Dire Harvest Book 2 Chapter 3

ONE

The feeling of having a foreign entity knocking about inside was certainly unusual, but it didn’t seem to bother Gary all that much. The vibrations the thing gave off when it spoke were actually somewhat warm and invigorating, erotic even, like a sudden, unexpected jolt of electricity bursting from his core. It reminded Gary of this gadget he had made Jenna wear inside of her panties once—a small vibrating device which he controlled with a wireless remote. Anytime he wanted, he could give her a quick jolt between the legs. For shits and giggles he had turned the intensity all the way up on the device, and the first time he hit the button, she let out a scream that made everyone in Applebee’s turn and look. He thought it was the greatest invention of the modern age. Jenna refused to wear it ever again. 

But the thing now living inside of him was much more intense than a novelty crotch shocker. He could feel it coursing through every cell of his body. It was as much a part of him as his skin or any other organ he needed to function. It owned Gary, but it didn’t overtake him (well, except for that minor incident back at the biker bar). It—Zlo, as it preferred to be called—had completely taken over Gary’s body then, savagely going to town on that pack of assholes. And fuck ‘em anyway, twice; they deserved what they got. Though Gary had no control while Zlo had taken charge, he’d had a front-row seat. And what a sight it was. He had actually felt himself moving and punching and biting and all the other terrible things Zlo had used his body to do, but he had no control. Call it possession, perhaps? Whatever it was, for Gary it felt incredible, watching those douche bags get what they deserved and feeling as though he had done it to them himself.

Now Gary was back in the captain’s chair. He could move and breathe and do anything he wished at his discretion. Zlo had given the reins back. That’s actually the way the entity had put it, too. It didn’t want to control him. It got its thrill by just being along for the ride, as fucked up as that sounded. Apparently, it had some kind of plan it wanted Gary involved in, but he didn’t know what that was about at the moment. 

“So, now what?” Gary asked aloud. He received no answer. “Hello? Mr. Zlo? Hola?”

“Mr. Elmer,” the voice finally spoke, shocking Gary with its vibration. “You’re a wise man of the world. Why don’t you tell me what you think you should do at this moment?”

“I don’t fucking know. You’re the one calling the shots,” Gary snapped back.

The voice laughed and vibrated inside. “Well now, Mr. Elmer—Gary—perhaps you could start by assessing yourself and your current situation? Tell me what you see.”

“Huh?” Gary spoke. He couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say at the moment. 

“Look at yourself, idiot!” Zlo shouted. The vibration carried a fierce current, nearly sending Gary to his knees. “You’re hiding under a bush in the middle of the night, covered in blood. Tell me you understand this is a problem.”

Gary looked down at himself. He didn’t know why he hadn’t already thought of it, but the voice was right. He looked like he had just walked off the set of a slasher movie with every part of him covered in blood and gore (there was even a handful of blood coated teeth in his front pocket, oddly enough). And he was hiding under a bush in the middle of the night in a backyard he had skulked into. 

He struggled to gain his bearings, trying to figure out where he might be in relation to the bar where the carnage had happened. He didn’t feel like he had walked very far from the place. 

“Are you understanding your situation now, Mr. Elmer?” the voice asked. 

Gary’s throat had gone dry, but he managed an answer: “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“Very good,” Zlo replied. “Now would be a good time to show your quality. Fix the situation, Gary. Control your state of affairs!”

“Control my—” His mind was still having a hard time adjusting to the fact that something he couldn’t see or touch was talking to him from within. “I have to get out of these clothes.”

“Bravo!” Zlo shouted. “Now you’re getting it. Keep it up, Gary. We’ll be off and running in no time!”

Through his haze of mild confusion, something rose to the surface of his thoughts. Something new and exciting that had just come into his life: the feeling. Yes, that sensation of power, of domination. Zlo had introduced him to something more potent than any drug he’d ever taken. It was his ultimate desire, coursing through his veins, giving him the power of a god. All he’d ever wanted in life was to have power over others, to rule and control those inferior to him. In prison, Fat Ken the Ditch Head had taken all of Gary’s power away, and now Fat Ken was rotting in the cold ground of a prison cemetery where he belonged. Zlo somehow understood Gary’s deepest desire and gave it to him in a rush that couldn’t be compared to anything on earth. Intense was the only word he could think to describe it, but that word didn’t do it justice. There was nothing Gary wouldn’t do to have the rush again. Nothing!

“Hey, man,” Gary said. “About that reward you offered me… you know, that little thing you did that lit me up like Vegas? When am I getting some more of that?”

Zlo laughed. “I enjoy your enthusiasm, Mr. Elmer. It will carry our relationship quite far, I suspect.”

“Yeah,” Gary said. “So, when can I have it?”

“In due time, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo replied. “As for now, time is not your friend. You cannot walk around in the daylight hours looking the way you do, presently. Control your situation, Gary.”

Gary understood. The sun would be up soon enough, and the world that existed in daylight wouldn’t tolerate a deranged-looking man soaked in blood walking the streets. He needed to clean up fast.

TWO

The lights inside the small two-story house were off, and two newer mid-sized cars sat in the driveway. Someone was home, most likely in bed. A young couple by the look of the cars—they just screamed young professionals. One car even had a bumper sticker that said: “STOP EATING ANIMALS!” Trendy.

Gary assessed the house from the concealment of a bush next to the driveway, which desperately needed trimmed. Along with not eating animals, they probably don’t want to hurt trees, either, Gary thought as untrimmed branches scratched his face and poked at his eyes. 

From this spot, he could see six first-floor windows and a sliding glass door that led out to a small backyard patio. Motion detector lights probably hung in the back somewhere, but that didn’t concern him. No one gave a shit when motion lights came on in the middle of the night; they were really just for show or to chase off raccoons. Look, honey, when these lights come on, the bad people will run away and we’ll still be safe and sound in our beds, none the wiser. Probably.

The sliding glass door seemed his best bet at gaining entry to the house. He had learned a technique for unlocking patio doors from his cell-mate, Richie, who would not shut up about the tricks of his burglary trade. Though Gary had never actually applied Richie’s method before—he hadn’t been out of the slammer for a full day yet—he was sure the procedure would work. Richie was way too proud of himself to give poor advice.

Excitement grew in the pit of Gary’s stomach as he prepared to scurry across the backyard. The coast seemed clear in the darkness, but that didn’t mean he was safe. There could easily be a dog roaming around back there that would launch a whole litany of problems. The barking would be bad enough, but getting bit in the ass right now would screw up everything. Motion lights and barking dogs be damned, though, Gary knew he had to make his move; the cover of darkness had already begun to fade. 

An outdoor grill covered with a black canvas tarp sat to the left of the patio door. It was his best bet for getting close and staying out of sight. If he could get to that spot undetected and out of the range of any motion lights, he’d have a solid base of operations where he could work on the glass door in peace. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long to get the door unlocked once he began.

After listening carefully for any movement and scanning the darkness the best he could, the moment was at hand. The coast looked clear as far as Gary could tell, so he focused on his target destination, prepared his legs, took a few deep breaths, then leaped out of the bushes in a full sprint. At first, his run went off without a hitch, but the wet grass of early morning had other plans for him. When his fourth or fifth running step met the damp grass, his footing gave way, and Gary comically hit the ground, face first like a cartoon character who’d had a rug pulled out from underneath them. A mouth full of wet sod added to his personal embarrassment.

He lay quietly in place, waiting to see if his theory about a backyard dog lurking in the darkness might be true. It was not. There was no dog, nor were there any motion lights. As he prepared to get up and finish his journey to the back door, he felt a warm sense of relief. So far, his operation had yielded no hitches—other than the face-plant in the wet grass. Perhaps the universe had found favor with Gary Elmer, and now things were going to go his way. Did it have a purpose in mind for him? Whatever the case, at least there was no dog trying to take a chunk out of his ass at the moment. 

The patio door looked original to the house. Probably installed back in the 1980s by the look of wear on the metal surrounding the glass and the water damage around the wooden doorjamb. If it was an older model door, like he thought, it shouldn’t be much trouble. Richie said he could get through those in less than thirty seconds. 

Richie was probably right about the lock, but Gary didn’t need to use his cellmate’s burglary techniques tonight. The water damage to the doorjamb was so extensive he was able to dig enough of the rotted wood out with just his fingernail, and the thing came right open. Again, the universe had shined.

The kitchen looked as though it was in the midst of a remodel, not a full-on reconstruction with ripped up floors and knocked out walls, but the place was disheveled enough to look as though the homeowners were making improvements. The cabinets being the primary focus. They had also masked off the floor, ceiling, and backsplash with plastic, and the room had a fresh paint smell. 

