Dire Harvest Book 2 Chapter 7

ONE

He hadn’t expected to stay any later than 6:00 PM, but Reverend Allen insisted his new acquaintance from the Catholic Church have dinner with him before heading back to the monastery. The reverend would accept no refusal. So Father Richardson figured fine, what the heck? Couldn’t hurt, right? His only supper plans were to see what the brothers back at the monastery had made for dinner, anyway. A restaurant was surely the better choice. 

The restaurant—a large barn that had been converted into a supper club decades ago, with the most amazing view of the sunset over Shawnee lake—was every bit as lovely as the town of Cumberland Springs itself. He had ordered the smoked steelhead trout and roasted red potatoes, which, as the menu stated, was the local favorite. When the reverend ordered an after dinner glass of fine Irish Whiskey, Father Richardson couldn’t resist the temptation to have a glass of his own. One drink never hurt anyone, so they say.

Their conversation was light, away from the topic of daemons, evil spirits, or the devil. The reverend had already shared his stories on that subject and was finished with it. He didn’t feel the need to jam it down Father Richardson’s throat, which did not go unappreciated; the priest had heard all he needed to hear on the subject, and, moreover, had experienced all the feelings and strangeness he could handle for one day. He’d hash the whole thing out with his superiors in the morning when he got back to the diocese—something he was not at all looking forward to. He could just imagine the looks on their faces when he told them about his own personal episodes while in the field. They’d probably think he was nuts and have him evaluated. 

After coffee and dessert, Father Richardson put an end to the evening and said it was time for him to bid adieu. Reverend Allen would not let him contribute one penny for the meal, saying, “You came all the way out here to listen to my crazy stories. The least I can do is send you home with a full stomach.” 

Father Richardson appreciated the gesture. “The next time you come to Pittsburgh, Reverend, dinner is on me,” the priest said. It wasn’t an empty sentiment. He genuinely hoped to have another opportunity to meet up with Reverend Allen. Their conversation was rich, engaging, and entertaining, everything a friendly discussion should be. 

Standing at Father Richardson’s car in the dark parking lot, Reverend Allen paused before shaking hands. A look of concern fell over his face. “I hope I haven’t made you feel uneasy with all of this today, Father. Please understand, that was not my intention.”

Shaking his head, the priest smiled and let out a laugh. “Not at all, Reverend. This is our business, isn’t it? To protect the world from evil and keep God’s children safe? At least I believe that’s our job. And from what I’ve seen today, you, sir, are doing the best you can. If I can help in any way, it would be my privilege.”

“You’ve helped tremendously already, Father,” the reverend said. “Just believing my story has taken a great deal of weight off my shoulders.”

“No one should suffer such things alone, Reverend,” Father Richardson said. “I’ll speak with my superiors in the morning and get back to you as soon as I can. Though I will say this: the church is a bureaucracy, like any other corporation or government. The wheels can turn slowly, if they even turn at all. Just know that you have my support. I am only one person, but I will do everything I can for you.”  

The two men of God said goodbye and parted company. Father Richardson found his way back to the town square (which was just as adorable at night) and back to the main road that led out of town. He smiled as he drove through, thinking Cumberland Springs was a place where he would love to spend more time under different circumstances. 

Most roads in this rural, mountainous part of Pennsylvania are winding and desolate. Thick trees (predominantly pine and spruce) flank each side of the pavement, except for the areas where a steep drop-off threatens one side and looks off into an abyss of mist and darkness (thank God for guardrails). And there aren’t any spots where you can just drive straight. Constant sharp turns, steep inclines and descents, and fog—lots of fog, especially when the road ascends upwards, making you feel like you are driving off into the clouds. There must be countless accidents during the winter in this region. Father Richardson had mentioned his opinion about the roads to the head Abbot at the monastery when he had first arrived earlier this morning. The Abbot had told him they usually stocked up enough food and provisions to last out the winter, because at times the roads were actually closed by the state—too many salt trucks had gone over the guardrails during icy conditions and plunged violently into the ravine below. There were still a few old PennDot trucks down there they could never fish out. 

Father Richardson drove more cautiously than he ever remembered driving in the past. It didn’t help that his nerves were still on edge—though that glass of whiskey at the restaurant had toned them back a touch (just a touch). There was a feeling in that place, he thought as he leaned forward in his seat, squinting into the windshield like it would somehow help him see better through the fog. That room! Dear God, what had happened in that ICU room? Visions flashed in his mind, aided by his imagination, of Reverend Allen being pummeled by shadows and unseen spirits, of Harlan Wallace (that disturbing face from the old newspaper article would no doubt haunt his nightmares for years to come), of the Tennessee minister who had suffered the same ordeal as Reverend Allen, of the goat… yes, the goat that had hosted an evil spirit named Zlo or Bol—one of those two names. The spirits actually had names, and the names had meanings from another language. It was all so disturbing. He knew he shouldn’t think of such things while trying to navigate this impossible road, but the thoughts were there, relentlessly flashing through his mind. They would not allow his attention to be diverted, even if it meant his safety.  

And the smell! He’d heard stories similar to this regarding demonic possession. A common trope was an odor surrounding the afflicted person, typically sulfur or rotten eggs. Did that mean the reverend and the others who shared his testimony could have all read the same depictions of possession? The man certainly was adept at doing research, so he had to have come across any number of stories illustrating the same event as he had described in his own account. But why? Why would he go through all this trouble to bullshit the Catholic Church? Father Andre, ever playing the role of skeptic, had said people like to make up stories in search of book deals or perhaps even a television show. The ones who chase the paranormal on TV just love this kind of story, and getting corroboration from the church would almost assure them a boost in sales or ratings. That might be a motivation; he couldn’t deny it. But what about the reverend’s character? If he was full of shit, he sure was a better actor than Tom Hanks or Chadwick Boseman or any of the other greats of the silver screen. No, Father Richardson considered himself an excellent judge of his fellow human beings, so his verdict was in: the guy was genuine; no doubt about it. 

