A Gathering of Crows

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.