Dire Harvest Book 2 Chapter 6

ONE

Henry Ward’s mother was a formidable woman who did not understand the meaning of the word “No.” She knew the definition of the word (No: noun. A negative answer or decision), but only on the rarest of occasions would she accept it as an answer, especially coming from one of her kids or her husband. That’s why when Henry tried to decline her offer to stay the night at their house in his old room, she wouldn’t hear of it. “You’re spending the night with us, Henry, end of story.” At least she smiled when she said it.

It couldn’t hurt, he thought after he had acquiesced. It had been years since he’d slept in his old room, and mom hadn’t changed it much since the day he went off to college. Plus, his room was cool—his private sanctuary where he had read and studied and listened to music and kept his collectables and other stuff. Sleeping at home might be a good thing. Perhaps it was what he needed to take some of the edge off.

Earlier in the evening, mom had made his favorite dinner (lasagna with garlic bread and salad on the side), and it was every bit as delicious as he remembered. Just the dinner alone snapped him out of his funk and help him forget about the sinister voices on those recordings and Hanson Parker and losing his niece—the things which had plagued his mind for so long, now.

It thrilled Ted Ward to see his son at home when he came in the door from work. He didn’t ask if there was a problem. Like always, dad figured if Henry needed his help to resolve something, he’d ask. “Are you working a big case, son?” he had asked over dinner with a voice full of excitement. He was extremely proud of Henry’s achievements and never missed the opportunity to let you know his boy was an FBI Agent. 

After dinner, they watched a couple of old movies (The Thing From Another World and Tombstone) in the living room before going off to bed. Mom and Dad had delightful smiles on their faces the whole night, so happy to have their boy at home with them, even if it was only for a night. It felt like ages had passed since the kids were young and the family was together all the time, before any of them had ever heard the wretched name of Hanson Parker.

Laying in bed in his old room gave Henry another feeling of warmth and peace. He was at home, and home was safe. He had had the best childhood a person could ask for, and those comforting feelings from back then were all still here in this house, inviting him home with open arms and a warm embrace. Even that weird little sound his old alarm clock (which was still plugged in and working) made when he turned the radio on was like a long-lost friend welcoming him back. Nothing could hurt him here. The world outside could not penetrate the protective barrier of his childhood home, no matter how hard it tried. 

He closed his eyes and let the feeling of being safe at home usher him into the deep embrace of sleep. It was good here. Henry went willfully into the darkness and permitted it to envelop him without resistance. 

He opened his eyes and stretched his arms, letting out a loud yawn. He felt fantastic, like he’d just had a better night’s rest than any he could remember. Ward blinked away the sleep several times and even rubbed his left eye. The restful feeling was enjoyable; he didn’t want it to end.

Looking around, he became disoriented and confused. He swore he had gone to sleep in his childhood room and bed last night, but now he had awoke in his car. And where the hell was he? The place looked oddly familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it at the moment. There was a waterway or creek and several picnic tables near the bank. To his right, there were canoes stacked up in a dedicated rack. And it was the middle of the afternoon. Did he fall asleep in his car and dream he had spent the night at his mom and dad’s house? Just the idea made him nervous. Where was reality, if that was the case?

Suddenly, a small figure ran past his car, then another, then several more. Children, seven or eight of them, all under ten years of age at least. They were running and laughing and playing on the twenty yards of grass area between the parking lot where Ward sat and the bank of the creek. They looked exceptionally happy as they ran and chased each other around the picnic tables. He couldn’t help but smile at their joyful innocence; it was infectious.  

But this place? It looked familiar the more he studied. He ran his hand over his face, racking his brain about how he knew this area. When the answer finally hit, his smile faded and anxiety shot a hot jolt of adrenaline throughout his body. 

Whites Creek Recreation Area, the place where Katie was killed. Did he drive all the way out here last night and fall asleep in the car? Dinner and movies with his mom and dad must have been a dream, then. But it was so real! He’d swear under oath he ate lasagna with his parents and watched movies with them before going to bed in his old room last night. How in the hell did he end up here? And was his guilt over losing Katie so extreme that he’d driven out to the place where she was abducted, then spent the night in his car? This didn’t seem at all like the Henry Ward he knew. He’d never do something like this. But here he was, sitting at the very place where they had found Katie’s body. In fact, it was just right over there under that rack of canoes… 

He stared at the canoe rack off to his right side, some red, a few of them blue, one orange and one white. He had noted those very colors on the day they had found Katie laying peacefully (dead) underneath them. Ward never really knew why he’d made note of those colors. They meant nothing to the investigation. Funny what the mind finds important. 

A vehicle pulled into the space next to his car, partially obstructing his view of the canoes. A white truck or van or something. Van. White van. White panel van. Ward looked up at the driver, who was smoking a cigarette and watching the children intently. 

“Jesus Christ!” Henry said aloud. He was ninety percent sure the man behind the steering wheel of this white van was Hanson Parker. “Motherfucker!”

Just then, another child ran past his driver's side window. A familiar feeling came over him as he heard her laugh when she ran by. That sound, that laugh… there was no mistaking it. Katie! She ran over to meet the other kids by the bank of the water, then turned enough that Ward could see her entire face. It was as true as a blue sky. Katie. Her hair, her shoes, her dress, all exactly the way she was the day they found her underneath that rack of boats over there. But it couldn’t be. That wasn’t possible in the physical world. Katie was gone and there was no coming back from death. He’d read the coroner's report and had watched the funeral director put her in the cold earth. Katie was no longer; end of story.

The man in the white van was smiling as he watched the kids play. He even rocked back and forth in his seat with excitement. His scruffy beard and greasy hair, and that pale face and dark eyes. There was no doubt about it; that fucker was Hanson Parker.

But the tables had somehow turned today. This asshole was planning on taking Ward’s niece and killing her. Not this time, prick! Not again! This time, by some strange twist of fate, Henry Ward was here to stop the bastard before he could do his work. A second chance had fallen right into Ward’s lap, and damn if he wouldn’t take it.

Henry pulled his firearm and reached for the door handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. He pulled the lever again and even put his shoulder to it, but it was like trying to move a stone wall. Nothing.

Outside, one kid had his forehead against a tree with his eyes closed. He was counting out loud. The rest of the children had scattered. They were playing hide and seek. Katie ran off alone to Ward’s left field of vision, toward the woods. To his right, Parker had slithered out of the driver's seat and began walking in the direction where Katie had gone. 

Ward hit his driver side window with his elbow, trying everything to break out of the car. It was no use. He used the butt of the gun. Not even a crack. Finally, he had no choice. This would not happen again while he sat by and watched. He fired his weapon three times into the window of his door. The mushroomed bullets froze for a second on the glass, then fell to the floor. The window didn’t even yield a mark. He was trapped in a front-row seat to the most horrific event that had ever taken place in his life and the lives of his family. It was agony the likes of which he could never have imagined.

Around fifteen minutes later, the children were all back in the area, searching and calling out Katie’s name. Soon, several adults had joined in them. Ward looked to his right, but didn’t see the van. Somehow, Parker had slipped away without him noticing. He knew what was about to come next. He was going to see his sister in the first moments after she realized her daughter was missing. And just as he predicted, she soon came into view. The panic-stricken look of fear on her face as she called out her daughter’s name made Henry break down. He cried as hard as he did (as they all did) on the day they buried Katie in that godforsaken cemetery under an imposing piece of granite with her name carved into it in gentle scrolling letters. He couldn’t go through this again; he wouldn’t. It was a pain he had never imagined possible. To relive it would be worse than any hell the devil could create. He looked down at the Glock 19 pistol in his hand and, for the first time in his life, he thought about pointing the goddamn thing at his head and blowing a hole right through his skull. 

“Henry, no!” a voice from outside yelled, snapping him back to the moment. It was Alisha, his sister. She was standing in front of his car, looking at him through the windshield. She could actually see him.

He stared at her, shocked. She didn’t say another word; she only stood there, shaking her head, looking at him with the same disapproving big sister face she’d given him anytime he’d misbehaved when they were kids. It was a sincere look that said, “I love you, Henry, don’t do this.”

He put his hand on the glass. She approached the car and put her hand up to his on the other side. Suddenly, there was darkness.

