the Wal-Mart. I couldn’t very well return them, now could I?”

“No, I don’t guess so. That would have broke her little heart.”

“Exactly. And I have to say, they do keep my feet warm at night.”

“Well, you look like a damned fool.” Paul’s voice was gruff, but his grin nearly split his face in half.

“Your phone working?” Gus asked, clearly anxious to change the subject.

Paul shook his head. “Nope. Ain’t nothing working. My cell phone and emergency radio are dead, too. The cell I can understand. Service ain’t never been that reliable around here. But the radio should still be working. It’s got a battery back-up. I don’t understand why it would quit like that.”

“Same here,” Gus confirmed. “It ain’t just your radio. Everything in my place is dead. It’s like something fried all of the electronics. Hell, I couldn’t even get my damned flashlight to work. How’s that for weird?”

“It’s something, alright.”

“What do you suppose it means?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Paul said, “but whatever it is, it ain’t good.”

Another gunshot echoed across town, followed by an explosion.

“Holy mother of God,” Paul said, jumping. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. All I know is it’s been a weird day and it just keeps getting stranger.”

“How do you mean?”

Gus paused. “Well, first there was this Amish fella come riding into town on a horse and buggy. Real pretty horse. Very gentle, but very big. She’d be a prize mare. He’s got her tied up down by the river tonight. He asked me and Greg if there was a hotel in town and we sent him over to Esther’s place.”

“Amish?” Paul grunted. He’d known a few Brethren in his life—Amish, Mennonites and Moldavians. All of them had been good people. Hard workers. Very handy with a hammer and a saw. “I don’t see how that would be connected to what’s happing now, though.”

“I don’t reckon it is, but you never know. Maybe it’s—”

Paul paused as a man ran by them, weaving around parked cars on the street and tottering back and forth. Paul recognized him as one of the cashiers at the local convenience store, but he didn’t know the man’s name. At first, Paul assumed the guy must be drunk, but then he noticed the man’s torn trouser leg and the blood on his calf, and realized he was injured.

“Hey,” Gus called, apparently not knowing the cashier’s name either. “You okay, fella? What’s going on?”

The fleeing man didn’t stop. He shuffled past them, not even bothering to look in their direction as he answered. “Dark men . . . they’re going house to house . . . killing folks. Killing everybody. Even the pets.”

Paul took a step forward. “What do you mean?”

“No time! If you’re smart, you’ll run now. I mean it. They’re killing everyone.”

“Who?”

“The dark men. Run!”

“What was that explosion?” Paul asked.

“Someone shot the propane tank behind the fire hall. Now get going, if you know what’s good for you. I ain’t waiting around for the dark men.”

“Hey! Just wait a goddamn minute, fella. We don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Without another word, the man fled on, trailing dark spots of blood on the asphalt. Gus and Paul looked at each other.

“Dark men?” Gus arched one eyebrow. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”

“I don’t know. Black folks, maybe?”

Gus shook his head. “No. I’ve talked to him plenty of times down at the shop. He’s brought his car in to be serviced, though I can’t remember his name. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Never struck me as a racist.”

“Just because a fella ain’t telling nigger jokes or wearing a Klan robe don’t mean they’re not racist.

You can never tell.”

“I still don’t buy it,” Gus said. “And besides, even if he was racist, it still doesn’t make any sense. Why would a bunch of black folks want to shoot up Brinkley Springs?”

“Not saying they are. I’m just trying to figure out what he meant. He said dark men.”

“Well, if we stand out here long enough, I reckon we’re liable to find out the hard way what he meant.”

Paul nodded. “I suspect you’re right. Not sure what to do, though. Don’t hear any sirens or anything. Just screaming.”

They paused, listening. Gus shuddered.

“I hope my brother is okay.”

“Where is Greg, anyway?” Paul asked him.

“At home sleeping, I guess. Wish I could call him and find out.”

Paul glanced at his cowering dogs and then out into the street. The breeze shifted, bringing with it the unmistakable smell of smoke. It made his eyes water. He hesitated, weighing his options. On the one hand, he should stay here and look after the dogs and his belongings. The fleeing cashier had mentioned that pets were being killed. But on the other hand, it sounded like there were a lot of people out there who needed help. People that he knew. Some that he’d known his whole life. It didn’t seem right to hunker down here while they were in trouble. He turned back to Gus.

“Want to go check on your brother?”

“I’d like to. Do you think it’s safe?”

“No. But it beats standing around here waiting for whatever is happening to find its way to us. We’ll make sure he’s okay. Then I’ll come back here and watch over my dogs.”

Nodding, Gus squared his shoulder and straightened up. “Sure. Just let me change my shoes.”

“Yeah,” Paul replied, glancing back down at the bedroom slippers. “I reckon you might want to do that first. Might want to put some clothes on over those pajamas, too. And Gus?”

“What?”

“Might be best if you bring along a gun.”

“I reckon you’re right.”

***

Artie Prater slept, which was exactly what he’d been afraid of. His wife of five years, Laura, was out of town. She worked for the bank in Roncefort, and once a year, all of the bank’s employees went on a mandatory week-long retreat. This year, they were in Utah, enjoying steak dinners and attending seminars about things like team-building and synergy. Artie liked to tease Laura about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He’d been unable to find work for over a year, and it bothered him that he couldn’t provide for his wife or their new son, Artie Junior. The upside was that while she was at work every day, he’d been able to stay home and take care of Little Artie. Laura reciprocated by getting up with the baby at night, which relieved Artie to no end.