Gary took his time, sneaking through the room, acting like a master thief, doing his best not to disturb anything that would give off an alert sound. When he came to what appeared to be a breakfast nook table, he found a piece of paper, weighted down by a couple of paint cans and wooden stir sticks. He picked it up and read it in the dim morning light. It was a project to do list. One: Finish painting cabinets. Two: Install granite countertop. Three (which made Gary laugh to himself): Install new patio door and doorjamb. Things might have turned out differently for the homeowners tonight if number three on the list had been number one instead.

Looking at the paint cans and other materials on the table, Gary couldn’t help but think about the people who probably lived here. They were fixing up their place, taking pride in the home. It belonged to them, and they cared for it. People did stuff like that. Normal people. The kind of people who went to Lowes or Home Depot a lot and watered their lawns throughout the week. They were also the people who Gary despised the most. White-bred fuckers living in the suburbs, looking down on anyone who didn’t match or exceed their status. It wasn’t a race thing, though, because any race of people fit into his idea of the suburbanite snob. White, black, green or purple… Gary hated them all and had no problem taking whatever he wanted from them. 

His temper flared. He didn’t know these people, but he knew the type, and that image was all he needed to fuel his rage. They didn’t deserve the things they had. In fact, they’d probably been spoon fed and handed a golden ticket since the day they were born. “Goddamn yuppies!” he said in a low, hateful voice. He couldn’t help himself. These people had everything and didn’t have to work for it. At least, that was his view. In reality, the people he despised so much had probably worked hard for what they owned. He only saw what was on the outside, which was more than enough to feed his hatred.

Zlo snickered inside as Gary’s anger rose, giving off a subtle vibration, causing Gary to jump. He still wasn’t accustomed to this thing inside of him perking up whenever it felt like it. His sudden alarm caused him to bump the breakfast nook table and send a paint can—which had barely been balancing atop three other cans—into motion. He reached out to catch the can and almost had it, but the same luck he’d had throughout this break-in had finally run out. The can danced across his fingertips, then leaped off like a diver on a springboard. He watched helplessly as the damn thing headed for the ground, almost in slow motion, then hit the tiled floor with a crash that sounded like it was amplified through a loudspeaker. 

“No fucking way!” Gary said as the can rolled across the floor and bumped into the kitchen island. The lid had popped off right as it hit the ground and the remaining contents—Egg Shell White—spilled out everywhere. 

A question quickly formed in his mind as he stared at the can and white puddle it rested in: what if these people really do have a dog? Or worse, what if they have a gun? “Shit!”

“You’ve made a right, proper mess of this so far, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. 

“Ya think?” Gary replied. “Can you help me out of this somehow?”

Zlo laughed. “Gary, I am but a spectator, an influencer in our association. I only intervene physically when I feel we are both out of options, and rarely, even in those cases. When I took control of the situation back at that tavern, I merely wanted to get our grand adventure started without a hitch. The rest is your concern, young sir.”

“Shit, man, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Use your resources, your facilities. We both know what you are capable of,” Zlo said.

Gary had to think about it for a moment before he got it. If the homeowners discovered him, he’d have to take care of business without remorse. Yes, he had done it before (Jenna, Fat Ken the Ditch Head, that poor family he’d run off the road—he didn’t actually set out to kill them, but he was responsible), so he was capable. 

A light clicked on from upstairs, casting its glow down the stairwell just past the kitchen. Gary’s pulse increased. He imagined how the next several moments of his life were about to go and knew they would be moments of action. Someone was on their way down the stairs, someone brave enough to investigate a sudden noise in the dark. He pictured a man in his mid-thirties wearing only pajama bottoms and carrying a golf club for a weapon. 

At the back corner of the kitchen, he found a place where he could crouch down and keep out of sight. He pulled the Glock pistol out of his belt and aimed it with two hands at the kitchen entrance, not even sure if the thing would fire (after all, it had been tucked away in a dusty cigar box for years). 

“Put that away, idiot!” Zlo spoke up. “Be discrete!”

Discrete? Gary thought. Then it sunk in. Popping off a few rounds in the middle of the suburbs just as the neighborhood was waking up probably wasn’t the best idea. But he had to think fast; the footsteps descending the stairs were slowly getting closer.

After putting the gun safely back into his belt, Gary looked around for something he could use as a silent weapon. First, he saw a frying pan on the stovetop, but it looked large and clunky, too awkward to wield with any accuracy. Next to the stovetop, he found a wood block with chef’s knives sticking out of it, the expensive kind, like a sushi chef might use. He initially thought these would work perfectly, then he imagined the mess. Plus, there would be a lot of screaming if he didn’t get a solid first strike with the blade. What he really needed was a good bludgeoning weapon that would shut the fucker down with a surprise blow to the head. And there it was, hanging on the wall like a family heirloom: a white marble rolling pin. When he pulled it down from its cradle, it felt gloriously heavy in his hands. The perfect tool for rolling out pie dough or crashing through someone’s skull.

The darkness that had cloaked the kitchen was fading with each passing moment, but Gary had found enough shadow to skulk his way into for concealment, as long as the person coming his way didn’t hit a light switch. 

The footsteps softly approached—probably bare feet. Gary readied his weapon. They were now at the archway. Gary raised the rolling pin above his head. A dark silhouette emerged at the archway, just out of his reach. It stopped, peering into the darkness of the kitchen. Gary’s heart raced, just two more steps, and he had them dead to rights. Come on, bitch, daddy’s got something for ya!

A sudden click preceded a flood of overhead light which lit up the entire kitchen. Gary was made. He stood face to face with a young man (who actually was shirtless, wearing only pajama bottoms, but instead of carrying a golf club, he had a toilet plunger… yes, a toilet plunger). The man froze in shock at the sight of a long-haired stranger covered in blood, holding a rolling pin over his head. Gary had frozen in place for a moment as well. The sudden light giving up his cover and seeing his prey face to face gave him pause. But it was not as long of a pause as the young shirtless man. That guy looked like a deer in the headlights.

Snapping out of his trance first, Gary took the initiative. With all the strength he could muster, he brought the heavy marble rolling pin down and connected with the man’s head, right in the middle of the forehead. The poor guy’s face never changed its look of surprise, even after the marble hit the skull. Gary let out a grunt from his effort, but the man made no sound, save for the thump of the blow and the cracking of his skull. One shot and this dude was out!

Gary stood over his victim, holding the rolling pin like a war hammer. He felt power, the power of dominance over another creature. It coursed through his veins like adrenaline. He loved it, this supremacy. He owned this feeble little man and could do with him as he wished. Gary Elmer was in charge, and at this moment, things would be done Gary’s way. 

“Quite impressive, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo spoke up. “It feels wonderful, doesn’t it?”

Gary let out a half grunt, half laugh.

“Are you satisfied with your work, Gary, or do you feel this fellow needs more… teaching?” Zlo said. “Do you think he fully understands who is in charge?”

The rolling pin felt good in his hands, like a ruler’s scepter, identifying him as the supreme being. He looked at the man on the floor, who was still halfway propped up against the wall. This piece of shit was a worthless piss-ant, not qualified to lick the dirt from Gary’s boots. He didn’t deserve life, let alone this lovely house and these nice things. He deserved only the brutality he was about to receive, which served as Gary’s amusement. The prick should be thankful his life was about to be given over in service, the service of his new god.

Gary smiled as he studied the man on the floor with the purple bruise emanating from a large bleeding gash in the middle of his forehead. It was such an amazing color. Could man create a paint with such a vibrant hue? This was art, wasn’t it? Art of a different sort that only a few with superior taste could appreciate. The art of the dying. Man, in his most vulnerable state, grasping to hold on to his last few precious seconds of life. So beautiful, so poetic, so inspiring. Gary gave his wondrous thoughts a couple more seconds, then went to work with his rolling pin on the poor shirtless man again, bringing it down over and over on his head and chest, manipulating his artwork until there was nothing left of his face to identify, and Gary’s masterpiece was completed.

As he stood back, appreciating his work, a voice from upstairs snapped him back into reality: “Honey, are you ok down there?”

THREE

Kim Owens sat up in bed with a blanket pulled up to her chin, listening intently to the commotion coming from downstairs. Moments ago, Tom had gone down to investigate a noise, and it sounded as if he had possibly tripped over some of the remodeling debris in the kitchen. He was not the most graceful fellow. 

“Honey?” she called out. “Are you ok down there?”

Tom did not reply.

There were a lot of paint cans and other materials lying around in the kitchen, a literal mine field of hazards. Neither Tom nor Kim had had any experience with remodeling, but they had watched enough Saturday morning HGTV together to motivate them to do a test project. Of course, once they tore into it, they both realized it was a bad idea. 

What is he doing down there?