Henry woke in his childhood room, where he was certain he had fallen asleep last night. Except now the room couldn’t comfort him like an old friend, couldn’t save him from the world outside and all the evil that came with it. At this moment, Henry didn’t feel anything could.

TWO

There were still about thirty minutes left before Glen’s alarm was set to go off, but he was already awake. Nothing had prevented him from sleeping at the moment—no problem running through his head, no barking dog outside his window. His body had simply had enough sleep and was ready for a new day. 

Vickie looked peaceful—adorable—as she slept away beside him; she always did. Glen hoped his wife sleeping so soundly every night resulted from her contentment with life, that he’d provided a happy, loving environment for her and the kids and they were all living a worry free existence because of it. If sound sleep indicated well-being he’d have to surmise his family was doing pretty good; getting any of them out of bed was about as easy as pulling a stubborn mule up a hill.

“What are you looking at?” Vickie said and smiled when she opened her eyes to see Glen watching her.

“I’m looking at you, Mrs. Crawford,” Glen said. “Do you have a problem with that?”

She smiled wider, closed her eyes, and nestled in closer to him. “Nope, no problem at all.”

He kissed her forehead and held her in his arms a while longer. The moment was another Glen wanted to absorb and commit to memory. Our lives have an expiration date—a fact he was painfully aware of—so moments like this were important to remember, no matter how insignificant they may seem. For the time being, life was wonderful and rich and full of love.  

“Something’s on your mind,” Vickie said. 

“Not really,” Glen replied.

“Want to know what’s on my mind?” Vickie asked.

“Sure, babe.”

“We have a son whose birthday is tomorrow and we haven’t decided on a gift for him yet,” she said.

Glen laughed. “Is that really bothering you?”

“Well, yeah,” Vickie said. “You know those kids of ours always open their big gift on the day of their birthday, even if the party is on a different day. We can’t just say, ‘Sorry kid, we don’t do that anymore!’”

Glen smiled. In other parts of the world, people were stealing from each other, killing each other, starving to death, and suffering countless other unimaginable atrocities. But here in Glen’s world, the big issue of the day was deciding on a birthday present for his fifteen-year-old son. He didn’t know why he was given a life so far removed from the horrors of the world, but it wasn’t for him to question. Today, his job was to live the life he’d been given to the fullest, no questions asked.

“You already know what he wants,” Glen said. 

“Yeah, I do, and I know you want to let him have it, too.”

“He’s a responsible kid,” Glen said. “I think it’s something he can handle without getting into trouble. Plus, a crossbow isn’t just some toy he’ll get tired of playing with after a few months. He’ll have it forever and always remember it came from his parents—like the bow my parents got for me when I was his age.”

“You mean the one in the attic, covered in dust?”

“Yes, that one,” Glen said. “And I’m planning on cleaning it up to take shooting with him. Provided we agree on getting him the crossbow, that is.”

“Can you even get one before tomorrow?” Vickie asked.

“Funny you should ask. Tim La Chance has one at his store right now, the same make and model that Brandon wants.”

Vickie flicked Glen’s bare nipple. “You had that thing already ordered, waiting for me to cave in, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Glen said. “However, if you didn’t cave—I mean agree—then I told Tim to send it back, or sell it. He actually said he’d keep it for himself if we didn’t buy it.”

They looked at each other for a moment. 

Glen wondered, then saw the look in her eye and knew she was going to give in. He became excited. They were going to bring something cool into the house he and Brandon could enjoy together. And he’d have a good reason to clean up his old bow and start shooting it again. There were a vast amount of happy memories that came along with that bow, and he couldn’t wait to relive them again. 

Finally, Vickie said, “If he shoots one cat, one dog, or God forbid a person, I’m holding you personally responsible, Glen. I mean it!”

“Agreed, my love,” Glen said. “It’s my responsibility.”

He got out of bed and put on a T-shirt and pajama bottoms (their clothes were laying on the floor because of last nights “activities”). “You’ll need a lot of wrapping paper; the box is pretty big.”

She threw a pillow at him. “Go make us some coffee!”

THREE

The knock at the door came at ten minutes before 1:00 PM. Reverend Allen already knew who was standing out there and could hardly contain his excitement before answering. It would be Father Richardson from the Catholic Dioceses of Southwest Pennsylvania, coming to visit because of his (the reverend’s) reaching out to the Catholics just a few days ago. He couldn’t believe how promptly they had responded and how soon they had actually sent a priest to meet with him, all without him even having to ask. His letter and story must have struck a chord with these people. Why else would they jump on this thing so fast?

Reverend Allen opened his front door to a man dressed in the traditional Catholic Priest everyday attire: black suit jacket, black pants, black shirt, black shoes, black fedora hat, and the signature two inches of exposed white collar just under the chin. He was younger than the reverend had imagined he would be—probably in his late 30s or early 40s—and much thinner. At first glance, the priest reminded the reverend of his nephew, Doug, a wiry little red-headed shit who had a quick wit and seemed to never shut up. 

“Reverend Allen?” the priest said. “I’m Father Richardson. We spoke on the phone. I hope I’m not too early?”

The reverend’s smile was wide and welcoming. He reached out and gave the man a two handed hand shake. “Father Richardson! It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir! You’re not too early at all. Please, come inside.” He ushered his guest inside and into the study to the left of the foyer.

Looking around the archway of the study’s entrance, Father Richardson said: “Pocket doors.” He continued exploring the room with a look of keen interest. “I love the craftsmanship in these old houses. The woodwork in this room alone is spectacular! It’s art!”

“I couldn’t agree more, Father. It’s been very enjoyable to live in such a place,” Reverend Allen said. “My wife—God rest her soul—loved it here, too… Coffee, tea, or water?”

“Huh? Oh. How about coffee and a small chaser of water?”

“Perfect,” Reverend Allen said, and headed into the kitchen to prepare the refreshments. A few moments later, he was back with a tray, which he sat on the small coffee table at the seating area in the middle of the room. “Please, Father, make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing toward one of the leather chairs. 

The two men sat across from one another, exchanging pleasantries and even a few Catholic and Baptist jokes. Within minutes, they were both relaxed and laughing and enjoying each other’s company. 

“How do you make Holy Water?” Reverend Allen asked. “Boil the hell out of it!”

“What’s the difference between a Catholic and a Baptist?” Father Richardson asked. “The Catholic will say, ‘Hi!’ to you at the liquor store.”

After about a half-hour of delightful conversation, Father Richardson was the one to bring them back around to the reason for his visit. “So tell me, Reverend—and I imagine this is quite difficult to discuss, but—what happened to you in that hospital room? From your letter, you said you had a brush with something evil, and that it nearly killed you?”

Reverend Allen smiled. “As my congregation knows, I’m not afraid to talk about my ordeal—I hit them with a dose of it almost every Sunday. They’re probably getting sick of hearing it by now,” he laughed. “But yes, Father, I had a full-blown assault from several evil spirits. I really haven’t been the same since.”

“You don’t have to relive the entire story, Reverend. I’ve read it several times in your email; it’s outright chilling, to say the least,” Father Richardson said. 

“Father, there is nothing on this earth to compare it to,” Reverend Allen said sternly. “And I wasn’t ready for it, that’s for sure. It came out of nowhere. I’ve never felt vitriol like that in all my life—didn’t even know that kind of anger and hatred could exist!”

“You believe the devil was at work?”

“I do,” Reverend Allen said. “And he wasn’t alone. There were a dozen of them, at least, all attacking me at once. I could feel their hatred throughout the assault. It was constant, unwavering—their jeers and curses. It makes me sick now just to think of it. And I saw them! The deepest black shadows—not a shadow from a solid object blocking out the light, but a void, the absence of light. It was such a horrific sight. I can see it still, every time I close my eyes.”

Father Richardson looked around the room. Something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the story, perhaps it was the coffee, but something suddenly sent a chill over him. 

“Are you all right, Father?” Reverend Allen said. “You look a bit pale.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said, putting his coffee mug on the table. “Probably the caffeine or something. Please, go on.”  