Artie had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. He’d slept through 9/11, waking up in his college dorm room later that night and wondering why everyone was staring at the television and crying. Since becoming a father, Artie’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Laura was there to get up with Artie Junior at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.

They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above Little Artie’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Laura out of town, Artie had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and played a video game. It was early— too early to sleep—but Little Artie had been tired and cranky, and Artie knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of the game, he’d sleep lightly.

Except that he hadn’t. He’d fallen asleep playing the game, barely having the presence of mind to sit the laptop aside before passing out. He slept through the power outage, and did not wake when both the laptop and the television shut off, as well as the baby monitor. He slept through the howling dogs and the terrified screams and the numerous gunshots. He slept through the explosion. He slept as his neighbors were murdered in their homes and out on the street. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly as two shadowy figures entered his home. He slept, unaware that in Artie Junior’s nursery, a large black crow had perched on the edge of his son’s crib. He slept as the crow changed shape. He remained asleep as the bedroom door opened and a shadow fell across him, as well.

He didn’t wake up until the baby screamed, and by then it was too late.

The last thing he saw was the figure in the room with him. The baby’s screams turned to high-pitched, terrified shrieks. Artie bolted upright and flung the sheets off his legs, but before he could get out of bed, the intruder rushed to the bedside and loomed over him. The man’s face was concealed in darkness. It shoved his chest with one cold hand and forced him back down on the bed. In the nursery, the baby’s screams abruptly ceased.

“W-who . . . ?”

“Scream,” the shadow told Artie. “It’s better when you scream.”

The pounding on Axel’s door grew louder and more insistent. The chain lock rattled and the door shook in its frame. Candlelight flickered, casting strange shapes on the walls. The pounding came again. Gripping his walking stick like a club, Axel tiptoed into the living room and peeked through the curtains. Jean Sullivan stood on his porch, holding Bobby in one arm and beating on the door with her fist. Breathing a sigh of relief, Axel lowered the stick and hurried to the door. He fumbled with the locks as Jean hammered again.

“Mr. Perry? Axel? It’s Jean from next door. Please let us in!”

She sounded frantic. Releasing the chain from its hasp, Axel turned the knob and yanked the door open.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What is it?”

Jean stumbled into the house and slammed the door shut behind her. Bobby held tight, his arms and legs wrapped around his mother. The boy looked terrified. Axel stared at them both in concern.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“Didn’t you hear me knocking? Or all the noise outside?”

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t hear so good these days. I came inside after the dogs started barking. Was going to fix myself a bite to eat, but with the power out, I decided to just go to sleep instead. I was laying down when I finally heard you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Jean turned around and locked the door behind her.

“Did you say there’s trouble? What kind of trouble?” “I don’t know.” She turned back to him. “People screaming and shouting. Gunshots. Something exploded on the other side of town. I think there are a couple of fires, too.”

Axel gaped. “Good Lord . . .”

“Bobby, I need to put you down, sweetie. Mommy’s arms need a break.”

Shaking his head, the boy buried his face in her hair and clung tighter.

“Bobby . . .”

“No, Mommy. Bad things are out there.”

“We’re safe now. Mr. Perry won’t let anything happen to us.”

“Your mother’s right,” Axel said, not understanding any of this, but trying to sound brave for the boy.

“Whatever’s going on, it can’t get you in here.”

Bobby peered doubtfully at the old man from between his mother’s hair.

Grinning, Axel raised the walking stick. “If it does, I’ll whack it with this.”

“That’s just an old stick.”

“Oh no, it’s much more than an old stick. You see, this walking stick has magic.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Bobby,” Jean chided, “be polite.”

“But Mommy, there’s no such thing as magic. It’s just make-believe, like in the cartoons and Harry Potter.”

Axel winked at the boy. “Magic is more than just stories, Bobby. Where do you think the lady who made up those Harry Potter books got the idea from? I reckon magic has been around as long as human beings have, and that’s a long, long time.”

He paused. Axel couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard somebody screaming outside. He wondered if he should go out and check, but then decided that Jean and Bobby were his primary responsibility now.

“So what can it do?” Bobby asked, pointing at the walking stick.

“I cut this branch off a magic tree a long, long time ago when I was just a little older than you. We lived way down in a hollow on the other side of Frankford, back near where the quarry is today. There was a cave at the far end of the hollow—more of a sinkhole, really. My daddy filled it up over the years because our cows kept falling into it. But next to the hole was a big old willow tree, just as gnarled and ugly as I am now. The tree’s name—”

“Trees don’t have names, Mr. Perry.”

Jean frowned. “Bobby, manners!”

The boy stuck his bottom lip out and pouted. “But I called him mister.”

“It’s okay,” Axel soothed. “Everything has a name, Bobby. Not just people, but animals and trees and even rocks. God gives everything a secret name. This old willow tree’s name was Mrs. Chickbaum.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“Aye, I reckon it is. But that was what my mother said its name was, and she knew about these things.”

“Was your mommy magic?”

Axel was surprised to find himself tearing up as he answered. “Yeah, she was. My mommy was magic. And so was old Mrs. Chickbaum. Not in a way that you’d probably understand. The tree couldn’t fly or turn people into salamanders. But you felt better in its shade. You rested easy underneath its branches. There was a little spring to the left of her trunk, and that water was just about the best I’ve ever tasted— clear and fresh and ice cold.”

“So Mrs. Chickenbaum made things better?”

“That’s right. Nothing bad happened around her. And this walking stick came from Mrs. Chickbaum and I’ve had it ever since, and it’s always brought me nothing but good luck, for the most part. So I reckon we’ll be safe enough here. Okay?”