Kim held the blanket tighter, as if it would somehow protect her like armor. Moments like this terrified her. A few minutes ago, they were sound asleep in each other’s arms, then a loud crash in the kitchen had shocked them both awake. The noise was probably nothing to fret about, as they had heard similar noises since the start of their kitchen project—Tom had a real problem with stacking things in haphazard ways, and gravity eventually let him know it. The same thing had happened a few nights ago with a paint roller dangling at the edge of a roller tray, balanced on the top rung of a ladder. That crash at 4:00 AM nearly gave her a heart attack. 

“Tom!” Kim called out. She listened intently for a reply, but received nothing. 

She was afraid to get out of bed without getting the all clear from her husband until a terrifying thought occurred to her: what if he’s knocked himself out? That wasn’t too far out of the realm of possibility. He’d done it before, most recently when he was cutting the grass under the swimming pool deck and smacked his head right off of the corner post. He was out cold when she found him. The ER doctor said he should consider wearing a helmet when doing yard work. Tom didn’t find the comment very amusing.  

She cocked her head to the side, listening intently as she thought she heard a subtle noise on the steps. It was the fourth step from the bottom; even the slightest amount of pressure would cause that thing to creak. 

“Honey?” she called out. 

Silence. 

Another fearful thought entered her head (Kim had a habit of always thinking the worst, and her anxiety medication did little to ease her mind): what if Tom had cracked his head in the kitchen and was trying to climb the steps in a concussion induced fog? She had to help him. If he made it halfway up the stairwell, then blacked out, he could end up with a broken neck. 

“Honey, stay right there. I’m coming to help you.”

Kim pulled off the covers and stepped out of bed—her fears quelled by the desire to aid her husband. She intently walked across the room toward the open bedroom doorway, but halted in shock at the sight that appeared in front of her. She gasped a deep inhale, and her breath involuntarily held.

Standing in the doorway was a deranged man with long, stringy hair, his body painted in blood. The red ichor covered his arms and face and even his hair. There were also bloody chunks of material dangling from his face and beard. He smiled a fiendish grin and his eyes sparkled with unusual joy.

Soundless air escaped Kim’s chest as she tried to scream but made no noise. 

The man studied his prey for no longer than a second or two before he lunged. He cracked Kim right across the forehead with a blunt, heavy object, and she went down to the carpeted floor like a rock, dazed, but not out. She felt herself being rolled over onto her back and the man straddling on top of her. Through double vision, she saw that his sinister grin had widened and turned into a rage-filled laugh. He held an object above his head, and although coated in blood and nowhere near its original color, Kim recognized it: her grandmother’s antique marble rolling pin. She strangely remembered a time when she was a child and her grandmother had taught her to roll out pie dough with this very tool. It was a happy memory, one which she reflected on every time she used the rolling pin. She allowed the memory to take over and carry her to a place far removed from the bedroom floor and the psychopath who had just destroyed the lives of a happy couple, living a normal life in the Cleveland suburbs. The smell of pie dough and cinnamon apple filling came to her, and she could feel the warmth of her grandmother’s love as she handed down a family tradition. 

The world went black.

FOUR

Gary hadn’t blacked out during the attack on the poor, unsuspecting woman, but he felt something unusual while wrecking her. It was primal, instinctive. He’d heard some call it, “Being in the zone.” Heightened senses, abnormal strength, intense focus… With every strike of the rolling pin into the woman’s head and face, Gary grew as a being of power, full of rage and force, like a controlled nuclear explosion. He ruled over this worthless being, the way it should be. Gary Elmer, the fiercest apex predator on the face of the earth. 

He marveled at his work. Another masterpiece lay before him—art for the superior eye. He was so proud. The artist is god, ruler, owner, and creator. He now made the world in the way he wanted to see it. His work had just begun and soon he would he be revered as the dominant force he always knew he was. Jenna understood his power and learned the cost of denying it. Fat Ken the Ditch Head learned this lesson as well. But neither of them had ended up as art. The man in the kitchen and the woman currently lying at his feet, now they were art, immortalized forever like the Statue of David or the Monalisa. No painting or statue gracing the halls of the Louvre could compare to the art Gary had created. This will never be forgotten!

“I have to say, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo spoke up. “I’m quite impressed with you at the moment. Quite impressed indeed.”

Gary ignored the voice, still endearingly focused on the mangled face of the body that lay before him. An electric jolt from within shocked him back into reality, drove him to the ground—on top of the dead woman—and held him there.

“While I am impressed with your passion right now,” Zlo said. “I will not be ignored! You are blessed to have me as a traveling companion! You will respect that! Do you understand?”

The shock became more intense, causing Gary’s body to shake. He felt like he was being electrocuted. Finally, he managed to speak with a raspy, shaking voice: “I understand!”

“No matter how much power you gain over these insignificant worms who inhabit the surface of this putrid earth, you will never be more than a sniveling leech. Do you understand?”

The pain coursing throughout his body brought him to the verge of unconsciousness, but he was still able to let out a weak whisper: “I understand!”

The shock disappeared. Gary lay exhausted on top of the woman with the bludgeoned face, looking like the two had just made love. While the shock had gone, the pain had not. Every muscle fiber reminded him that Zlo was his superior and always would be. Yes, Gary could have authority and reign over other human beings, but he would never be as powerful as Zlo. And that was fine. As long as he could continue to dominate his own species and continue to create his art, his life would have purpose. 

After a few moments of laying on top of the woman’s corpse, Gary found the strength to roll off of her. He lay on his back, looking up at the slowly spinning ceiling fan, still reeling from the shock. 

Sunlight streamed in through the half open curtains to the left of the bed and placed a beam of light across his face. The world outside was waking up. Soon cars would pull out of driveways all up and down the street as people went off to their day jobs. Kids would mill around at school bus stops, waiting for the big yellow tube to whisk them away to class. Lawns would be mowed, flowers watered, sidewalks swept, and birds would sing from the treetops. God, how he hated the daylight. 

It took about twenty minutes for Gary to recover from the punishment Zlo had awarded him. Eventually, he pulled himself up and gained the confidence to stand. He felt almost as bad as when that group of bikers whipped his ass and left him for dead in a dumpster—almost.

He had to get the show on the road. This chick’s husband, Tom—or whatever his name was—looked to be about Gary’s size, so he was in luck for clothes. Although Tom was probably the type of guy who only wore khaki pants and golf shirts, not really a look that suited Gary. He imagined himself on the golf course, preparing to T-off with a bunch of other golfer types. The thought made him laugh (a fish out of water, gasping for its final breaths). 

The master bathroom in this joint was impressive, with lots of space and modern fixtures. He had planned on only washing up quickly to get the blood and gore off of him, but the multiple massaging jets of the walk-in shower put him in a state of indulgence he couldn’t resist. 

As Gary washed, he couldn’t help but notice certain physical changes to his body. He looked tight, toned, muscular, and healthy (healthy feeling as well). It felt like his body was firing on all cylinders, like one of those fitness nuts he saw on late night infomercials. He wasn’t overly buff like a bodybuilder, but he had a new, impressive definition—svelte. He had no complaints about his new shape, but he was curious. “What did you do to my body?” Gary asked, hoping Zlo would reply.

“You’re noticing a change in your physiology, aren’t you?” Zlo said. 

“Yeah, man, what’s up with this?” Gary said while rubbing his hands over his abs, chest, and arms. 

“The structure of your cells has always been this way, Mr. Elmer. It’s how you were created. But very few of you parasites ever allow your bodies to function at their fullest potential. You riddle your cells with toxins and poisons you ingest throughout life, and your lazy day-to-day routines erode you into the refuse piles you unknowingly aspire to become. However, for our grand adventure, I need you to operate at your peak potential. You will engage in physical activities that will call upon all areas of your physiology. So let’s just say I’ve cleaned you up a bit from the inside, opened up your cells to function at their peak.” Zlo said.

Gary thought for a moment, digesting the idea that something had happened inside his body, which seemed unbelievable. But this whole fucking thing was unbelievable! There was a being living inside of him that spoke up whenever it wished and had the power to build him up or bring him to his knees, yet it still allowed him control. Clearly, Zlo could take over anytime it wished, but for whatever reason, it liked to watch Gary make his own decisions.

“Yes, Mr. Elmer, that is the point,” Zlo said. “I enjoy watching you choose depravity. Seeing you ruin your life and the lives of so many others is the only enjoyment I have in this wretched place.”

And it could read his mind.

FIVE

A blank field of white with a domed light fixture in the center. Endless white, boring and uninteresting. Who decided all ceilings needed to be painted white? Probably some interior decorator throughout the ages who felt white opened up a room or reflected more light or something along those lines. Whatever the case, Agent Henry Ward lay in his bed in his quiet apartment, staring up at a pure white ceiling, unable to get more than an hour of sleep the entire night, and loathing the color white.