Reverend Allen continued: “There are others who have had similar experiences, though nothing as violent as what had happened to me. The ICU nurse who attended the patient in the room where I was attacked, Lauren Rivers, she smelled the vile odor and saw the same shadow figures. She even came face to face with one at the very moment the patient had died. Now she’s plagued with bone-chilling nightmares. That’s part of the reason I’m working so hard to figure this all out. I need to know if the residual feelings that myself and the others involved are experiencing are post-traumatic stress, or something more on the… metaphysical side.”

“Metaphysical? Are you suggesting possession?” Father Richardson looked nervous. He knew what the “P” word meant and didn’t want to think about the implications. The church did not lightly get involved in matters of demonic possession. Ever since the horror genre craze began—kicked off by The Exorcist and other notable books and movie titles—the Catholic church has been at the center of way too much adverse publicity (among other newsworthy scandals of recent years). They were doing their best these days to keep a low profile, far from the spotlight of the tabloids and TV news. If Reverend Allen was about to ask the church permission for an exorcism on someone, Father Richardson would have to cut his visit short. He’d already had that thought before going in to this meeting today. His superiors hadn’t stated the fact outright, but the implication was definitely in the open. Keep it simple. Keep it quiet.

Reverend Allen shook his head. “No, Father, I’m not suggesting that at all. I don’t believe anyone is possessed. But I can’t be sure there isn’t some sort of torment from the other side—for lack of a better phrase—at play.”

Father Richardson sat back in his chair and soaked in what he had just heard. Torment from the other side seemed like a nice way of saying the P word. “Lets come back to that later, Reverend. You mentioned you were conducting research. Can you elaborate further on that?”

The reverend grabbed a stack of papers and manila envelopes that were neatly arranged in the middle of his large desk. He had taped different colored file markers to the tops of them, seemingly to prepare for today’s meeting. 

After putting on his reading glasses, he began going over all the information he had compiled which had led him to the Catholic’s door step. It started at the beginning with an old folklore legend about an evil billy goat that was said to be trapped in a cave in the surrounding Laurel Mountains. He read the story of Sean Collins, the coal miner in 1906 who had murdered twelve men and blamed it on a spirit he had found contained inside of—none other than—a billy goat trapped inside the mine. Next he read the testimony of Reverend Arlowe Williams, the Tennessee preacher who’d had an almost verbatim experience as Reverend Allen’s, years before. Then came the gruesome story of Harlan Wallace. “I’ll show you the Dzerbeck family memorial in the churchyard in just a moment.” Finally, Reverend Allen concluded with the stories of Lauren Rivers and her grandmother, Sharon. “And of course you’re already familiar with my own personal account.”

A chill had built up in Father Richardson while listening to these stories. He was cold now—unnaturally cold. It didn’t feel like the chills one gets when becoming sick. It was more like a strange internal draft—an unusual bodily reaction he was unfamiliar with. Another sensation came over him at the same time: he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone other than Reverend Allen was in the room with them.

“There’s something that unifies these stories, Father,” the reverend said gravely. “There are two names: Zlo, Z-L-O, and Bol, B-O-L. In almost all of these stories, the people involved claim the spirit or entity is called by one of those two names.”

Father Richardson looked around the room in fear. Anxiety had erupted throughout his body and he couldn’t settle it. He grabbed his water glass and gulped the rest of it down, spilling some from the corners of his mouth. Tension continued to build within him and he felt like his head was going to blow off of his shoulders at any moment. Something was in this room, he was sure of it. Something was watching and moving closer to him. He made the sign of the cross and closed his eyes, praying the Our Father in silence.

“Are you ok, Father?” Reverend Allen asked. “You look like you’re having a panic attack.”

Father Richardson didn’t reply. He continued with his silent prayer, ignoring Reverend Allen’s concerns.

Reverend Allen took Father Richardson’s water glass and filled it up in the kitchen. When he returned, the priest was still in silent prayer with his eyes closed. The reverend looked around the room. He wasn’t feeling anything at the moment, but he knew from his own experience what it looked like Father Richardson was going through now. He softly mumbled his own prayer for protection.

Looking up from his chair, Father Richardson said, “I’d like to get some air, if you don’t mind, Reverend.”

“Certainly,” Reverend Allen said, and ushered him out the front door into the bright afternoon sunlight.

FOUR

The mid afternoon sun was hot and bright, but not the least bit uncomfortable—a perfect day for a walk around town, or spring yard work, or maybe even a bicycle ride through the side streets. Most of the residents of Cumberland Springs were engaging in some of those very activities. Lawnmowers hummed in the distance, kids chased each other on speeding bicycles, and smiling people strolled the sidewalks—most of them walking small dogs. The atmosphere had an instant calming effect on Father Richardson as he and Reverend Allen walked toward First Baptist Church, about a block away from the Parish house. He took deep, calming breaths of fresh spring air as they walked, which seemed to quell the anxiety he’d felt while sitting in the reverend’s study. And the feeling of being watched had also disappeared, as if the sunlight had driven it away like the crucifix to the vampire.

“This is quite a pleasant town you have here, Reverend.” Father Richardson said. “Very peaceful.”

“We like it that way,” the reverend replied.

“It almost feels like a vacation in Mayberry.”

Reverend Allen laughed. “You’re not the first to make that comparison, Father. It is quiet and reserved here, but every town has its dark memories. I’m about to show you one right now.”

They walked the rest of the way from the parish house to the church, passed quaint, well-maintained houses that all looked to have been built earlier than 1950, and were impeccably kept. 

Everyone who saw the two men as they passed stopped what they were doing and waved and yelled a “Hello” at the reverend.

Father Richardson smiled. This was a town where one could truly live in peace, or so it seemed to him on the outside, at least. People just living and caring for their homes and families and community. He had done missionary work in some of the world’s worst, most impoverished places—places he’d thought God actually had abandoned. Cumberland Springs was a dream compared to any of those spots. He wondered if the people he’d served during those mission trips would ever have the opportunity for a calm, fulfilling life like this. That would be his prayer for this evening: for those who need peace to find peace.

He followed the reverend the rest of the way to the church and across its open lawn. They stopped under a large oak tree. The leaves of the oak were fresh spring growth and rich with a vibrant green color. Dark shade cast onto the ground from the new foliage made this a place where one might want to sit for hours on a day like today. 

“What are we looking at, Reverend?” Father Richardson asked. 

The reverend was staring down at a granite monument at the foot of the tree, which resembled a tombstone. He said nothing in reply. 

Stepping forward to get a better look, Father Richardson read the inscription aloud: “So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you. John 16:22.” The priest stepped back from the monument but kept his eyes on it. “Are these the people who were murdered by that—”

“—Harlan Wallace. Yes, they are,” the reverend replied.

Making the sign of the cross over his forehead, chest, and shoulders, Father Richardson quietly said, “Dear Lord.”

“Indeed,” Reverend Allen said. 

They both stared at the monument in silence for several minutes. Father Richardson remained quiet, waiting for the reverend to lead the conversation.

“There are four names on the monument, but a fifth is also part of this family. He was there on that terrible night in 1964,” Reverend Allen finally said. “Ron Dzerbeck.”

“He survived?”

“He’s the one that shot the bastard,” Reverend Allen said. “He was only twelve-years-old then.” He took a step back and put his hands in his pockets.

“Is he still alive today?” Father Richardson asked.

“He is.”

Father Richardson’s curiosity was about to overflow. “Have you ever spoken with him about this?”

“I just found out who he was the other day,” Reverend Allen said. “I had known him since I came to Cumberland Springs fifteen years ago, but never made the connection until I saw the article in Sharon Snyder’s scrapbook. This town has a way of keeping the nightmares hidden away in the closets.”

Empathy built inside of the priest, and he even felt a tear forming in his eye. “This is such a tragedy. So sad.”

They both stared at the monument for a moment longer, each imagining the macabre crime scene at the Dzerbeck’s house that night, filling in the blanks with their own imaginations.

“Come on,” Reverend Allen finally said and led his guest into the main chapel of First Baptist Church. 

They walked down the center aisle to the front of the room and sat in a pew near the altar. “I couldn’t have you come all this way without showing you the office,” the reverend said.

“This is a lovely church, Reverend,” Father Richardson said. “Very welcoming. It’s emblematic of your little town.”

“That it is, Father. It’s not a grand cathedral, but we like to call it home,” Reverend Allen laughed and patted the priest on the shoulder.