Bobby smiled, and then slowly relaxed. “Okay, Mr. Perry.”

Jean lowered him to the floor and sighed. Axel heard her back crack and her joints pop as she straightened up again.

“He’s not as light as he used to be,” she said, stretching.

“No,” Axel agreed. “He’s growing quick. Gonna be a fine boy, Jean. You do good with him.”

“Thank you, Axel. You’re good with kids.”

He shrugged, blushing. She smiled then, and Axel saw some of the fear ease from her face. He motioned toward the couch.

“Why don’t you two sit down?”

“We’d better not,” Jean said, glancing back to the door. “It’s really bad out there.”

“And you don’t know anymore than what you told me?”

She shook her head. “Not really. But with the power and the phones out, and the dogs, and now all this screaming and such—I’m scared.”

“Well, I don’t suppose we should be standing around here talking about it in the living room. I reckon we’re sort of exposed up here. Maybe we should head down into my basement for a while? I hunker down there when there’s a tornado warning or a really bad storm. We’ll be safe enough. It’s not finished—not much on the eyes. Just a concrete floor and cement block walls, but it’s dry. I’ve got a kerosene heater I can turn on to keep us warm. And the stairs are the only way in or out, so we’ll have plenty of warning if somebody breaks in or anything.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“I’ll get a few bottles of water and such from the kitchen. Can you help me carry it? This danged arthritis makes it harder for me to do things like that these days.”

“Sure,” Jean said, and then turned to her son. “Bobby, come on. We’re going downstairs with Mr. Perry.”

The boy was standing in front of the mantel, staring up at a picture of Axel and Diane in happier days.

“Who is that?” he asked, pointing at the picture.

“That’s my wife,” Axel explained. “Mrs. Perry.”

“How come she doesn’t live here with you?”

Jean hissed. Her hand fluttered to her mouth.

“Bobby . . .”

“It’s okay,” Axel said. He knelt in front of the boy. His knees groaned at the effort. “Mrs. Perry passed on some time ago.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Oh, yes. Not a day goes by that I don’t. She was magic, too, you know. A different kind of magic, maybe. Not the type like that old willow tree, but magic all the same.”

“How?”

“She made my life better just for being in it.”

He made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Jean and Bobby followed along behind him. Axel was dismayed to notice that the appliance was already warming inside. He pulled out a few bottles of water and three apples, and then quickly shut the door again. Jean took some of the items from him and handed one of each to her son.

“I’m not so scared anymore,” Bobby said.

Jean patted his head with one free hand and ruffledhis hair. “Good. See? I told you Mr. Perry would know what to do.”

“Yeah.”

Somebody screamed in Axel’s front yard. Jean heard it first, then Axel. It was a woman, judging by the sound, though they couldn’t be sure. The sound warbled without pause and then ceased abruptly.

“I reckon we’d better head downstairs,” Axel whispered. “And we should probably be quiet from this point on. I’ll snuff the candles out up here and relight them once we’re in the basement.”

He beckoned for them to follow him and then tiptoed to the basement door. He juggled his walking stick and the items in his hand, and finally managed to open the door. The staircase and the handrail both disappeared into blackness halfway down. Cold air drifted up from below. Axel wondered if he’d left one of the cellar windows open.

“Careful now.” He said it so quietly that Jean and Bobby both had to lean forward to hear him. Then he started forward, using his walking stick to guide him in the dark. Bobby followed along close behind him, timidly holding onto Axel’s pants leg with one hand. Jean brought up the rear and shut the door behind them.

The darkness became absolute.

***

Ron Branson and Joe Dickie hid behind the post office, wondering what to do. The evening had started out like normal. The two of them had been polishing off a case of Golden Monkey Ale, playing cards and talking about various women in town who they’d never have a chance to sleep with. Then the power had gone out and the shouts and screams had started, followed by gunfire and explosions. They’d gone outside to see what all the fuss was about and had ended up walking through the neighborhood in dazed, abject horror. Their pleasant, warming buzzes had evaporated, leaving them cold and sweaty. Both men shivered, more from fear than the night air. They clung to one another and listened to the town dying.

“Wish I owned a gun,” Joe whispered. “I’m not allowed to on account of my prick parole officer. He comes around and checks my place like clockwork.”

Ron nodded. “We should get some. One for each of us. Who do we know that owns a gun?”

“Are you serious? This is America. Ninety percent of the fucking town has a gun. Listen. That ain’t firecrackers we’re hearing.”

“But what are they shooting at? I don’t see anything except dead folks.”

“Maybe they’re shooting each other,” Joe suggested.

“Maybe somebody put something in the water that made everyone go crazy.”

“That don’t make sense. Half the people in town are on well water. And did you see Vern Southard lying back there? He wasn’t shot. It looked like something had tore him apart. His face and arms were ripped plumb off.”

Joe was about to respond when something large and black swooped down out of the night sky and collided with his face. With some disbelief, he saw that it was a crow. He caught a whiff of a bad odor, like spoiled milk. He had time to utter a surprised, muffled squeal, and then pain lanced through him as sharp talons slashed his bulbous nose and a razor beak plucked his eyes from his head with two quick pecks. Ron reached out to help him, but when he wrapped both hands around the frenzied bird, the crow changed shape, shifting in his hands like water. He let go and stared as it turned into a man.

The fuck is he dressed up like a pilgrim for? Ron thought, dimly registering his best friend’s screams. It ain’t Halloween.

The dark man punched Ron in the throat, decapitating him with one powerful blow. Then he stood over Ron and fed as his soul departed. Finished, the killer turned his attention back to the dying blind man.