He’d never had issues with sleep in the past—even though being an investigator usually meant an over active mind in a constant state of problem solving. For Ward, shutting down the day’s work dilemmas was an effortless task once his eyelids closed. But now a problem had arisen he could not wrap his head around, a problem that affected him more than the usual conundrum. That voice.

During the few times he had lightly dozed off during the night, he had convinced himself the voice on the recording was merely someone screwing with him. And as soon as he had believed that theory, his mind had agreed, allowing him to sleep… but not for long. Just as the warm darkness had surrounded him, the voice pierced his mind like an arrow, reminding him it was still there, waiting patiently for him to devote all of his mental energy to it. 

4:30 AM. His alarm would go off at six, but there was no way he was going to catch a last hour of sleep before the thing blasted off. He thought about trying for at least a few more minutes, but gave up on the idea and got up to take a leak instead. After the last drop hit the bowl, he went over to the mirror and leaned in close to study his face. He laughed at his disheveled hair and half-open eyes. Screw it, he thought, then turned on the shower. This wouldn’t be the first time he went into the office early.

The FBI personality test they required Ward to take before his acceptance into the Bureau labeled him as a classic Type A. Competitiveness, time urgency, and a tendency toward workaholism were all key points the test had identified, so it rarely surprised his superiors and fellow agents to see him at the office before everyone else. A few agents thought of him as an over achiever (kiss ass), but most understood and accepted his behavior as just how he was.

After the coffee and breakfast routine was complete and he had dressed in his usual dark suit and black shoes, Ward climbed into his sedan and headed for the office. He reached for the radio knob, but the most unusual—and ridiculous—feeling hit him. What if the voice was there, coming through the car speakers? The idea was ludicrous, of course. He reached for the knob again, but once more hesitated as his finger lightly touched its surface. No matter how hard he tried to shake off the feeling, he just couldn’t bring himself to turn it on. He drove, cursing himself for being afraid, looking at the radio button at least a dozen more times before pulling into the Bureau parking garage on Carson Street, and for several moments after he parked. Get it together, asshole! he scolded himself.

It was shaping up to be a real shit day so far. As if the insomnia wasn’t bad enough, now his imagination had pushed reality and logic out of his head and replaced it with good old-fashioned superstition and fear. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe this state of mind had something to do with what had happened back in November with Hanson Parker, the bastard who had killed his niece. He had hunted Parker for so many years before the guy just turned up one night in an old potting shed clear out in Cumberland Springs. Ward had devoted his life to finding Parker, even with superiors threatening his job if he didn’t stop. Then suddenly it was just over. Case closed. He had refused to allow himself to think about the unexplainable phenomena that had happened while he was in Cumberland Springs—none of it made sense, and he didn’t have the desire to figure it out. After all, he had found the man who had killed his niece and countless other children. There wasn’t room in his head to analyze anything else. 

Dustin, the security officer at the main entrance, welcomed Ward inside after scanning his ID. “Hitting it early again today, Agent?” Dustin said. 

Ward gave an obligatory half smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Hope they recognize all this extra effort you put in,” Dustin said. “You’re here before the rooster crows just about every day.”

Ward smiled again, but didn’t reply to the man’s statement. “Have a good day, Dustin.”

“You do the same, Agent.”

Ward didn’t waste time checking emails at his desk or stopping by the kitchen to grab a second cup of coffee. He headed straight to the audio room. He was going to put this nonsense to rest once and for all. Whatever he had heard—or thought he had heard—yesterday had to be some sort of glitch. Though he had changed his opinion several times throughout his sleepless night, right now he was leaning toward what he felt was the most logical: radio interference. There were thousands of frequencies and transmissions floating through the air at any given second of the day. The possibility of some of them getting crossed or picked up by receivers they weren’t intended for was the highest probability. He planned on listening to the recording a few more times, then have Walt the tech guy check it out as well. Walt knew everything there was to know about sound, and he wasn’t afraid to talk your ear off for an hour about it, either. He’d know what it was.

After reluctantly putting the headphones over his ears and opening the file on the workstation computer, Agent Ward stared at the play button. The same feeling of apprehension that had come over him earlier, which had caused him not to turn on his car radio, had surfaced once again. And it pissed him off once again. How stupid for a grown man, someone with his training and knowledge, to be afraid of something that was nothing more than a glitch. He flooded himself with thoughts of self loathing and embarrassment. Embarrassment because this sort of fear and apprehension was for other people, those who were weak and superstitious and afraid of their own shadows. Henry Ward wasn’t afraid of anything, now or ever. Everything in life had an explanation grounded in fact and reality, and you could counter the genuine threats with superior training and a firearm. So there was nothing on this earth to be afraid of. Yet here he sat, with his trembling index finger hovering over a button, and all the fears which he’d deemed so irrational in the past now laughing hysterically at him.   

“Fuck this!” he said and hit the space bar, hard enough to push the keyboard a few inches forward. In his ears, the voices of two wannabe mafia morons began—the same bullshit conversation he’d had to endure for hours yesterday before the voice broke in and threw a wrench in his mental gears. He listened intently. They spoke of Italian food and low grade strippers at Vixen’s Gentleman’s Club. The conversation made Ward roll his eyes, but he wasn’t listening for his work assignment today. He was waiting for the glitch, the hateful voice that identified him by name, then broke into hysterical, despicable laughter. He watched the graphic on the computer screen as it built a histogram of pitch and frequency, creating a visual representation of the conversation. 

“Your time is short, Henry Ward,” the sinister voice broke in. “Soon you will be a whore, trapped in the pit, servicing the desires of the master and his minions for the rest of eternity.” Laughter erupted, screeching and screaming. 

Henry pulled the headphones off of his ears and threw them onto the desk, looking at them repulsively as his heart pounded in his chest. He could still hear the distant laughter in the headphone speakers. He put his hand to his mouth and stared at the screen while the sound file continued to play, adding to the histogram. 

It took a few moments of contemplation, but Ward gathered up the strength to push through. He grabbed the headphones and put them back on. This thing would not get to him. 

He listened. Micarelli and the other idiot were still talking about strippers. The recording had gone several minutes past where it had yesterday before he had stopped it. Uncharted territory. 

“Henry Ward,” the voice crackled, laughing as it spoke. “Watching you squirm and writhe in agony will be almost as enjoyable as watching your niece suffer… almost!” The laughter erupted again, louder than before and more hysterical. “She suffers now as she will for eternity, on the floor of the pit.”

“Fuck you!” Ward yelled as he threw the headphones at the computer screen. He pushed his chair away from the desk and stood looking down at the audio gear. He could still hear the voice laughing in the small speakers. 

“Whoa, big guy,” someone said from behind.

Ward turned quickly, his heart pounding. Walt, the sound tech, stood at the entrance to the audio room. 

“I know computers can be frustrating,” Walt said. “But take a breath.”

Ward took a breath, then several more afterward, which seemed to relax his nerves somewhat. “I’m glad you’re here, Walt,” he said. “I need you to take a listen to something.”

A smile formed on Walt’s face. When an agent asked for his opinion, he felt like part of the team and not just a tech guy. “Sure thing, agent. What am I listening for?”

Ward backed up the recording to the spot where he had first heard the voice, while Walt sat at the workstation and situated the headphones over his ears. Ward pressed PLAY and eagerly watched the tech guy’s face. There would have to be some kind of reaction when he heard it.

Five minutes passed by, then six, then seven. Walt’s face, intense and focused, did not change from the moment the recording started. Finally, he took off the headphones, set them on the desk, and leaned back in the chair. “What am I supposed to be listening for?” he asked. “All I hear is two guys talking about strippers.”

“What do you mean that’s all you hear?” Ward scolded. 

Walt looked annoyed. “Yeah, that’s it, just two guys talking with contrived Italian accents.”

Agent Ward grabbed the headphones and put them on. He started the recording from the spot he had marked. Sure as shit, that voice was there, saying its vile, hateful things, laughing hysterically. He took the headphones off. “You don’t hear that crazy voice over the top of the other two?”

On the side of the computer was a hub where the headphones plugged into, along with several other open plugs. Walt unplugged the headphones and grabbed another cable from the back of the computer. He plugged it into an open slot labeled MAIN. “Back it up to where you think I should hear this voice, please,” Walt said.

Ward set the spot and pressed PLAY. The voices of James Micarelli and his underling came alive and filled the room through the overhead speakers. Ward listened with his hand in the air, ready to point at the speakers when the voice came across, as if Walt would need a special cue to listen when the moment happened. But there was nothing. They listened (at times, Ward held his breath) but for ten solid minutes, the only voices coming through the speakers were the two mafia idiots. 

Ward sat down in one of the other chairs, tilted his head back and look at the ceiling. Walt stopped the recording. 