“God is in this house just the same as he is in the Vatican, Reverend,” Father Richardson said.

“That he is,” Reverend Allen agreed. “So, what do you think so far? Am I crazy? Off my rocker? Ready for the straight jacket?”

Father Richardson laughed. “Not at all, my friend. I think you’re perfectly fine.”

“But do you believe me?”

The seriousness in the reverend’s eyes told Father Richardson it was time to get down to business. But did he have an answer for the man? At the moment, his mind was somewhat scattered. He didn’t catch a whiff of insincerity coming from Reverend Allen; the man told his story as if it were gospel. But demonic shadow figures descending on a hospital over a dying patient? How in the world could he sort that one out? He was a man of the cloth, though, who believed every word of the Bible to be the divine truth. The Bible mentions Daemons many times throughout its pages, even cast out of the possessed by Jesus Himself. So, by his faith alone, he had no choice but to believe it. 

“You’re not ready to answer that question yet,” Reverend Allen said and smiled. “It’s ok. We’ll come back to that subject a little later. There’s another place I want you to see.”

Following Reverend Allen back up the aisle to the main entrance of the church, Father Richardson had a thought: I like this guy. He seems like one of the good ones.

FIVE

“Want to hear somethin’ crazy, dude?” Billy said in a low voice. He was moping the floor while Harry wiped down the tables. Cleaning the cafeteria was a light job only given to inmates who hardly posed a threat. There were guards around, but not in direct supervision of them at all times. 

“Sure, man,” Harry said.

“I got a fucked up idea.”

Harry laughed, slightly. “This oughta be good.”

“Nah, bro, check this out,” Billy said. “Did you see how nobody would go near the new bitch in the yard yesterday?”

“Billy, we wouldn’t even go near that dude yesterday,” Harry said. His tone was pointed and sarcastic.

“I know, man. Somethin’ ain’t right about him,” Billy said. “But it got me thinkin’… what if we made friends with him? You know, got him on our side. Think about it, bro. Nobody would fuck with us ever again.”

Harry didn’t dismiss the thought right off the bat. His squirrelly little cell mate actually had a somewhat decent idea for once. Usually, the things he came up with were just bat-shit crazy ramblings, which Harry would ignore, but this idea had legs. Collectively, they knew the art of keeping out of trouble would only last for so long. They were eventually going to get stuck in a situation neither could fight their way out of, and that was a thought which sent both of them to bed with nightmares. No, this time Billy might actually be on to something.

“Shit! I don’t know about that one, Billy,” Harry said. “I don’t like the vibe around that guy.”

“Oh, I know, dude,” Billy said. “I’m with you on that. But just think about it. What if that creepy motherfucker was with us? Damn! We’d be set!”

Oddly enough, the idea really started to gain ground with Harry. That guy was big, built like a Sherman Tank, and scary as fuck! And on his first day in the yard, no one would even go near him. Usually—always, actually—the first day in the yard for a new inmate was a horrible experience. Everybody got a shot to let you know how worthless you were and how low you ranked on the food chain in here. Nine times out of ten, the poor bastard got the shit kicked out of him, just to let him know what was up. But this scary lookin’ dude? Nobody went within fifty feet of him; they just knew—or felt—it was a bad idea. What if they could get him into their camp, though? Make him an ally? Now that was something worth thinking about.

Instinctively looking around the room to see if anyone was in earshot, Harry smiled and said: “That might be the best idea you’ve come up with yet, Billy. How we gonna do it, though?”

“Aw, man, that’s easy,” Billy said. “We’re gonna walk right up and say, ‘Sup, dude?’ Simple as that. Plus, I lifted one of these out of the commissary. I been saving it for a few days.” He pulled a Snicker bar out of his pocket and flashed it like a stolen watch he was trying to sell on the street. “We can use to break the ice. You know, a good faith gesture.” He secured the candy bar back into his pocket. “We can do it this afternoon during yard-time.”

The candy bar made Harry’s mouth water. Everyone loved a good candy bar, especially in here where even the smallest comforts are worth their weight in gold. “Ok, Billy, I’m down. We’ll hit him up this afternoon in the yard.”

“Hells yeah!” Billy said. “And what’s the worst that could happen? We lose a candy bar. No big shit.”

Harry thought about it and realized that losing a candy bar might be getting off easy compared to what could actually go down.

SIX

Cumberland Springs. Honest. Quiet. Friendly.

Gary stopped the van next to the wooden sign on the back country road and studied it. The thing looked out of place. He had turned off of Route #31—which was already a desolate stretch in what felt like the middle of nowhere—as the GPS had directed him, onto this much less traveled country road. It was definitely the sticks out here, for lack of a better term. The sign itself was very well cared for—freshly painted, bright flowers planted underneath in a brick flower box, a nice design. Somebody put the time into this marker; that was clear. But why all the way out here? A small hanging placard under the main part of the sign read: Maintained by the Cumberland Springs Beautification Society.

He left the sign and continued on for about a quarter mile until he came upon a gas station off to the right. The place looked like it belonged in a movie from the 1950s, nothing at all like the convenience stores and truck stops dotting the American landscape today. It was oddly out of place in the modern world, and just as well maintained as that sign he had passed on the way down this road. Perfectly clean.

The van only had a quarter tank, so Gary figured it would be best to top it off.

He rolled up to the pumps, got out, and went inside the cute old building to pay with cash. These days, gas stations didn’t trust you enough to come inside to pay after you filled up if you weren’t using credit. Too many people had probably gotten away with the ole “gas and dash” technique.

“Afternoon, friend,” a man said from behind the counter. “How’s the world treat’n ya today?”

Gary was taken aback by the man. People weren’t usually this welcoming unless they were selling something. It took him a moment to get into small talk mode before replying. “I’m doing alright, I suppose. How about yourself?”

“Can’t complain one bit,” the man said and smiled. He wasn’t old by any means—probably in his early forties at best—but he had an older man’s charm, kind of like a grandfather. Or maybe it was just the country flare to his voice. It was calming and inviting and made you want to stick around to shoot the shit with this fellow for a few hours on a warm afternoon. 

“Who would listen, right?” Gary said, laughing.

The man laughed along with him. “Exactly!” he said. “What can I do for ya today?”

“I’ll just take a fill-up on the blue van out there,” Gary said and counted out a few twenties.

“No need to pay for that up front, buddy. We can settle up after you know how much she’ll take.”

Gary looked at the man, delightfully surprised. “Ok,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” the man said. “I’ll come out with ya, so you don’t have to make an extra trip back inside.”

They walked out to the pump together and Gary couldn’t help but think of how strange this encounter felt to him. He wasn’t at all used to people being nice without an underlying, self-serving reason. But this man—so far—seemed like the real deal. Just a happy guy making small talk with a stranger. How about that? He even took the nozzle off the pump and shoved it into the van for Gary. 

“Fill her up?” he asked.

“Ah, yeah, that’ll work,” Gary said, still surprised over this whole encounter.

“You coming into town for the big yard sale?” the man asked.

“Yard sale? Oh, no, I’m just blowing through,” Gary said. “Are you having a yard sale or something?”

“Oh yeah, the big one in town,” the man said. “Just drive about two hundred more yards ahead and you’ll be right smack-dab in the middle of the square.”

Gary looked ahead to where the guy was pointing. He could see buildings in that direction, which was probably the main part of town. It still seemed odd to him that there was a town clear out here—or even people at all, for that matter. 

“Careful of these people,” Zlo spoke up, jolting Gary with his vibrating voice. “Do not be lulled by their pleasantries. They are filthy swine, one and all.”

“You ok there, buddy?” the man said, noticing Gary jump like he’d been startled by something. 

Gary laughed nervously. “I thought I saw a bee buzzing around. I’m allergic.”

“Oh, yeah, those damn little things are nothin’ but assholes with wings,” the man said. I’ve been hit by them a few times already this year. Pricks!”

Gary laughed. “That they are. What do I owe you, sir?” 

“Looks like thirty even will get it done.”

He handed the man a twenty and a ten, then got behind the wheel of the van.

“You ought to stick around for the big yard sale tomorrow,” the man said. “Ya never know; you just might take home somethin’ ya like.”

Gary smiled a sinister grin. “Ya know what, buddy? I just might.”