Joe heard its laughter and screamed louder in an attempt to drown out the sound.

Randy, Sam and Stephanie sat huddled together on the couch. Randy’s mother sat next to them. A single candle lit the living room. Stephanie wept softly, her face buried against Sam’s chest. Randy felt pangs of guilt and regret each time he looked at them—regret that it wasn’t him who was consoling her, and guilt that he felt that way. Randy’s father paced nervously, going from window to window and peeking outside. Each time he parted the blinds with his fingers, Randy’s mother begged her husband to stop.

“Jerry,” she whispered, “somebody will see you!”

“We need to know what’s happening. It sounds like World War Three out there.”

“All the more reason to sit down over here and stay out of sight.”

Sighing with frustration, Jerry Cummings let the blinds slide shut again. Then he turned and faced his wife.

“Marsha is out there.”

“I know that . . .” Cindy Cumming’s eyes were wide. Mascara ran down her cheeks. “What are we going to do?”

“She’s with Donny,” Randy said. “She’ll be okay, Mom.”

“Yeah, but what about us?” Sam’s voice sounded hollow.

Jerry crossed the living room to the front door and peered through the window.

“You’re going to attract attention,” his wife said.

“Whatever is—”

A long, agonized wail cut her off. They couldn’t tell from which direction it had originated, but it sounded nearby.

“It’s getting closer,” Jerry said. “I think that was next door.”

“I want to go home,” Stephanie sobbed. “My parents and my little brother are at home. I need to be there with them.”

Randy glanced at Sam, annoyed that he wasn’t doing more to comfort Stephanie. If it had been Randy, he’d have stroked her hair and whispered soothing words and promised her that everything would be okay. Sam did none of these things. He merely sat there, mute and dumbstruck. He looked uncomfortable, and when he glanced up and saw Randy glaring at him, he shifted uneasily. The couch cushions groaned beneath him.

“You can’t go home right now, sweetheart.” Cindy reached over and patted Stephanie’s knee. “But I’m sure your family is fine.”

Stephanie didn’t look up from Sam’s chest. Her voice was muffled. “How do you know?”

Cindy opened her mouth to respond, paused, looked at the others and then closed her mouth again. She removed her hand from Stephanie’s knee and wiped her eyes. Randy noticed that his mother’s hand was shaking.

“We don’t know,” Jerry said, and Randy got the impression that his father was talking to himself rather than to the rest of them. “That’s the problem.”

“Let’s try calling them again,” Sam suggested. “Maybe try calling Marsha’s cell phone again, too, while we’re at it.”

Jerry shook his head doubtfully, but before he could speak, another volley of gunfire echoed down the street. He flinched.

“It sounds to me like somebody is going door-to-door, shooting folks.”

“Maybe we’re just hearing people fighting back,” Randy suggested, trying to sound brave for both his mother’s and Stephanie’s sakes. “Could be that—”

Something thudded against the back of the house.

Slowly, all of them turned to face the kitchen and the sliding glass doors that led out onto the patio and the Cummingses’ backyard. Even Stephanie looked up. Randy’s breath caught in his throat when he caught sight of her tear-streaked cheeks. They glistened in the dim candlelight. A lump formed in his throat. Then his attention was drawn to the flame atop the candle. It flickered and danced as if blown by a slight breeze, but the air inside the house was still. He looked up to see if anyone else had noticed it, but they were all focused on the patio doors. The thudding sound returned, followed a second later by something scuffing across the patio’s cement foundation.

“What was that?” Cindy mouthed.

“Stay here,” Jerry whispered. “I’m going upstairs to get the gun.”

Unlike most of the men (and many of the women) in Brinkley Springs, Jerry Cummings wasn’t much of a hunter. As a result, Randy hadn’t spent much time hunting either. He’d gone out a few times with Sam and Sam’s father and uncle, but he’d found it didn’t interest him. Randy didn’t like the cold or the tedium. Despite his lack of enthusiasm for hunting, he did enjoy target shooting, and his father had taken him out to the woods many times and let him shoot the family’s Kimber .45, which Jerry kept secured in a lockbox on the dresser. They’d killed many empty soda cans and plastic water bottles.

His father motioned at all of them. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.”

As he started for the stairs, something brushed against the glass on the other side of the patio doors. Cindy gasped and Stephanie whimpered. Sam moaned, his eyes wide. He hugged Stephanie tightly, and Randy wondered if it was to comfort her or himself. The sound came again, more forceful this time. The doors rattled in their frame. Then something tapped the glass.

Jerry ran for the stairs and took them two at a time. They heard his footsteps above them as he hurried toward the bedroom. The tapping sound continued, slow and rhythmic. Clenching his fists, Randy stood. It seemed to him that it took a very long time to do so. His heart pounded and his ears felt like they were on fire. Unable to see past the curtains that covered the sliding glass doors, he slowly crossed the living-room floor. Sam, Stephanie and his mother watched in horror.

“Randy!” Cindy reached for him. “Get back here.”

Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

He shook his head, not bothering to turn around.

His mother called for him again, louder this time. Still not looking back, Randy waved his hand impatiently and continued toward the kitchen.

“Dude . . .” Sam made a choking noise. “You heard what your dad said.”

Randy ignored them both. The only words of concern he wanted to hear were from Stephanie, but fear seemed to have rendered her mute. He stared at the doors, wondering what was out there.

Tap-tap . . . tap-tap . . . tap-tap . . .