“Is there some way another file got layered over top of the main file?” Ward asked. “Like something I may have accidentally muted when I put it on for you?”

“Sorry, Agent,” Walt said. “This is a one track file, see…” He opened the file in a mixer plugin and showed ward on the screen. “There are no hidden tracks.”

“Fuck!” Ward said. 

Walt took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell you what, Agent. I’ll take the file back to my station and run some analysis on it. If there is a hidden track in there somewhere, I’ll definitely find it. I can let you know for sure before lunch. Does that work for you?”

Ward didn’t take his eyes off of the ceiling. “Sure. Fine.”

SIX

Glen sat back in his office chair with his feet up on the desk. The afternoon shift was about to change and the two officers scheduled to come in for the 4:00-12:00 shift (Danny Walker and Larry Gilmore) would punch in shortly, as would Mara Williams, the dispatcher. Mara needed something to do after her husband of thirty years had died a while back, and even though she wasn’t a police officer, Glen knew she’d make a great dispatcher if trained properly, and he was right. She picked up the duties quickly, and everyone loved having her around. She added a warm, motherly presence to the office, especially when she brought in some of her fresh baked pastries. Lindsay was the main dispatcher (and an actual rookie police officer), but she was dying to get out into the field. Glen took her on patrol with him a few times per week, getting her ready to go out on her own. She was just about there. 

There were seven Cumberland Springs police officers, including Lindsay and the chief. Glen liked to have two officers patrolling the daylight shift, two patrolling the 4:00-12:00, and one on midnight. Each shift also had a dispatcher. Though Lindsay and Mara worked the desk the most, everyone had to dispatch at some point, even Glen. And Glen didn’t push the late shifts or dispatch duties off to the others just because he was the chief. He felt he was just as much a part of the team as the rest of them. Whether he meant for it to happen, they respected him even more for spending the same time in the trenches as the rest of them.

“Lindsay?” Glen called out through his open door. He could have used the intercom on his desk phone, but her station was within earshot of his office.  

She got up and came to his doorway. “What’s up, Chief?”

“Put out a call that I want to see everyone during shift change, would you please?”

“Sure thing, boss,” she said. “Anything else?”

“Nope. That’s it.”

Glen continued leaning back in his leather swiveling office chair (a luxury he had purchased himself two years ago with his own money) with his feet on the desk. The town Mayor, Richard Wynn, had humorously remarked once that even his chair wasn’t as nice as Glen’s.

The phone intercom beeped and Lindsay chimed in. He could hear her through the speaker and outside his door. “Chief? Your wife is on line one.”

“Thanks Lindsay,” he said as he picked up the phone. “Glen Crawford, Chief of Police speaking. How may I help you?”

“Do you answer the phone like that every time you pick it up?” Vicki said on the other end of the line.

“Why, does it turn you on?” Glen said. 

“Yes,” Vickie said. “Every time.”

“Nice!” Glen said and laughed. “Are you in need of some manly assistance, ma’am?”

“I might, later, Chief. But for now, I just need to know if you had planned on grilling again tonight? The kids are screaming for pizza. I told them it was up to you.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Glen said. “If they want pizza, I’m ok with that.”

“Ok, babe. Can you grab a couple on your way home? You know what they like.”

“I’d rather grab you,” Glen said, and snickered.

“Gross!” Lindsay said from her desk. “I can hear you out here.”

Glen looked up at his open door, smiled, and shook his head.

“If you can get those kids of ours into bed at a decent hour, I’ll let you grab anything you want,” Vickie said. 

“Deal,” Glen said. “I’ll be home soon. Love you!”

“I love you, Chief!”

Glen waited until his wife hung up on her end before replacing the phone back in its cradle. He looked at the clock on the wall, counting down the time until everyone should be in the office at the same moment. He was excited to get home. It was going to be another one of those special evenings where the kids would still be rowdy and excited about life and still wanted their parents around. They’d have pizza and watch a movie or play video games. He’d wrestle with the kids on the floor of the family room, then after tucking them away in bed, he’d wrestle with his adorable wife in the bedroom. The picture perfect evening awaited him and he prayed for as many more of these as God would allow. 

At just before 4:00 PM, Glen heard the other officers and Mara hanging around in the main lobby. It sounded like they were all there.

“Everybody here?” Glen said as he came out of his office. Danny Walker and Larry Gilmore were standing together by the coffeepot, getting juiced up for the start of their shift, Mark Brooks and Jennifer Tillman had just finished the daylight shift and were ready to head home, and Mara was looking over the dispatcher notes Lindsay had made from the day. 

“All present, Chief,” Lindsay said. “Except for Tom and Jeff, they come in at midnight.”

“That’s fine,” Glen said. “Mara, can you fill them in when they get here tonight?”

“Absolutely, Glen,” Mara said.

“I’ll make this quick so you all can get home or get to work,” Glen said. “Vickie and I are having a birthday party for our son Brandon at the house this Sunday at 2:00 PM, and we would love for all of you to come. I’m going to grill a bunch of meat, and Vickie is making some other more intricate dishes. There’ll be games for the kids, so please bring your families. And if you can’t make it, don’t feel obligated. Just because I’m the chief doesn’t mean you have to drop everything when I invite you to something. But we would really love to have you all come.”

“Are you gonna make some of that special coffee of yours, Chief?” Danny said. 

Glen laughed. “I think I can make a few cups for anyone who wants some.”

Everyone enthusiastically raised their hands. 

“What does Brandon want for a gift, Glen?” Lindsay asked. 

“Oh, you don’t have to bring a gift. He’s spoiled enough as it is; his grandparents made sure of that.” Glen put his hand on Larry’s shoulder. “I’m looking forward to relaxing with you all over some barbecue and a couple of beers. Except for you, Larry, you’re on duty that day. You can come over, just no beer.”

“Not a problem, Chief,” Larry said. 

“Great!” Glen said. “I’ll tell Vickie to expect a nice crowd. And I’ll get my espresso machine ready to churn out some special concoctions.” 

The group disbanded, and either went to work or home for the day. Glen watched them all go about their business with a smile on his face. He loved his work family, every one of them. He considered them all another one of his life’s blessings.

SEVEN

Clay had made shrimp and steak pasta with a light garlic butter sauce for dinner. He enjoyed cooking very much, and a few of his signature dishes were actually quite good, shrimp and steak pasta being one of them. Some of his recipes still needed work, but his effort was the important part. He wanted to share all the duties of the house with Lauren, 50/50. It was the quality she adored most about him, and was pleasantly surprised to discover after they were married. She had figured that since her mother and grandmother were the ones who did most of the cooking and cleaning in their houses, Lauren would end up with the same responsibilities, but Clay didn’t want their life to be like that. After she had shared this fact about Clay with all of her girlfriends, each one had agreed (jealously) that Lauren had found a unicorn. 

She cleaned the table and loaded the dishwasher, then the two settled onto the couch, each with another glass of Pinot Noir.

Clay’s eyes fixed on Lauren’s, as if he was waiting for her to say something. She looked away a few times, but his stare never wavered. 

“What?” Lauren finally said. 

Clay smiled. “I think you know what, babe.”

Lauren blushed. “Well yeah, after making me a dinner like that, you’re definitely getting laid.”

Clay tilted his head back and laughed at the ceiling. “That’s good to know,” he said. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Ok then, what is it?”

“The nightmares, remember? You were going to call Reverend Allen…”

She continued staring for a moment, then let out a deep sigh.

Clay shook his head. “I’m not giving up on this. You promised to speak with someone, and the person you chose was Reverend Allen. Now it’s time to make the call.” 

She thought for a moment. If she wanted, she could probably sweet talk Clay into letting her put it off a while longer. But she soon realized it wouldn’t matter; he’d just make her do it another time. When he had something in his head, he would not stop until it was finished. She also saw the sincerity in his face. Her husband loved her and wanted to help in any way possible. She knew she needed to work out this problem, not just for her, but for Clay as well, and it wasn’t fair to keep putting him through this night after night. “Ok,” she said. “I’ll call him right now.”

A look of relief came over Clay’s face as his wife grabbed her phone off the coffee table and looked up the number. The problem was by no means solved, but the process had begun. They were moving forward.

“He’s probably getting ready for bed by now,” Lauren said as she put the phone to her ear.

“Hello, Reverend Paul Allen speaking,” the voice on the line said. 

“Reverend!” Lauren said, surprised he answered. “Hello, this is Lauren Rivers. I hope I’m not disturbing you this late.”

“Lauren, not at all. It’s good to hear from you,” the reverend said. “How are you this evening?”

“I’m ok, I guess.”

There was a brief pause on the line. “You don’t sound very sure of that statement. Is something wrong?”