He drove away from the gas station and within seconds found himself in the middle of a picturesque little town which looked like it was ignored by the passage of time. It was beautiful, and nothing at all like what he had expected. 

“Again, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo spoke up. “Do not be fooled by these people or this wretched place. They are the lowest form of species on this despicable earth, each undeserving of the air they breathe.”

“Wow, Zlo,” Gary said. “Somebody around here sure pissed you off.”

“This is not the time to be cavalier, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. “I expect you to do everything in your power and all that it takes to destroy the soul of this community and raze it into the ground!”

While driving around the town square, still listening to Zlo rant about how much he hated this place, Gary noted his surroundings—especially the location of the police station and the number of squad cars. They looked well secured for such a small community. Three cruisers out front and possibly another on patrol. They took their security seriously in Cumberland Springs; that was obvious.

There was a little diner right in the middle of town, Nana’s. Sounded like somebody’s grandmother probably owned the place. Gary pictured a little old round bodied woman wearing a flowered apron churning out homemade recipes from scratch in the kitchen. He could smell fresh buttered biscuits in his mind. The thought made his mouth water.

He drove around the square twice, looking at all the businesses and admiring how charming everything was. There were people setting up tents and tables everywhere, probably preparing for that giant yard sale the gas station guy had mentioned. 

This didn’t look at all like hell on earth, as Zlo had described. It wasn’t a cesspool. In fact, it was one of the nicest places Gary had ever seen. Movie depictions of small towns were one thing, but to be in a place that was actually this genuine was a different story all together. He found himself not wanting to do the terrible job Zlo required as payment for his reward here in Cumberland Springs. He wanted to leave it alone and leave these people in peace. It was as if he had stumbled upon an undiscovered culture who’d had their lives figured out just the way they wanted them. They didn’t need to be bothered by the outside world or Zlo or Gary or anything else. It didn’t feel right to upset the balance here.

“Please tell me you’re joking, Gary,” Zlo spoke up. “Tell me you are exhibiting a sick sense of humor and you’re not seriously thinking fondly of this acrid piece of land or the putrid creatures who dwell here. Tell me, Gary.”

“I don’t know, Zlo,” Gary said. “This doesn’t seem like such a bad place. And it’s clear out in the middle of nowhere. How did you even find it to begin with?”

“Do you enjoy the reward, Gary?” Zlo said.

“Hell yeah, I do!”

“Do you wish to continue receiving the reward?”

“No doubt,” Gary said. 

“Then understand this: you shall not receive another dose until Cumberland Springs is suffering to my satisfaction. Do you understand?”

“Whoa! Hang on a second here,” Gary said. “You can’t just hook me in with that shit, then yank it away. That’s fucked up!”

“I can and will,” Zlo said. “Our association is contingent on whether you can attain the goals I set forth. If you accomplish the task at hand—destroying the soul of this wretched place—then and only then will you be free to seek the reward at your own discretion.” 

There was no arguing with that. While Gary may have had a fleeting thought about leaving this peaceful place alone, his new companion had other plans for it. And the thought of never again feeling that powerful gift he’d received after completing Zlo’s task terrified him deeply. He needed the reward in his life. In fact, he didn’t want to live another minute without it. Nothing on earth compared to the power—the dominance—he had felt at the moment Zlo unleashed it into his system. There was nothing ever created that was more important. So the people of Cumberland Springs would have to suffer, and that was that. His reward was much more important than their lives—or the life of anyone else.

“So, what do you want me to do?” Gary asked. “How am I going to ‘crush the soul’ of this little town?”

“That part is easy, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. “You’re going to continue doing what you’ve been doing, except on a larger scale. You will seek the innocent (children, as they are called) and bring them to me. But not just one here and there when the urge strikes you. You’re going on a rampage and will bring me all of them! Every child under the age of twelve, male and female.”

Gary had felt Zlo’s punishment inside his body as well as the reward and knew the entity was not one to be argumentative with. But this? “Now how the hell am I going to lure away all the kids in this town? I’m not the fucking Pied Piper!”

“Mr. Elmer—Gary—I don’t expect you to lure them all at once,” Zlo said. “Use your resources, your facilities, your skills. Take them one at a time, carefully, then bring them (subdued, of course) to a secluded location. It’s no more difficult than the first child you took from that woman at her home in broad daylight. As you can see, you came away the victor in that exchange.”

Even though Cumberland Springs was small, there could easily be a hundred kids in that age bracket. As he drove around the town, he found the schools (Elementary, Jr. High, and High School) which were not simple one room classrooms; they were actual institutions. The thought was overwhelming. Hell, just after the first one went missing, the whole town would be on alert, searching high and low for the little shit. Sure, maybe he could take a few more while most of the residents were out looking for the first one, but it wouldn’t be long before the State Police and even the FBI got involved. There was no way this was possible, not even in a big city like New York or Chicago. Even five or six abductions from the same place would draw national attention. Every blood hound and bounty hunter in the country would be out here. 

“I understand your concern, Gary,” Zlo said. “And, of course, I want as much longevity out of you as I can get. So let’s compromise. Can you take ten without getting caught? Do you think that is within your ability?”

Gary didn’t have to think about it. “No. Not a chance.”

“Then tell me, Gary. What is your number?”

Several scenarios ran through his head, along with tactics and plans. His first grab the other day went off without a hitch. If he could get the jump on any adults around the kid and dispatch them quickly like he did the blonde woman, he might be able to do three in a day. But he’d have to get the hell out of town right after that, before anyone realized what was going on, definitely before the cops were alerted. He’d also have to find a remote location to stash them, like a base of operations. So maybe, just maybe, three was possible. But then he couldn’t come back until the heat blew over, at least six months or so. Damn, this was going to be tough. Solo’s would be easy: smash, grab, and move on to the next city. But now Zlo was asking for too much—way too much.

“I can do three, tops,” Gary said. “Any more than that and I’m gonna get nabbed.”

“Three?” Zlo asked. 

“Yeah, that’s the best I can do right now; I’m sure of it.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Elmer. Three would be an excellent test of your abilities. And in due time, as your skills improve, we can revisit this charnel pit and try for more.”

Gary felt relieved, but not completely. Three abductions in one day was still a stretch, but the reward… “Yeah, what about the reward?”

“Ah, the reward,” Zlo said. “Once you have given me three, and you have navigated to safety, your reward shall begin. And it will be oh so much more than you can imagine this time, Gary. So much more.”

SEVEN

At around five hours into her shift, Lauren realized she had not yet taken her lunch break. Her indicator was the most basic of all: a growling stomach. There was a grilled chicken salad waiting for her in the cafeteria cooler, and she was hungrily ready for it.

Traffic in the ICU was light this evening. There were only two patients recovering from surgeries and both were coming along fine, no problems or hick-ups. 

“I’m going to lunch,” Lauren said to Lisa Wyndham, the other nurse on duty with her. 

“Take your time,” Lisa said. “Not much going on around here tonight.” She was scrolling through pictures on her phone and looking bored. They had completed all the rounds already and caught up on all the paperwork. There wasn’t much to do now except babysit.

When the elevator door opened to the third floor where the cafeteria was located, Lauren was greeted with a surprise. Standing at the door, waiting for it to open, was Devon Harris, the paramedic. She had seen him briefly on and off around the hospital over the past few months, but hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with him. She wanted to, several times, but didn’t know exactly how to approach him. She knew—like her—that he had had an experience with the John Doe patient, so the two were connected in that way, but something else inside had encouraged her to reach out to Devon, something from deep within her gut. 

He looked awkwardly surprised when the elevator doors opened and he stood face to face with Lauren. 

“Hi,” she said.

“Oh, hey,” Devon said. “How are you?”

“I’m doing ok. How about you?”

Devon stepped aside so she could get out before the doors closed. He traded places with her and entered the elevator. “I’m good,” he said. “Well, nice seeing you.” He pushed a button on the panel.

Lauren hesitated for a second, then reached inside to stop the door before it closed. Devon stared at her, surprised.

“Wait,” she said with a nervous jitter in her voice. “Do you have a minute?”

She could tell it caught him off-guard. His face gave the expression that his mind was probably fishing for an excuse but didn’t have time to come up with one. 

“This’ll just take a minute,” Lauren said. “I promise.”