Swallowing hard, Randy strode forward, his mind made up. Whatever was out there, he wasn’t going to let it fuck with his friends and his family any longer. He kept his gaze focused on the doors and felt the living-room carpet give way to linoleum floor beneath his feet. He skirted the kitchen table and drew closer. It was darker in the kitchen than in the living room, and Randy wished for a moment that he’d brought the candle with him.

The tapping became more insistent, changing to a rapid-fire staccato. Randy stopped in front of the sliding glass doors and realized that whatever was making the sound was doing it from near ground level. He reached for the curtains and hoped that Stephanie couldn’t see his hand shaking.

“Randy Elmore Cummings . . .”

Randy cringed, his hand pausing in midair.

Frightened or not, his mother clearly meant business. She only used his middle name when she was seriously pissed off at him. Worse, that middle name had now been revealed to his best friends—both of whom he’d managed to keep it secret from for the past eighteen years. Shaking his head, he reached again for the curtains. The tapping grew louder, as if whatever was on the other side of the patio doors was agitated at the delay. His fingers brushed against the coarse fabric.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap . . .

A hand slammed down on his shoulder and squeezed hard. Randy yelped, both in pain and surprise. He looked up, and his father was beside him, clutching the handgun in one fist. Even though he’d fired it many times in the past, the weapon looked bigger than Randy remembered.

“Dad—”

Removing his hand from his son’s shoulders, Jerry raised one finger to his lips. Randy fell silent. The tapping on the glass resumed, frantic and angry.

With it came a dry, rustling sound. Randy held his breath. Jerry grasped the curtain and pulled it aside.

A large black crow stood on the other side of the glass, tapping at the doors with its beak. It stopped, tilted its head up and stared at them. Both Randy and his father exhaled at the same time. Then Jerry laughed.

“What is it?” Sam called. “What’s out there?”

Jerry turned around to face them. “It’s just a bird. That’s all. Just an ugly old crow. Big sucker, too.”

The others murmured among themselves, and Randy, whose attention was still focused on the bird, heard the relief in their voices. He tried to speak, tried to get their attention, but suddenly he had no breath. The bird was changing. As he watched, it turned shadowy, blurred. And then it changed.

A tall man, dressed all in black, stood on the patio where only a second before there had been a crow. He grinned at Randy, revealing rows of white teeth. Too many teeth. Randy didn’t think human beings were supposed to have that many in their mouths.

The man in black raised a fist. Randy whined softly. “Dad . . .”

Still grinning, his father started to turn toward him. The stranger’s fist smashed through the glass doors, and he grasped Jerry Cummings by the ear.

“Come here.” The man’s voice reminded Randy of fingernails on a chalkboard.

Jerry had time to utter a startled yelp, and then his attacker yanked him forward, pulling his head through the shattered hole. Glass fragments fell to the kitchen floor. The gun slipped from Jerry’s hand and spun like a top on the linoleum. Randy screamed, dimly aware that his mother, Sam and Stephanie were doing the same behind him.

Laughing, the man on the patio jerked Jerry’s head down. Long, jagged shards of glass slashed his face and throat. Blood spurted, running down the doors on both sides. Jerry wailed and thrashed, arms flailing, legs kicking wildly as the stranger pushed his head even lower. Another shard speared his eye, and Randy heard a small pop, like air rushing from a sealed plastic bag. His father’s cries ceased. Jerry jittered once more and then lay still. His body went limp and the glass slipped even farther into his eye socket.

Randy gaped, crying as the killer grasped his father’s hair with both hands and tugged him through the opening. The remaining glass shattered as Jerry’s corpse was pulled through. Randy flinched as the stranger lifted his father’s head and kissed him on the mouth. The murderer’s cheeks seemed to balloon for a moment, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of something. Then he casually tossed Jerry’s lifeless form aside and stepped through the hole.

“Didn’t you hear me knocking? I was gently tapping, tapping at your chamber door.”

Randy scrambled backward, tripped and fell. He sprawled across the kitchen floor and spotted his father’s gun. He reached for it, but the invader moved quicker, kicking it away. The weapon slid across the floor and slammed against the kitchen cabinets.

“It wouldn’t have done you any good,” the man said, looking down at him. The tip of the killer’s black hat brushed against the ceiling fan. “But if you don’t believe me, go ahead and try. I’ll wait.”

Randy skittered backward, sobbing. The man followed along, clearly enjoying the sport. His laughter echoed through the kitchen.

“What do you want?” Randy shrieked.

“Your soul. They taste better if you’re scared.”

The man leaned over him and Randy closed his eyes.

“Youuuu get away from my son!”

Footsteps pounded across the floor. Randy’s eyes snapped open in time to see his mother leaping over him, flinging herself at her husband’s killer. She beat the intruder with her fists, but the man in black swatted her aside. She crashed into the refrigerator and then stumbled to her feet. Groaning, Cindy grabbed the salt and pepper shakers from the countertop and flung them. Both bounced off the figure’s shoulders and smashed on the floor, spilling their contents all over the linoleum. A thrown coffee mug suffered the same fate. Then Cindy seized a steak knife from the dish drainer.

“Get away from us,” she screamed. “Jerry! What did you do to my Jerry?”

“Mom.”

“Randy,” Sam shouted. “Come on!”

Randy clambered to his hands and knees and crawled toward the handgun. Grains of salt from the spilled dispenser stuck to his palms. The intruder’s attention was focused on his mother. The killer taunted her, leaning in close and then darting out of the way as she repeatedly slashed at him with the steak knife. They repeated this dance again, the killer giggling as Cindy shrieked.