“Well, I was wondering if Clay and I could come over and meet with you in your office sometime?”

The reverend didn’t hesitate. “Certainly, Lauren. You’re welcome anytime. May I ask what this is regarding? Is everything alright with you and Clay?”

Lauren looked at Clay, who was holding her free hand and rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. “Actually, everything is perfect with us. I—well, we—feel we should speak with you about a problem I’ve been dealing with lately. I’m having horrible nightmares almost every night.”

The line went silent.

“Reverend? Hello?”

He didn’t answer, but she could hear him breathing on the other end.

“Reverend Allen? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” he finally said.

“Oh, okay. Well, can we come by your office sometime for a talk?”

“Lauren,” Reverend Allen said, his voice sounding stern and focused. “You were on duty in the ICU on the night I was attacked, weren’t you?”

“I came in later for the midnight shift. I wasn’t there when the actual attack happened.”

“Yes, but you are aware of what happened, correct?” the reverend asked. 

“Yes,” she said. Her voice trembled, as well as her hands. “I was there.”

“And as an ICU nurse, you had interactions with a patient they had labeled as John Doe?”

Now it was Lauren who had gone silent. 

“Lauren?”

“Yes, Reverend, I’m here.”

“John Doe? You interacted with that patient, correct?”

Lauren’s heart pounded. Clay immediately noticed the change in his wife and became concerned. She gripped his hand and squeezed it tightly. 

“Yes, sir,” Lauren said. “I attended to him.”

The reverend let out a deep sigh. “Lauren, can you and your husband come over to my house right now? I’d like to see you in my study immediately.”

She looked at Clay and spoke with no confidence in her voice. “I suppose that’s possible, Reverend. Let me check with Clay.”

Lauren put the phone on mute and looked at Clay, her face a confused bundle of nerves.

“What’s up?” Clay said.

“He wants us to come over right now.”

“Ok, great. Let’s do it, get it over with,” Clay said.

“I don’t know, Clay,” Lauren said. “Something seems weird.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah, weird. He’s asking about the John Doe patient from six months ago, and he seems really serious about it. I’m uncomfortable.”

Clay kissed her hand. “Honey, I’ll be right there with you. There’s nothing to be worried about. We need to sort this out, and he’s offering to get us started right now, tonight. Let’s take the opportunity.”

“Are you sure?” Lauren asked, still nervous and trembling.

“Hell yeah, babe! Let’s go tonight. Maybe you’ll start sleeping better right away.”

Lauren unmuted the phone and held it to her ear. “Ok, Reverend, we’ll be over in about thirty minutes.”

“Sounds good, Lauren. I’ll see you soon.”

She put her phone on the coffee table and stared at it. Her mind now a scattered mess of random thoughts.

EIGHT

“Your father is picking up pizza for dinner on his way home from work,” Vickie Crawford said to her children, who were sitting at the kitchen island. Brandon was working on English homework, and Sarah was scribbling with Crayons in a Disney coloring book. “Are you almost finished with your homework, Brandon?”

“Yeah, mom,” he said. “I just finished.”

“Do you need me to check it over?” Vickie asked. 

“Nope, I have it all done correctly. I’m positive.”

“Ok,” Vickie said. She and Glen hardly worried about Brandon’s school work; he had carried an A average since the first grade with very little help from anyone. “What are you reading now?”

Brandon looked up at his mother. “Funny you should ask, ma. I wanted to talk with you about this.”

As Vickie approached the island, she saw an image that quickly made her uneasy. It was that damn crossbow he’d been hinting about for the past month. Why does a teenage boy need something like that? “Brandon Crawford, you know how I feel about that thing. I told you to come up with something else you want for your birthday, something that isn’t a crossbow or a gun or a slingshot or anything else that can get you into trouble.”

“But mom, you and dad always say we should discuss things,” Brandon said. “I want to discuss this.” He held up the picture in front of his face. The name above the picture said: Killer Instinct, Lethal 405.

“I’ve already told you, no, young man. I don’t like it, and I don’t think you need it.”

“Haha,” Sarah said and laughed in a sarcastic, mocking voice. “Mom said you can’t have it.”

“Shut up, egg head!” Brandon said, terribly annoyed.

“Brandon! Don’t call you sister names,” Vickie said. 

“Yeah, Brandon, don’t call your sister names,” Sarah mocked.

“Sarah,” Vickie said, and gave her daughter a stern look. Sarah understood the look and went back to her coloring. 

“Mom,” Brandon continued. “Dad takes me out shooting all the time, and hunting, too. I’m very responsible. Honest!”

“I know you are, honey. Daddy tells how proud he is that you’re so responsible.”

“So why do you have a problem with this?” Brandon asked. 

Vickie didn’t know what to say. Glen had spent lots of time with the boy, teaching him how to shoot and hunt for as far back as she could remember. And he always talked about how level-headed Brandon was and how proud it made him. But the sight of this thing made her skin crawl. It looked extremely dangerous. Not that guns didn’t have a similar look, but this just had a vibe to it, a bad vibe. There were working parts, a gunstock, an arrow with a razor sharp tip. The picture actually gave her a shiver. 

She walked over to the kitchen sink and began wiping it down with a disinfectant cloth. Brandon could tell the conversation was over for now. When mom walked away without speaking, it meant to drop the subject. But there was still time to plead his case. Dad would understand why a fifteen-year-old boy needed a crossbow. Dad knew these things.

NINE

The house on Brown Street, down the block from the First Baptist Church of Cumberland Springs, was old and full of character. Three stories, a slate roof with windowed dormers poking out of the top, a long wrap around front porch with a swing and seating area, four giant oak trees anchoring each corner of the yard, an old iron fence surrounding the property, and plenty of rose bushes and other foliage planted throughout the yard. It was a beautiful brick three story craftsman, built way back at the turn of the nineteenth century. Most of the houses in this section of Cumberland Springs were built around the same time by a local architect/builder named Silas Prichard (they’re now known as Prichard Houses now). The details in these houses—twelve total in town—are renown throughout the region, and several of the current owners even open their doors occasionally for architecture students from the university to come down and study. Contractors often marvel when called to do work on one of these places that even well after a hundred years they are still fully level and plum—not like houses built today.

Back in 1955, when the Baptists built a new church in Cumberland Springs, they bought the big yellow brick Prichard house just down the street from the church. It was the perfect place to house their preacher and family. Eight reverends have lived here since then, Reverend Paul Allen being the current one. The Baptists in this area seem to like Reverend Allen and hope he is around for many years to come. 

As Lauren and Clay stood by the old metal pole lamp next to the iron gate, they both marveled at how quaint and inviting the house was. Ever since they had started remodeling the giant Victorian on Parkins Avenue, they seemed to stop and take notice of the features of every other house they went into. They looked at each other and smiled, both anticipating what the inside would look like. 

“Welcome to my home,” Reverend Allen said. He stood up from a padded wicker chair on the front porch and greeted them. “Come on in.”

The couple opened the gate, which surprisingly did not creak, and headed up the flagstone sidewalk to the porch steps. Reverend Allen gave them both a gentle hug, then opened the front door and invited them inside. 

“My study is right here,” he said and ushered them to the large open room to the left of the foyer. “Can I get you all a beverage?”

“Water is fine, Reverend,” Lauren said. Clay agreed.

“Please, make yourselves at home,” the reverend said as he headed into the kitchen.

His study was a sizable room with a high, twelve foot parquet ceiling. A beautiful flattop wooden desk, bookshelves on each wall full of old books and small knickknacks, and a seating area with a leather couch, coffee table, and two leather chairs furnished the room. An oversized, stone carved fireplace made it feel like an ancient library from a black and white movie. The place was tidy, organized, and well kept. Lauren and Clay stood in the center and looked around in separate directions, both smiling as they enjoyed the decor. 

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” the reverend said as he entered the room. He carried a wooden serving tray under a pitcher of ice water, three glasses, and a small candy dish full of chocolates. He gently placed the tray on the coffee table at the seating area, then sat in one of the leather chairs and poured three glasses of water. 

Lauren and Clay sat together on the couch. “I love this room,” Clay said. “Actually, I love this house. It’s magnificent!”

Reverend Allen smiled. “Yes, this is a wonderful house. I do my best to be a good steward of the place. It’s full of rich character. My wife, Mary Ann, before she passed, adored this house. When I became the pastor of First Baptist and they showed us where we’d be living, she was beside herself with joy. I was too, just knowing how happy it made her.” He paused for a moment, staring at the water pitcher. His mind seemed to wander off to another time and place. 

“We’re restoring the old Victorian house on Parkins Avenue,” Clay said.