Devon looked confused and apprehensive. “Well, ok. Sure,” he said. 

He followed her to the back section of the cafeteria and the two sat at a round table by the windows, which looked out over the parking lot. 

“I’m not really even sure what to say,” Lauren said.

Devon didn’t answer. He just looked at Lauren, studying her face like he was trying to figure her out, and this strange encounter they were sharing. 

She continued: “I have the weirdest feeling I’m supposed to talk to you.”

Devon smiled cautiously, then flattened his fingers and tapped his left hand on the surface of the table, allowing his wedding band to make an audible knocking sound—a subtle gesture he’d made anytime a young woman struck up a conversation with him.

Looking at his ring, Lauren said: “No, that’s not why I wanted to speak with you.”

He didn’t answer, but gave her a gentle smile.

“I’ll just say it,” Lauren said, and took a deep breath. “Something happened last November with that John Doe patient, the one you brought to the hospital in the ambulance. You had an experience with him, and so did I. In fact, a few others did, too.”

A nervousness came over Devon. His face flushed, and he fidgeted in his seat.

“You saw or felt something surrounding him, and I think it’s the same thing that happened to me,” Lauren said. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Devon said, and got up from his seat. “I have to get back to work. Excuse me.” He started to walk away from the table.

“You saw the shadows!” Lauren said, loudly but not yelling.

Her statement froze Devon on the spot. Her words had turned him into stone, and he stood still and helpless.

Standing in front of him, blocking him from moving again (if he even could), Lauren said: “I know what you saw, Devon. I saw them, too.”

Through a dry mouth that felt like it was full of sawdust, Devon finally said: “Who told you that?” There was a tinge of anger in his words and facial expression.

“It’s not important,” Lauren said, shaking her head. “But what is important is that other people had the same experience. You’re not alone.”

The two looked at each other, neither knowing what to say, until Devon’s cell phone rang from his back pocket. He pulled out the phone and answered it. “Yeah, I was just in the cafeteria. I’ll be right down.” He said to whoever was on the other end of the conversation. “

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Devon said, relieved that a way out of his encounter with Lauren had presented itself. “I gotta get back to work.”

He stepped past her, saying nothing else, and Lauren didn’t pursue any further. She had made contact with Devon, as her gut had pushed her to do. She didn’t know why, but at least now she could say she had done it. The only thing her gut was saying now was: “Don’t forget about that chicken salad in the cooler.”

EIGHT

As they stepped outside into the midday sun, a strange surprise awaited Harry and Billy. The prison recreation yard was packed—packed solid. They almost couldn’t get out of the main door from all the inmates crammed around the entrance. But how was this possible? They only let so many out at a time to keep the guards from getting overwhelmed. Why the big crowd today? And none of them looked happy about it, either. 

The two cautiously slinked their way through the cluster, trying not to bump into anyone who would toss out a quick elbow in their direction. Their slow, slithering contortions were the same skills weasels employ when trying to slip their way into a chicken coop.

After a few moments of careful skulking, they found sudden relief. The crowd had opened up and all the space in the world was right in front of them. The two soon realized there actually weren’t more guys in the yard today. The inmates were, for some strange reason, all crammed into one place in the west section near the main doors. At first Harry thought maybe there was a fight or something that drew the attention of the crowd—somebody getting tuned up for ignoring the rules—but that wasn’t the case. They had simply all jammed together for no apparent reason. 

“What the hell?” Billy asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Harry said. 

Billy laughed. “Fuck it! We got the whole yard to ourselves, now. Who cares?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Harry said, motioning to the far end of the empty yard. “We got business down there.”

“Yeah, we do,” Billy agreed. “Let’s get to it.”

The empty weight benches and lifeless basketball court gave them a strange sense of foreboding as they walked by. These facilities were always in use during rec-time, even in the middle of winter. There were always pumped up muscle heads lifting weights, or the super athletic types shooting hoops—activities Harry and Billy could never take part in.

They glanced back at the crowd as they continued on their trek. The inmates stared at them with odd, anxious faces, as if watching someone take their final walk to the electric chair. There were no laughs or jeers or insults today. No, “Hey girls, give us a kiss!” or anything like that. The inmates merely watched quietly and with great interest.

“Are we in the Twilight Zone or something, man?” Billy asked.

“I don’t know dude, but this is fucked up!” Harry said.

Just as they passed the basketball court, they noticed a smell, something rancid like decay. But it didn’t seem to be in the air, if that was even possible. The smell was everywhere, as though they were surrounded by a group of invisible people who had all spent the night curled up inside the belly of a week-old dead cow. It was disgusting enough to make them sick. This would explain the crowd at the other end of the yard, though. The smell must have been what had kept everyone away. 

Harry looked at Billy and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not that bad,” he said.

“Really, Harry? Not that bad?” Billy said. “If that’s our guy stinkin’ like this, his protection ain’t worth it, no way.”

“Come on,” Harry said and continued onward toward the other end of the yard. 

Soon something else had accompanied the smell—something even more disparaging than mere odor. That terrible feeling from yesterday (the cold, icy hand of fear they had both felt and had run from in unison) was back, but today it was much more ominous than before. Its strength carried double the intensity of yesterday’s event. Its menacing essence filling the air, choking all life out of the area, killing everything on an emotional level as much as physical.  

The urge to run—to panic—washed over both men, and their hearts pounded out of control.

“I can’t do this, Harry,” Billy said. “I can’t go no further!”

Harry stood frozen in place, looking at the far end of the rec-yard in a terrified stare. All color had washed from his face, leaving him a pallid shade of light grey. 

Billy caught the sight of what his friend had fixated on and jumped back a few steps. From a bird's-eye view, one might look at the scene ahead and think there was nothing wrong. Two inmates in orange prison drab sitting next to each other on a bench. Who gives a shit? But at ground level, about a hundred feet away from the figures, the atmosphere had flooded with terror.

The two men stared at Harry and Billy, stoic, similar to petrified timber from a prehistoric era. The younger of the two was the new guy they were hoping to do business with, but the older guy sitting next to him was new to the yard, not part of the regular group assigned to this rec-time slot. He shouldn’t be out here right now. 

“Nope, this ain’t gonna work, Harry,” Billy said. “I ain’t messin’ with those motherfuckers, no way!”

Harry silently agreed with his friend and slowly began stepping backward, like a man who had just stumbled upon a sleeping bear in the middle of the forest. Billy joined his friend’s cautious retreat and in a few moments, they were passing the basketball courts and weight benches, looking for a place to stand with the rest of the frightened inmates.

When a piranha is placed into a fish tank as a pet, the owner usually tosses in a group of Guppies or smaller fish for the thing to eat whenever it feels like feeding. The smaller fish understand their fate, instinctively, and all huddle together at the opposite end of the tank in fear of the beast—until the piranha gets hungry and goes on a carnage filled rampage, leaving few (if any) survivors in a cloudy tank full of half eaten fish heads. The inmates of the Somerset County Correctional Facility—no matter how hardened or strong—seemed to all carry the same instincts as those poor bait fish, understanding that the beast with deadly intentions was only a few yards away.

NINE

“It’s amusing how they just know, isn’t it?” Bol said. “Their innate fear response is the only thing about them I actually enjoy—well, other than watching them utterly destroy one another to obtain some selfish desire. Look at the terror in all of them as they huddle together over there, instinctually understanding danger is near. The rest of their survival instincts give me no pleasure at all, but the fear… I relish it!”

“I agree,” Tuga replied. “It’s why I’ve stayed with this one for so long. His suffering is refreshing. In fact, the atmosphere of this entire facility is filled with the same delicious misery.”

“I’ve noticed,” Bol said. “I felt it the moment we entered.”

“I assume your traveling companion made a mistake and was apprehended somewhere along your journey?” Tuga said. 

“Yes,” Bol replied. “Idiot. He insisted on doing his work for me in broad daylight. It’s a wonder he made it this far through his life. I’m only staying with him in the hopes that one of these other degenerates beats him to death so I can enjoy his suffering. He owes me that much.”

“I can understand that,” Tuga said.

“Why haven’t you abandoned this one?” Bol asked.