“Run, Randy.” Her eyes didn’t leave her tormentor. “Get out of here.”

“Leave her alone,” Randy shouted as his fingers curled around the pistol. He jumped to his feet and pointed the weapon at the man in black, holding the .45 with both hands and spacing his feet apart at shoulder width, just as his father had taught him. “I mean it, you son of a bitch. Get the fuck away from her.”

The dark figure didn’t even turn around. “Go ahead. Take your best shot.”

“I’ll do it,” Randy warned. He hoped his voice didn’t sound as terrified as he felt.

“Then do it already, boy, and be done with it. My brothers and I have many more to deal with tonight. You make such small morsels.”

“Randy,” Cindy said, “go find your sister. Make sure she’s safe. Get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you, Mom. That fucker killed Dad.”

“Sam,” she cried. “Stephanie. Get him out of here.” “Come on, Randy,” Sam urged again. “Let’s go get help.”

“I’m not leaving my mother here, so fuck off!”

The man in black turned around to face him. His smile was terrible to behold.

“I’m going to turn your mother inside out now. Would you like to watch?”

Cindy lunged forward and drove the steak knife into his back with both hands. At the same time, Randy pulled the trigger. The .45 jerked in his hands, and he felt the reverberation run all the way up his arms. The blast drowned out all other sound, and Randy’s ears rang in the aftermath.

Grunting, Cindy stumbled backward and slipped again to the floor. Randy noticed that there was blood spattered across the white refrigerator door. It hadn’t been there a moment before. He wondered where it had come from. Then he saw more of it on the front of his mother’s sweatshirt.

“Oh my God.”

The killer, his expression impassive, calmly reached for the knife jutting from his back. He pulled it out and dropped it to the floor. Then he smiled again.

“But I shot you.” Randy tossed the gun away in frustration. “I shot you, not my mom.”

“Indeed. The bullet passed through me and into her. And for that, I thank you, boy. You helped expedite things for me. As a reward, I shall make your death quick and painless. Just give me one moment.”

He turned back to Randy’s mother and knelt beside her. Cindy struggled to sit up, but slumped back down again.

“M-Mom . . . I’m sorry.”

Her eyes flicked toward him. Randy noticed a thin line of blood dribbling from one corner of her mouth.

“Marsha,” she wheezed. “Go find your sister. It’s okay, baby. I love you.”

“Mom . . .”

“Dude.” Sam had opened the front door. A gust of wind blew into the house, and the screams of the neighbors grew louder. “Come on, man, before he kills you, too.”

Randy glanced at Sam and Stephanie, then back to his mother and the stranger, and then down to the discarded gun.

“Forget it,” Sam shouted. “You already shot the fucker once, and it didn’t faze him. Come on!”

“Oh, Jesus.” Stephanie stared at something across the street. “There’s another one. What’s it doing to the Garnett’s dog?”

Randy turned back to his mother again, intent on rushing forward and pushing the intruder away from her. The man was kissing her, just as he had kissed Randy’s father. Cindy’s eyes were closed.

Balling his fists, Randy opened his mouth and—

“Randy?” Stephanie’s voice cut through his rage and distress. “We have to go. We have to go now. Please?”

He glanced from her to his mother, and then back again. The man in black stood up and sighed.

“Ah, that was tasty. Now come here, boy. I promised I’d make it quick, and I keep my word.”

Randy took a faltering step backward. The killer moved forward and then stopped, recoiling as if he’d been shocked. He glanced down at the floor and hissed. Randy looked down and saw that the intruder’s toe was at the line of spilled salt.

“You little bastard. Come here.”

“F-fuck you. You killed my parents.”

“And now I’m going to kill you. Come here. I won’t ask again.”

Randy noticed that the man still hadn’t moved. He seemed unable or unwilling to come any closer.

It’s the salt, he thought. I don’t know why, but he doesn’t like the salt.

“Fuck you.” This time, his voice didn’t waver.

The killer’s eyes widened. “You have the touch, don’t you, boy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Touch this, you son of a bitch.” Randy grabbed his crotch.

“Amazing,” the intruder whispered. “You don’t know.”

“Randy?” Stephanie’s voice was pleading. She sounded near tears again.

With one last glance at his parents’ bodies, Randy turned and fled. Tears streamed down his face as he followed Sam and Stephanie through the open door. He noticed that they were hand in hand, but at that moment, he didn’t care.

“Run,” the man in black called after them. “Flee, if you wish. There is nowhere for you to go, little bugs.

One of my brothers will see to you in due time.”

The street and yards were chaos, but none of it registered with Randy. He only caught fleeting glimpses as he ran across the grass toward his truck. Homes were burning. Bodies lay in the street. Another dark figure, almost identical to the one they had just faced, strode across the roof of the house next door, menacing two people who had crawled to the edge.

Sam unlocked the doors. Randy watched in despair as he guided Stephanie to the Nissan and yanked the passenger door open. She hurried inside and he slammed the door behind her. Then he looked up and noticed Randy.

“What are you doing?”

“Truck . . .” It was all Randy could manage to say.

He pointed at the 4×4.

“Follow us,” Sam said, and quickly climbed behind the wheel. Then, a second later, he swore.

Stephanie glanced around, frantic. “What’s wrong?”

“It won’t start!”

Randy stumbled toward them. Sam sat behind the wheel, frantically turning the key back and forth in the ignition. Randy placed his hand on the Nissan’s hood and was just about to tell them to get in his truck when Sam’s engine suddenly roared to life.