The reverend blinked a few times, then came back to the moment. “Huh? Oh, yes, the Parkins House. I’m quite familiar with that old place, as I’ve been researching the history of this area. Your house belonged to the Parkins family. Mr. Parkins was a banker who built the house for his beloved wife. He died young of a sudden illness, so she turned the place into a boarding house which she ran until her death at age eighty-seven. Mrs. Parkins appears quite often throughout the history of Cumberland Springs. She was a highly regarded woman in her day. You’re doing a wonderful service to the community by keeping her house alive.”

“That’s fascinating,” Lauren said. “I didn’t know. I mean, I knew the house was old and probably historic, but this is the first I’m hearing about Mrs. Parkins. I would love to know more.”

“Oh, absolutely, Lauren,” the reverend said with excitement. “I’d love to share my research with you sometime. I’m somewhat of a history buff, and I can go on for hours and hours. But you all are here for a different reason tonight, so the history of Mrs. Parkins will have to wait for another time.”

Lauren looked down at her lap as she remembered their reason for visiting. 

Reverend Allen saw the change in her. “You’ve been having nightmares?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head in agreement. 

Clay spoke up: “She’s been having them for about six months.”

“Six months is a long time to suffer through such torment,” Reverend Allen said. “Have you tried anything to make the nightmares stop? Sleeping pills, perhaps? Meditation?”

“I tried a sleeping pill once; it only made things worse.”

“I had to take her to the hospital that night,” Clay said.

Reverend Allen shook his head in empathy. “I’m so sorry you’re having to suffer this, Lauren. I truly am.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Let’s go back to when this all began. When was your first nightmare?”

Lauren didn’t have to think about it long—it was a night she would never forget. “The first time it happened was exactly one week after Thanksgiving. It was horrible! I can’t even describe it without making myself sick.”

“Oh my,” Reverend Allen said. “You don’t need to elaborate, Lauren. I can tell by your demeanor as you're talking tonight just how terrible these things are.”

“One thing I can tell you is they’re not dreams about falling off of a building or dreams about losing a loved one or anything from everyday life. They’re… I don’t know… I guess I can only say that they’re… evil, disgusting and hateful. That’s how I would describe them.”

“She wakes up screaming almost every night, Reverend,” Clay said.

“I see,” Reverend Allen said. “Well, I can tell you for certain that prayer works. Of course, I’m a man of God, so that’s always going to be my first line of defense. But it really works. If you both pray together at night, ask God for protection during your sleep, you’ll see immediate results.”

Lauren and Clay both had a feeling going into this meeting that his solution to the problem would be prayer. Not that he’d be dismissing them with it—go say a few prayers and you’ll be right as rain in the morning—but they knew prayer would be his prescription.

“But that’s not all,” the reverend continued. “We need to look at what triggered these awful dreams. And believe it or not, I think I know what it is.”

TEN

The bar, which had gone through countless owners and name changes over the years, was on the first floor street side of an old building on East Carson Street, just two blocks from the FBI field office, walking distance for agents who wanted a drink after work and didn’t feel like moving their car out of the bureau parking garage. Though the bar had changed ownership many times, not much had changed on the inside since the 1920s, maybe even before that. It had a feeling of nostalgia from a Pittsburgh of the past, the years when the steel industry was booming in full-force, and the city was rich with culture and wealth. The current owner, a native daughter of the South Side, understood this nostalgia very well, as she can track her genealogy back six generations in this region. “I’m the first one in my family that didn’t chuck steel or dig coal,” she proudly boasts to anyone who strikes up a conversation with her.  

Agent Ward sat on a barstool, looking across at his reflection in the giant mirror behind the bar. Drink glasses and bottles of spirits were arranged in front of the mirror, but he could still see himself clearly over the top of them. He looked tired and confused, a look he wasn’t accustomed to seeing in himself. His face also carried worry and a touch of doubt. Worry that he was losing control of his mental facilities, and doubt that he wasn’t the strong minded FBI Agent he had always thought he was. It wasn’t unusual for Ward to be so hard on himself; he had always pushed to be the best, to go further than he—or anyone else—thought possible. But today was the first time he had really questioned his faculties. His confidence had wavered slightly last November in Cumberland Springs, but he had snapped out of it quickly and had got right back on track. Leaving his office today, however, Agent Henry Ward wasn’t so sure of himself, or of anything else.

He was certain Walt, the tech guy, would have found something on that recording. But Walt didn’t. Nothing. Just two assholes talking about strippers. By the end of the day, Ward had taken the recording around to seven different agents. No one heard a damn thing. Apparently, the voice only presents itself to Agent Ward, which is not fucking possible! Walt had even run diagnostics on the actual file, but had still come up empty-handed.

“What can I get you?” the bartender said with a cute smile that matched her bubbly voice. She was probably a college student at Pitt or Duquesne or another of the local institutions of higher learning. The girl barely looked drinking age. 

“Just a whiskey on ice,” Ward said. “Jack is fine.”

He didn’t waste time after the girl brought the drink over to him, letting the first sip do the job it was designed for. The world around him and all of its problems had miraculously vanished with that wonderful, flavorful burning sensation tickling his tongue. Though he knew his issues would be back soon, Ward said a silent thank you to Jack Daniels for giving him a moment of peace. 

“That looks tasty,” a voice said from the right. “I’ll have the same.” 

Ward turned his head and saw Brian Dunlop, a fellow agent from the office. Brian pulled out the barstool next to Ward and sat down. “Mind?” he said.

Ward nodded his head, giving Brian the go ahead to sit next to him.

“I gotta tell you, Henry, you’re looking kinda tense today,” Brian said. “Is something a miss?”

Ward sipped from his rocks glass and pulled an ice cube into his mouth. “Just one of those days, I guess.”

Brian shook the ice in his glass after the bartender placed it in front of him. “It happens to the best of us,” he said and took a sip, wincing as it went down. “Say, what was up with that recording you had me listen to today? Was I missing something?”

Ward turned on his stool to face Brian. “Are you sure you heard nothing out of the ordinary? Nothing that would make you take note?”

“Well, I mean, there really isn’t anything out of the ordinary about two fake Italian guys talking about strippers. I didn’t hear anything more than that. What’d I miss?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Ward said and turned back to face the bar. He shot the rest of his drink down, then held up the glass, signaling the bartender to get her cute little ass down here and fill him up again. 

“It must be something to you?” Brian said. “You shopped that recording around the entire office today. Did anyone else hear what you were looking for?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ward said. 

When the bartender brought Ward his next drink, Brian signaled to her that he’d pay for it. She winked and smiled. “There’s a hot one,” Brian said in a low voice as the girl walked away.

The two sat in silence, sipping their whiskey on ice. Brian was hoping Ward would say something to break the quiet, but he didn’t. After a few more moments, Brian finally caved. “So, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something, as a friend, ya know, not as a fellow agent.” 

“Yeah?” Ward said, not looking up from his glass.

Henry Ward and Brian Dunlop had known each other since college. They had roomed together at Pitt and at the FBI Academy and were always there for one another throughout all of it. If one stumbled with something, the other helped them through it, no question. In recent years, their friendship had cooled off a bit, as most long relationships do over time, but they still had each other’s back and always would. It was a mutual understanding that never needed to be stated aloud. 

Brian hesitated, trying to start his statement and not bungle it up. 

Ward knew his friend well enough to know when he was nervous, and this was certainly one of those times. “Spit it out,” he said, and turned his stool to face Brian.

“Ok, look, Henry, there’s some shit going around the office about you,” Brian said. “And I’m your friend first, fellow agent second, so I’m going to give it to you straight: you pissed off someone higher up. And I mean as high up as the Assistant Director.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ward said.

“Listen, Henry, you need to take this seriously. If I were you, I’d keep my head down for a while.”

Ward became annoyed. “My head is in the game, right where it always is. I do the work assigned to me even better than they ask for it, and I make the sacrifices. Anyone who has a problem with that can fuck off!”

“Henry, goddamn it!” Brian said in a stern whisper. He was trying to reel the tone of their conversation back to just the two of them instead of the entire bar. “You need to take it down a notch. I mean, haven’t you wondered why a seasoned agent like yourself is doing grunt work, reviewing surveillance recordings?”

Ward stared at Brian and thought for a moment. “It’s part of the job. Sometimes, the work is basic and tedious. That’s just how it is.”

“No, that’s not how it is, and you know it.” Brian said. He took another sip from his glass. “That’s part of the job when you first start out, but not after fifteen years of experience and commendations. How long has it been since they assigned you grunt work?”

A look of confusion and uncertainty had formed again on Ward’s face. He had to think back pretty far to the last time he’d had an assignment like his current one. It had been ten years at least. But that didn’t mean shit. Maybe they were short on manpower, or everyone else was tied up on other assignments and he just happened to be the Agent available when this case came up. Everybody works on this farm!