“Oddly, I’m finding enjoyment in this place. The worthless piles of flesh interned here are the worst humanity can offer,” Tuga said. “Each day they defile each other in new, inventive ways. I’m merely observing and appreciating the inhumanity.”

Bol laughed. “Look at these two slugs approaching. I believe they would like a word. Wait… do they? [laughing] No, they don’t. Run and join the others, louse!”

“Where will you go after your companion meets his end?” Tuga asked.

“Actually, that will be up to you.”

“Oh?” Tuga replied.

“I felt your presence when we approached the walls of this compound, and I wanted to offer you something you may find of great… interest,” Bol said. 

“I took notice when you arrived as well,” Tuga said.

“I believe my idea could satisfy our hunger on a scale equal to those above us, possibly even further—much further,” Bol said, laughing. “We’ll also need to involve our third to pursue this agenda. When was the last time you saw it?”

“Zlo?” Tuga asked. “I encountered it briefly after it had just escaped from a cave where someone had entrapped it for several years. It wasn’t happy.”

Bol laughed hysterically. “No, I can’t imagine Zlo being happy about that at all. We’ll need to find it, though, to realize the vision.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” Tuga said. “Zlo is predictable. I have a feeling I know where it is right now.”

TEN

Even in the full light of such a beautiful day, the giant structure on top of the hill seemed imposing and formidable. It looked like a place that should have a thunderstorm brewing behind it, complete with crashing bolts of lightning, dark ominous clouds, and a sinister laugh emanating from somewhere deep inside. The stone work and architecture was certainly impressive, but the building just seemed out of place overlooking the town, like it belonged in a more gothic setting (not quit Transylvania, but definitely somewhere along the dreary northern coast of England—Carfax Abbey, perhaps?). Father Richardson didn’t feel at ease looking at Cumberland Springs Memorial as he and Reverend Allen drove up the hill in the reverend’s car. Granted, hospitals aren’t the most enjoyable places on earth, but weren’t they at least supposed to be somewhat inviting? He laughed to himself and wondered if Doctor Frankenstein had a laboratory on the upper floor in this place. 

“It’s funny, Father,” Reverend Allen said. “Everyone I bring here for the first time has the same look on their face as you do now.”

“I’ll bet,” Father Richardson said. “This is quite a building.”

“That it is,” the reverend agreed. “It’s old, like mostly everything in Cumberland Springs. I believe the architect had spent a lot of time in Europe, pre-World War II, and came back with the gothic design style stuck in his head. He added a hint of art déco into the design as well—just a hint. There’s a long story about him and this place that I won’t bore you with today. Perhaps another time.”

Immediately after they parked and Father Richardson stepped out of the car, the wind took his hat, forcing him to chase it across the parking lot the way a child chases a rogue chicken around a barnyard. Reverend Allen yelled. “Stay on it, Father; it can’t go far!”

The two laughed after the priest finally retrieved it. 

“They actually have a name for that gusty breeze up here,” Reverend Allen said. “Stella. Don’t ask me why they call it that, but she’s claimed an untold number of hats and umbrellas from unsuspecting victims over the years.”

They went inside through the main lobby entrance and stopped at the coffee shop before continuing upstairs to the ICU ward. Reverend Allen bought his guest a latte and one for himself. Father Richardson looked around the interior with wide eyes, still captivated by the hospital’s build.

Inside the elevator, Reverend Allen spoke in a low voice. “I’m going to show you where it happened on that terrible night back in November. I haven’t been here since then, actually. I think having you with me is giving me courage, Father.”

Father Richardson smiled and looked at the reverend. “There’s nothing to fear, Reverend. God is with us, always.”

As soon as the elevator doors opened, Father Richardson’s face turned pale and his heart fluttered. Perhaps it was the anticipation, knowing they were going to the place where an unexplainable event had occurred, or maybe it was the latte (though caffeine had never bothered him in the past), but an undeniable sensation had washed over the priest like an ice bucket bath. He didn’t want to step out of the elevator. Nothing good could exist across this threshold.

“Father?” Reverend Allen asked. He was standing in the hall outside of the elevator.

The priest composed himself the best he could. Strength and courage through Jesus Christ! he repeated silently until finally his heart had calmed and his breath had slowed. 

Reverend Allen studied Father Richardson with great concern as the man stood inside the elevator, collecting himself. Then it hit him: He’s feeling it, too! The reverend didn’t smile or rejoice over this idea, but it gave him an odd sense of relief. If the priest was experiencing something like he and the others had felt, it would lend credibility to their story. Perhaps the Catholics would take them seriously and even lend their help. 

“I’m ok, Reverend,” Father Richardson finally said. “I think I’m just having one of those days.”

The reverend said nothing as they walked together toward the nurse’s station, allowing the priest to handle things in his own way—whatever those things were.

Lauren Rives looked up from the desk when she saw the two men approaching. Her face did nothing to hide her surprise. 

“Hello, ladies,” Reverend Allen said, addressing Lauren and her co-nurse, Lisa. “How are you both today?”

“Fine, Reverend,” Lauren said. Lisa agreed she was fine as well. 

“I’m taking Father Richardson on a tour of our hospital,” Reverend Allen said. “Would you mind if I showed him around? We won’t disturb anyone, of course.”

“Sure thing, Reverend,” Lisa said. “There’s not much going on here today.”

“Thank you,” the reverend said, and looked at Lauren. “Is there a patient in this room over here?” He nodded toward room 337.

Lisa interrupted before Lauren could speak: “Not today, Reverend. You’re welcome to go inside if you’d like.”

Lauren’s eyes opened wide as she stared at Reverend Allen. What is he up to? she thought. And in there, of all places?

The reverend gave her a reassuring wink and said no more. 

The two men walked over to the door and stood at the open threshold, looking inside. 

Father Richardson halted the reverend before he could proceed into the room. He spoke in a low voice and looked over his shoulder, back toward the nurse’s station. “Reverend, I noticed the one nurse’s name tag said Lauren. Is that…”

“Yes, Father, that’s the nurse I told you about earlier,” Reverend Allen whispered. “She had shared a similar experience in this very room. But she’s on duty now, and I don’t want to disturb her.”

“Oh no. Of course not,” Father Richardson said. He glanced back at Lauren one more time. She was staring at the two men, looking concerned and even a bit frightened. Her expression added to the gravity of the moment.

“Lord, give me strength,” Reverend Allen said, and took a bold step through the doorway of room 337. He paused and looked around once he was inside. The room had been painted and refurbished recently (it would have to have been. Whatever had attacked him that night had torn the ever loving shit out of the place, top to bottom). But the fresh paint and new furnishings couldn’t mask the memory of what had happened in here.

Father Richardson entered further into the room, passed the reverend—who was momentarily fixed inside of his own thoughts. While his personal feelings of fear and anxiety had faded since the episode in the elevator, he couldn’t help but notice a strange air in the room. Something had indeed happened here, and it left an indelible mark that could only be read by the senses. At first glance, the place was no different from any other ICU room he’d visited before, but the undercurrent here carried a vibration with it—a memory, if that was even possible—as if the emotions of Reverend Allen’s attack were trapped here in an invisible cell for eternity.

The longer he stood in this room, the more Father Richardson’s own emotions rose. He didn’t want to be here another second. There was something he could not deny, no matter how hard he tried: evil had been here. There were no sights or smells at the moment—as the reverend had described—but something from the darkness had left its mark inside these walls. He was certain of it. 

“I’ve been wanting to face my fear about this room for a while now,” Reverend Allen said. “But I think I’ve had all I can handle for one day. Would you mind if we left, Father?”

“Not at all, Reverend,” Father Richardson said. He could hardly contain his relief.

The priest and the reverend walked out of the room as calmly as they could, both wanting to run from the place like terrified children. They waved to the nurses and left the building without stopping on any other floor. It wasn’t until the reverend’s car had made it to the bottom of the hill—and the giant, imposing structure was completely out of view—that Father Richardson felt better, though he didn’t know if he would ever truly be himself again.

ELEVEN

The various committees and societies and clubs of Cumberland Springs had just about put the finishing touches on the town square. The place was close to near perfect and ready for the influx of people who would visit tomorrow for the Mile Long Yard Sale. Hanging flower baskets full of bright colors dawned every light post, the grass around the gazebo was perfectly manicured, tents and tables were pitched and decorated, and a whole litany of other tasks were being performed by a bustling crowd of workers and volunteers. A vast amount of pride went into making these town events successful. They were traditions, dating back for decades—some from over a century, going clear back to when the town was founded in 1753. The spirit of community shined boldly and brightly during these auspicious occasions. 