“Got it,” Sam shouted. “You coming?”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Randy ran over to his truck and fumbled for the keys. They jingled in his trembling hand as he unlocked the door. The people next door screamed as they plummeted to the ground. The man in black on the roof turned in Randy’s direction and waved. Randy gave him the finger and then slipped into the cab. He started the truck and the engine roared to life. The man on the roof seemed startled by this. He leaped to the ground as Randy raced away, pressing the accelerator all the way to the floor and struggling to keep sight of Sam’s brake lights as the black Nissan lowrider with flames painted on the sides raced into the darkness. The CD player beeped and then began playing the Geto Boys’ “Still,” which Randy had been listening to the last time he was in the truck. Now, he barely heard the music.

“I’m sorry,” Randy sobbed as he whipped around the turn and followed Sam. “I’m so sorry.”

The truck’s massive tires crunched over a corpse lying in the middle of the street, but Randy didn’t even notice.

SIX

Most of the people Levi met as he waded through the chaos were either in shock or half-crazed with fright. A few ran away from him as if he were the Devil incarnate, stalking the streets of Brinkley Springs. A few more people shot at him, not bothering to ask questions or give warning first. One particularly terrified old man had thrown a bottle of whiskey at him and then followed it up with a lit wooden match. As a result of these confrontations, Levi had a hard time gaining a coherent understanding of what was occurring. Many of the townspeople were as clueless as Levi himself. They’d heard the screams and gunshots and explosions, but had no idea what was happening. Others mentioned men in black and crows. Neither image was particularly useful.

Men in black was too vague of a term. It could mean anything. A group of gunmen dressed in dark clothing. Agents from some government agency or perhaps Black Lodge. It could even be one of the many different manifestations of Nyarlathotep—a supernatural who some mistakenly believed to be a demonic servant of Cthulhu but who, in reality, was simply the messenger of God. Somehow, Levi doubted it was any of these things. Human gunmen wouldn’t have explained the feeling that had come over him earlier. No, whatever forces were at work here in Brinkley Springs, they were almost certainly of supernatural origin. And Nyarlathotep, on the rare occasions that he manifested himself on Earth, wasn’t known for massacring people—which was what was happening here, if the reports Levi was hearing from the panicked survivors was correct. God’s messenger did occasionally appear as a man in black, but he also manifested as a worm, a hummingbird, a pillar of fire, a burning bush, a giant hand or one of a hundred other forms. He did no harm, other than imparting a message to whomever was chosen to hear it. Then he disappeared again.

So forget the men in black, Levi thought as he snuck through a small cemetery behind a tiny Baptist church that—judging from the moldering plywood nailed over the doors and windows—had been abandoned by its congregation long before tonight. Focus on the crows. People keep mentioning they saw big black crows. What does that tell me?

He tried to remember everything he knew about crows, as they related to occult lore. If he’d been back home, if he’d had access to his library, the task would be a snap. But between the adrenalin coursing through his body and his own fear, amplified as it was by the town’s collective horror, he’d have to trust his memory, instinct and years of experience.

So, what do I know?

The first thing that came to Levi’s mind was Raven, a deity of the Native American tribes who had once inhabited the Pacific Northwest. According to their beliefs, Raven was sometimes a generous benefactor and, at other times, a mischievous trickster, credited with doing everything from creating the Earth to stealing the sun. But since Brinkley Springs, West Virginia, was on the other side of the country, and since there were a number of other tribes who had worshipped other deities between here and there, he doubted this had anything to do with Raven. The Hindu god Shani was usually depicted as being not only dressed in black, but dark in color, as well. Shani also traveled around the world on the back of a giant crow. That seemed to fit, but as far as Levi knew, Shani was a god of justice who would have abhorred the atrocities taking place. What else was there? There was Odin, of course, with his two pet ravens, Hugin and Munin. Celtic mythology told of Morrigan, also known as Badb, Fea, Anann, Macha and others. One of the goddess’s forms was that of a crow. The Welsh had the giant king of the Britons known as Bran the Blessed, whose name meant “crow.” Levi wondered for a moment if Brinkley Springs’ residents were primarily of Germanic, Irish or Welsh descent. Probably so, but even then, none of those possibilities felt right.

Crows were present in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, as well as in Chaldean, Chinese and Hindu mythology, and they were mentioned quite often in Buddhism, especially the Tibetan disciplines. One physical form of Dharmapala Mahakala was a crow. Crows had watched over the first Dalai Lama and had supposedly heralded the births of the first, seventh, eighth, twelfth and fourteenth Lamas. Levi was certain, however, that he could rule the Dalai Lama out as a suspect.

He stuck close to the church walls, remaining in the shadows. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the dead dog until he was almost upon it. The poor creature had been impaled on the black wrought iron fence that surrounded the churchyard. One end of the iron rod jutted from the dog’s anus. The other end stuck out of its mouth. Judging by the expression in the dogs face, it had been alive when the act was perpetrated. Without even really thinking about it, Levi reached out with two fingers and closed the poor dog’s eyes. Then an idea occurred to him. If he could find a dead human—one whose death was connected to these mysterious crow figures or the men in black—he could summon their spirit and get the answers from the departed. It stood to reason that a murder victim, especially one killed in so gruesome a fashion, would be able to answer questions about the person or persons who had killed them.

All he had to do was find a corpse, and given the current situation, that should be an easy task.

Levi grasped the iron bars and vaulted over the fence. His hands came away sticky with blood and fur. Frowning, he knelt and wiped them on the grass. Then he stood up again and walked around the side of the church, sticking once more to the shadows to avoid being seen. A black car with flames painted on the side raced past, followed closely by a revving pickup truck. That struck Levi as odd. He hadn’t heard or seen any other running vehicles this evening.