“Eh, I’m not reading anything into it,” Ward said. “We all have assignments from time to time that are below our level. Besides, what did I do to piss off the A.D.?”

Brian looked around to see if there were any other agents in the bar. There were three in the back corner, but they looked too engrossed in their own conversation for him to worry about. “I hear it has to do with your niece’s kidnapping case, the one you were so… obsessed with.”

Ward shook his head. “Fuck that! Kidnapping is within the bureau’s purview, and my family is within mine. I worked a case on duty and off and reached a conclusion with the perpetrator being taken off the street. That’s the role of an FBI Agent, isn’t it?”

Brian looked worried. “Henry, they pulled you off that case and told you to leave it alone. You took off and ignored your orders. Didn’t you think there would be consequences for that? You of all people should know: when you show your badge, you’re acting on official capacity under the authority of the Federal Government. You can’t just go rogue and not expect to get burned.”

“Is this rumor or fact?” Ward asked.

Brian let out a deep sigh. “I’ve heard it too much from too many people. You’re on your last strike. You’ll need to keep your head down for a while and just do the work your assigned. I’m sure it’ll blow over after a while, but man, you really are walking the ledge.”

Ward looked down at the floor as he took in everything Brian had said. It was humbling, and it made sense. The bureau wouldn’t simply tolerate what he had done. There would have to be repercussions for his actions. But he was a man of integrity. If he had done something he shouldn’t have and he was in trouble for it, Ward would take whatever came next, no questions asked. He hoped it wasn’t too late at this point. 

“Thanks for the heads-up, Brian,” Ward said. “You’re a good friend; you always have been.”

Brian put a hand on Ward’s shoulder. “Man, I have your back like you have mine. That will never change.”

ELEVEN

Reverend Allen leaned forward in his chair and the jovial expression he’d carried since Lauren and Clay had arrived this evening faded from his face. It was replaced with a cold, focused look that instantly made both of them feel uneasy. The reverend almost looked angry, not at them, but there was definite displeasure in his eyes. It even felt as though the air in the room had changed and had become heavy and dry. 

“I think you already know what the catalyst for these nightmares is, Lauren,” the reverend said. “Or perhaps I should say who the catalyst is.”

Lauren folded her arms to combat a chill that had flushed through her body. 

Clay looked at his wife and saw her face had become pale, and she looked like she was about to be sick. “Babe? You okay?” he said, placing a hand on her knee. He felt her trembling. “Honey?”

“She’s not okay, Clay,” Reverend Allen said. “She will be eventually, but right now, she is not okay.”

Lauren reached up and wiped a tear that had formed in her eye and was about to run down her cheek. 

“You see, Clay,” the reverend continued. “Lauren has been keeping a secret bottled up inside. A secret that is festering in her soul like an infection. I don’t know what she has told you about what happened last Thanksgiving in that hospital room, but I believe I already know.”

Anger flooded Clay’s face with splotchy redness, and his eyes watered. “I swear to God right here in this room, if somebody put a hand on my wife—”

The reverend held up a hand and smiled to calm Clay’s emotions. “Your anger is understandable, Clay. And actually, it’s impressive to see a man so much in love with his wife he would do terrible things to anyone who hurt her. I can see it in your eyes; you’re not just putting on a show. Your love for Lauren would make you do things you never thought possible. But this isn’t a problem you can solve with fists. Is it, Lauren?”

Lauren shook her head but didn’t speak. She was too busy trying to keep herself from crying. 

“It’s alright, Lauren,” the reverend said and handed her a small box of tissues sitting on the end table beside him. “If I may, I’d like to put forth my deduction of what I believe is causing your nightmares.”

Clay sat back and focused on Reverend Allen. His anger still had not faded, but he was open to hear what the man had to say.

“I believe,” Reverend Allen continued. “That Lauren has come face to face with evil. Not in the form of a bad person per se—though I do believe the man carrying this evil was probably a terrible human being—but actual evil, the manifestation of the word. I can say this because I too came face to face with it on that same Thanksgiving night in room 337 in the ICU Ward. I believe that’s the floor you work on, isn’t it, Lauren?”

Clay looked at his wife. She had already gone through four tissues. “Honey, what is Reverend Allen saying here?”

“What I’m saying, Clay,” the reverend interrupted. “Is that your wife attended to a patient who was surrounded by or possessed by pure, unadulterated evil. Daemons, evil spirits, the devil… hell, I don’t know what to call it, but those little bastards were there with that patient, and I still have the scars to prove it! And there was more than just one of them. I’ll swear to that on any Bible ever printed!” 

Clay sat in silence, staring into the reverend’s eyes. He didn’t speak. There weren’t any words in his mind to add to the conversation at the moment. 

“He’s right, Clay,” Lauren spoke up. “He’s one hundred percent right.”

“Holy shit!” Clay whispered.

“Yes, holy shit,” Reverend Allen said. “But this young lady whom you love so much had the courage to face it down. Didn’t you, Lauren?”

“I don’t know if I can call it courage, Reverend.”

“Well, I would,” Reverend Allen said. “I’d call it a heck of a lot of courage. But my key question is: why you? Why were you able to see these things, or feel them, and no one else? I mean, I understand why I had my experience with it. I pissed it off. It didn’t like me praying in its presence, so it kicked the living shit out of me. Excuse my language, but this subject gets my blood boiling.”

“So the nightmares?” Clay asked. “Are they just left over trauma from the experience, or is she still being taunted by something?”

“That’s a good question, son.” Reverend Allen said. “That’s what we need to find out. If it is just her own mind not being able to release the event, we can work that out and help her move on from it. However, if there is something following her, or God forbid attached to her, we have a bigger problem that will require outside support.”

Reverend Allen stood up from his chair and walked across the room to his desk. He picked up a manila folder and a yellow legal notepad. The note pad looked full and wrinkled like it had seen its fair share of use. “I’ve been doing a lot of research on our subject at hand lately,” the reverend said as he sat back down in the leather chair across from Clay and Lauren. He flipped through his notes as he spoke. “One might say I’ve been a little obsessive about the subject. But when a person looks into the heart of evil, as Lauren has, and I have, it changes them… forever. We’re not meant to see such things. God doesn’t let us see the other side of the veil for a reason. But six months ago… well… we did.”

“I’m not the only one who saw it, or felt it, or whatever you want to call it,” Lauren said. “Mrs. Randell was in the next room over. She claimed to feel something terrible every time the thing appeared. Also, Devon Harris, the paramedic who picked up John Doe where the police had found him. He had some sort of incident in the ambulance on the ride to the hospital.”

“Well, now that’s interesting,” the reverend said as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

Lauren looked at Clay, who was engrossed and doing his best to understand all of this. “There is someone else… my grandmother.”

“Mrs. Snyder visited the patient?” Reverend Allen asked.

“No, she didn’t.” Lauren took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “When she was a nurse in the ICU back in the 1960s, she had a similar incident with a patient. Pretty much the same thing that happened to me. She has a scrapbook of pictures and articles she’s collected over the years that’s helped her come to terms with what she saw. I’ve been leaning on Grandmother a lot lately.”

“Is this what you and her have been so secret about all this time?” Clay asked. “You could have told me instead of making me wonder, Lauren. Remember, we’re supposed to share our problems, not hide them.”

“I know, Clay. I’m so sorry.”

“Clay,” Reverend Allen interrupted. “This is an issue like no other on earth. You’ll need to see it from Lauren’s perspective. I don’t believe she hid it from you because she was afraid of what you might think of her. I believe she just didn’t know how to present it. You can’t begrudge her for that.”

Clay’s anger lasted only a few seconds. He looked at his wife and smiled, then back at the reverend. “Ok, so now what?”

The reverend looked through his notes, then wrote something on the legal pad. “I believe we should talk to the people you’ve mentioned: Mrs. Randell—which, I do love that spunky old girl; she gets me laughing every time I see her—Devon Harris, and certainly your grandmother. However, I’d like for us to keep our little investigation low-key at the moment. The parishioners at First Baptist are already worried I’m taking the ‘evil’ thing a little too seriously these days. I’d hate to raise more concerns.”

“Ok, Reverend,” Lauren said. “Where do we start?”

Reverend Allen smiled an endearing smile at the young couple seated across from him. “We start with the two of you. Pray. Pray always. Together, apart, in the shower, before meals, driving down the road… Keep in constant contact with the Big Guy,” he said, pointing at the ceiling. “Always ask for His protection, and I assure you, He will give it. I’ll do the same.”

As Lauren and Clay said goodnight to Reverend Allen and headed down the sidewalk to the gate, Lauren noticed that for the first time in six months, she was smiling without forcing it. The air seemed cleaner and her body felt light again. Something had changed in her over the last hour, and she thanked God they had come here tonight.