Glen stood next to the gazebo, talking with two of the ladies from the Beautification Society who were hanging brightly colored, spring inspired bunting from the gazebo rails. Tomorrow afternoon, the gazebo would become a bandstand for the Laurel Highlands Jazz Kats—a quintet of area high school band directors led by Frank “Gig” Wasco. 

“The square is really looking great, ladies,” Glen said. The women modestly accepted the compliment and kept working. They took the duties of the Beautification Society as serious as the evening news. There wasn’t much time for small talk on the day before an event.

His phone suddenly went off, blasting out the alarm notification. It was almost time to pick up Sarah from school at three o’clock. Vickie had set the alarm on his phone last night after she had verbally reminded him Sarah would need to be collected today. She’d probably be calling at five after three to make sure he had her in the car. Organization was a big part of Vickie’s personality, which some may have found annoying at times. Glen actually liked her that way. She kept the family in line, moving forward without a snag. She knew where everything in the house was, no matter how small, and she never seemed to get annoyed when Glen or the kids constantly asked where things were (books, homework, keys). He suspected his wife rather enjoyed the family’s dependance on her. 

School let out the very minute Glen had lined up his police cruiser in the pickup zone with the other parent’s cars. Kids were running with papers in their hands and happily yelling into the warm afternoon air. Sarah was right in the middle of it all, looking very much at home in the environment. She quickly spotted the cruiser and ran to the passenger side door.

“Hey, pumpkin!” Glen said as his daughter climbed into the front seat and buckled herself in without being reminded to do so.

“Hi daddy,” Sarah said. Before he could ask about her day, she had already opened her pink book bag and was showing him the “A” she had earned on her math test today. The paper had a popcorn scented scratch and sniff sticker at the top just above the teacher’s handwritten remark—Good job Sarah!

“That’s wonderful, honey!” Glen said. “I’m very proud of you.”

She carefully slid the paper back into her bag in a spot which she had definitely organized, either alphabetically or by color. She gets that from her mother, Glen thought and smiled.

“We have to stop in town to pick up Brandon’s birthday gift before we go home,” Glen said. “And I need you to keep quiet about it until after he opens it tonight.”

“Why does he get to open it tonight?” Sarah asked. “I thought the party was Sunday?”

“Yes, but today is his actual birthday,” Glen said. “Don’t you like to open your big present on your actual birthday?”

She vigorously shook her head up and down in reply. Then a thought hit her little mind, and she smiled even wider. “Can we stop for ice cream before we go home?”

“Your mother will kill me if I let you have ice cream before supper,” Glen said.

She looked at her father with eyes and a face that was like Kryptonite to Superman. She was adorable. He tried to look away but could still feel her staring at him—looking into his soul. And she knew her father was nearly powerless against her charm. But he couldn’t cave in right now; Vickie would flip if he let Sarah spoil her dinner. He pictured his wife’s face and the look she would give him if he relented to his daughter’s request. These women owned him. He was in a losing battle, no matter which way he chose.

“How about if I take you all out for ice cream after dinner?” Glen asked. She probably wouldn’t go for it, but it was worth a shot. 

“Ok,” she said, letting her father off the hook for now. He actually felt relieved.

At La Chance Hardware and Sporting Goods, Tim La Chance was waiting for Glen in the back section of the store, where the sporting goods were displayed. His face had a look of childish excitement. “So Vickie really went along with this?” Tim asked.

“Yeah, but she’s not too happy about it,” Glen said. “He better not shoot anything with this thing. She’ll have my ass over it.”

“Ha! No doubt,” Tim said. “Well, here ya go, buddy.” He set the large box up on the counter and Glen handed over his credit card to pay for it.

“Wow, daddy! Is that for Brandon?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, honey. That’s his birthday gift,” Glen said. He squatted down to face his daughter at eye level. “This is not a toy; I want you to understand that. And I don’t want you to touch it. Maybe someday when you’re older, we’ll teach you how to shoot it, but for now, I don’t want you to go near it. Okay?”

“It looks scary,” Sarah said. “I won’t touch it. I promise.”

Glen took the box, said goodbye to Tim, and placed it in the trunk of his police cruiser. He looked around first to make sure Brandon wasn’t out riding his bike around the square with his friends—something the kid did almost every day after school. The coast was clear. Now the trick would be to get it in the house without the boy seeing it before Vickie could wrap it (Glen was terrible at wrapping gifts, so Vickie didn’t waste her time asking him for help).

“Hey babe,” Glen said when his wife answered the phone. “We’re on our way back from picking up Brandon’s gift. Where is the boy?”

“He’s out riding his bike,” she said. “I saw him and his friends blow past the front of the house about ten minutes ago. They went towards Kenny Arrington’s house. I think Kenny was part of their little group. Just watch out for him before you bring it inside. I’ll call you if he comes home before you get here.”

Five minutes later, Glen was in the driveway looking around for any signs of a pack of bicycle riding kids. The coast seemed clear. He grabbed the box out of the trunk and made a dash for the house while Vickie held the front door open. He took it straight upstairs to the master bedroom and put it on the bed. Vickie came in behind him with the wrapping paper and took over.

“This damn thing looks even more dangerous up close,” Vickie said. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into it.”

Glen kissed his wife, but didn’t respond to her statement. The debate was over and didn’t need to be rehashed.

Two hours later, after a nice family dinner in the dining room and ice cream at the Twin Kiss Creamery, Glen went upstairs for a minute, then returned with a rather large, perfectly wrapped package. A small card sticking out from a red silk bow said, Happy Birthday Brandon!

The boy’s mouth watered when he saw it. The box was wide at the top and narrow at the bottom, a perfect V shape. He knew what it was. And when he tore through the wrapping paper as a lion might tear into the flesh of a stag, he almost screamed. There it was, large as life, right before his eyes: the Killer Instinct, Lethal 405 Crossbow. A jet black composite gun stock with a high-intensity compound bow attached to the end. Brandon’s mouth hung open. He couldn’t believe it actually existed. He’d seen the crossbow Daryl had used on the Walking Dead to kill zombies in almost every episode, and he’d studied the pictures he had found online and in catalogs, but he had never had the chance to study one up close. Now here it was, right in front of him, and it was his! There had been a couple of remote controlled cars he’d gone nuts over in the past, and of course last Christmas when he opened the new PlayStation, but nothing up to this point in his life had given Brandon the excitement he felt over this amazing piece of finely tuned equipment. The guys are gonna shit when they see this! he thought.

Glen and Vickie watched their son revel in his amazement and they smiled—Glen more so than Vickie. Brandon’s excitement had worn off on everyone. 

“Want to shoot it?” Glen said.

Brandon looked up at his father with even wider eyes. “Right now? Seriously?”

“We’ll go out to the range after the party on Sunday, but I think we can fire off a few arrows in the yard tonight,” Glen said. Their backyard bordered several acres of wooded land, so the area was safe for archery shooting.

Vickie cleaned up the wrapping paper and reiterated to her son that she had zero tolerance with this thing. One accident and no more crossbow. That was not up for debate.

The kid must have been watching a bunch of YouTube videos about crossbow shooting, because he loaded and fired it like a pro right out of the box, and with deadly accuracy. Glen went over the rules with his son about not shooting animals—or anything else, for that matter—while Brandon launched arrow after arrow into the center of the target. The bow was strictly for target shooting. He even told him about the archery league Tim La Chance was going to start in the basement of his hardware store, which excited Brandon even more. The chance to compete and prove his skill. What could be better? 

Glen watched his son operate the bow and smiled at how serious Brandon was about it. The kid took his time and was extra careful about every movement. He’d spent enough time with the boy over the years to give him a healthy respect for dangerous things (knives, axes, firearms), so he didn’t worry too much about this. Accidents happen, true, but the best he could do was give his son a healthy respect for the thing and train him how to use it properly. Though the thought had crossed Glen’s mind more than a few times: If he does accidentally shoot someone with this sucker, it’s going to be a fatality.