Flames flickered in the night, casting the side streets and alleys with an orange glow. Though none of the buildings in his proximity were ablaze, the fires were close enough that Levi could smell the smoke.

His eyes watered. The curtains in a few houses fluttered as he sneaked past them. When he reached an open space and ran out of cover, he darted down the sidewalk. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet. An obese woman, sobbing uncontrollably, stood on the corner, leaning against a mailbox.

“Excuse me,” Levi called. “Are you okay? Have you been injured?”

She glanced in his direction and then her sobs turned to screams. She ran away, her speed belying her size. Shaking his head, Levi continued onward.

He found a dead body at the next intersection. The victim was a middle-aged white male. His head and limbs were still intact, but his genitals had been torn off, leaving a ragged, gaping hole in his crotch. Blood shone black on the asphalt beneath him, and his shirt and the tattered remains of his pants were crimson. Levi knelt next to the corpse and stuck the tip of his right index finger into the gore. The blood was sticky but not yet congealed. He placed his palm against the corpse and found that the flesh was cool, but still pliant. Whoever the man was, he hadn’t been dead long. Levi glanced around for the missing penis and testicles and spotted them lying on the curb—which meant that whatever had murdered this man hadn’t consumed the grisly prize. Nor had it eaten or mangled the rest of him. The killing had been quick, almost perfunctory, if not for the brutality of it. This hadn’t been about torture or revenge. This killing had served a purpose, albeit a quick one. But what? His blood hadn’t been drained. His flesh hadn’t been consumed. So why kill him in this fashion?

There was only one way to find out. Only one person who would have the answers—the dead man himself.

Lord, he prayed silently, as always, I am your humble servant and your mighty sword. Guide my hand tonight as if it were your own. Let our victory be swift and just, and though my methods might not all be yours, let their purpose be to thy everlasting glory.

Levi stretched the corpse out, making sure the head was pointing north and then extending the arms and legs straight out from the torso. He noticed purple splotches on the underside of the limbs. The remaining blood in the man’s body was beginning to settle. He stood up then and wiped his hands on his pants. He grimaced at the stickiness on his palms, and was reminded of the dog that had been impaled on the church fence. There was starting to be a lot of blood on his hands tonight, and the symbolism was not lost on Levi. He wondered if it was the Lord trying to send him a message, or if this was simple synchronicity. It didn’t matter, either way. If he didn’t stop this slaughter, and soon, all of the blood in Brinkley Springs would be on his hands.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of chalk with his red right hand. Then he knelt again and drew a pattern around the corpse. He followed this with several arcane symbols, drawing each one quickly but carefully. He could afford no mistakes. Something as simple as one line or dot out of place could have unexpected—if not disastrous— consequences. Despite the chill in the air, sweat dripped from his forehead and the tip of his nose. Levi was careful not to let any of it fall inside the pattern. He worked in silence, except for the screams and occasional gunfire that still echoed across the town.

When he was finished, Levi stood up and surveyed his handiwork, ignoring the aches and pains in his joints and back. Satisfied that he’d done it correctly, he stood over the body, careful not to let his shoes touch the chalk lines.

“I’m deeply sorry about this,” he whispered. Then he raised his voice and chanted in a guttural combination of ancient Sumerian and a language not normally spoken by human tongues.

***

A black crow hovered above the carnage while two of its brothers, both still in human form, eviscerated a family of four—father, mother and their children, a boy and a girl. Insatiable, they feasted greedily on the departing souls of the parents and the boy, pausing only to engage in a tug-of-war game with the little girl, using her arms as a rope. The limbs popped from their sockets. Sinew and muscle twisted and tore. The girl’s shrieks reached a fevered pitch. The crow swooped downward, resuming its human guise.

“Don’t play with your food.”

Its brothers laughed. They pulled harder and the limbs came free. The girl toppled to the ground, unconscious yet writhing. They jostled one another for the departing soul, but stopped suddenly.

“Do you feel that?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Someone in this town still knows the ways of old. He or she seeks congress with the realms beyond.”

“If they can do that, then perhaps they are skilled in other works. Perhaps they can defeat us?”

“Reach out. Do you feel their power? This one is dangerous.”

“Indeed.”

“Find them immediately. But be careful. This one isn’t like the others. This one is like those we faced of old.”

Without another word, all three reverted to crow form and flew into the night, leaving the mangled bodies where they’d fallen. The birds soared in different directions, searching the darkness for the source of the disturbance, and their cries were terrible to all who heard them.

***

At eighty-nine, Jack McCutchon was the oldest man in Brinkley Springs. He lived by himself and fended for himself, something which he took great pride in. He still exercised every day, walking from his front door to the end of the driveway and back again, and still had most of his teeth. Sure, he had to wear hearing aids, but other than that, he thought he was in pretty good shape.

Jack wasn’t afraid of being old, and he wasn’t afraid of dying. He wasn’t afraid of much, in fact. As a radioman in the air force, Jack had flown bombing missions over Japan during World War II. One night, they’d been only eight thousand feet over a Japanese village. At that height, they’d been able to smell burning flesh even inside the plane’s hull. The heat and thermals from the explosions had buffeted the aircraft, tossing it about like a child’s toy glider. One moment, they were cruising along at eight thousand feet. The next, they were shooting straight up to ten or fifteen thousand. Some of the other planes in the bomber group had actually flipped over from the turbulence. Jack’s crew had made it safely back to base, but he’d never forgotten that night. It was the most frightening experience of his life.