An unsettling feeling suddenly came over the priest, something outside of the nervousness he’d felt driving this treacherous road at night in the fog. The feeling of being watched, just like what he’d experienced back at Reverend Allen’s house. The uneasy suspicion he was not alone. But he was alone, of course (unless a deranged maniac with a hatchet had slid into the backseat while he was at the restaurant and was about to turn him into the ending of an urban legend). He doubted it, but laughed at the image. No, this was coming from all around him again, sending a chill down his back and covering his arms in goose flesh. His internal instinct was telling him something was wrong. 

An opening in the fog gave him a moment of relief, but it was short-lived by another patch of the white stuff. “Give me a break,” he said to the windshield. 

The feeling came on stronger now, launching adrenaline from his core throughout his entire body in several pulsing doses which made his heart thump and fingers shake. “Not now! Not now!” 

Drops of rain hit the glass in random spots, not hard, but enough to add more tension to the moment. He glanced up at his iPhone, attached to the windshield by a suction cup holder (he preferred the GPS app as opposed to the built-in unit on the car’s dashboard). It told him he still had fifteen miles to go before reaching his destination. At this slow speed, it could easily take him a half hour or better to get to the monastery. 

The feeling intensified. Later, he would swear to it—he’d actually swear to it all the way to his dying breath—a voice had whispered in his ear. He felt a puff of warm air and smelled an acrid odor that came with it. At first he didn’t understand what it had said; it wasn’t speaking English. But when he thought back to his days in seminary school and the Latin he’d had to study then, the voice became very clear: Behold, I will corrupt your seed, and spread dung upon your faces, even the dung of your solemn feasts; and one shall take you away with it! He knew the verse (Malachi 2:3) and knew it had to do with God humiliating a priest who was not worthy or wholesome. But why? And more importantly, where in the world did it even come from?

“Even the devil can quote scripture,” the soft voice of his heart spoke up. He knew that voice well and believed in it wholeheartedly. Let your conscience be your guide. 

Suddenly, the fog lifted again, enough to see about twenty yards ahead. Father Richardson slammed on the brakes with both feet, causing the car tires to scream out into the night. At first, he thought it was a deer standing in the middle of the road, which was the most logical explanation for the object (this area was full of them). But after a second or two, he came to realize this was no dear he was staring at. The creature in front of him, only fifteen feet away, was a human figure. Its head was cloaked with a hood—or maybe a rain poncho—and it was tall, almost inhumanly tall. It reminded him of a solid black chess piece, carved in the likeness of a person, but with no predominant features. Was it a person? The more he studied it, the less certain he was. The silhouette was there, but nothing else (a shadow, but not transparent like a shadow). It was beyond his explanation, beyond his logic. But it was there, and damn if he didn’t feel like the thing was staring at him.

Fear gripped his heart and squeezed, causing him to lose his breath. He struggled to gain control of himself, but the battle was desperately lost. His fight-or-flight mechanisms had given him the juice to get the hell out of there, but there was no place to go. Behind lay only darkness and fog, and the road wasn’t nearly wide enough for him to turn the car around. Ahead, well, that wasn’t really an option at the moment. So he sat, gripping the wheel with all his strength, paralyzed in a deep pool of terror, helplessly waiting to witness his fate. 

Voices spoke again in Latin from inside the car, coming from every direction. They said the most vile things: pig, whore master, malefactor, wretch, wastrel… it went on and on, and Father Richardson now truly understood what it felt like to be chastised. He perceived sorrow and worthlessness. His emotions fell so low that for a moment he had lost the will to live. He wasn’t anything to anyone anymore. The voices helped him to understand his life meant nothing and love only existed in man’s vain imagination. The world didn’t care, God didn’t care, and now Father Richardson no longer cared. The voices were so close they felt like they were seeping underneath his skin. They continued their taunts as their number grew larger. Instead of only a few, they had now become an army, all chanting in unison, pulling back the curtain to show him life had no purpose, no meaning, no reason for him to live it. 

Suddenly, he came to a realization: if anything he’d heard today was actual bullshit, it was the meritless speak coming from these voices. He knew what this was. Evil can say you’re worthless, that your life means nothing, but it cannot prove it. This was the great lie, the false face of the fallen. Here was the untruth. These beasts had no power unless he gave it to them, which he had unknowingly done in his brief moment of weakness. He had let his guard down—taken off his spiritual armor—and the enemy had slithered its way in. Now it was time for it to leave.

“Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love commits me here. Ever this day be at my side, to light and guide, to rule and guard. Amen” Father Richardson prayed, then prayed again, then again, until finally the voices had faded into silence and all that remained was the sound of the idling car engine. He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. The heavy air that had surrounded him had vanished, and he felt light and warm. They were gone, banished by faith. 

He looked ahead, and his heart jumped. The figure had not moved. It remained like a Dark Age monument in an ancient cemetery. The trepidation appeared once again in the priest’s heart and the air had thickened as before. He realized what was happening: his fear was again giving the darkness power over him. He had shown a moment of confidence during his prayer, but lost the hold when he saw the shape had not moved. It called his bluff and tested his faith. The voices had scurried back into their wretched holes, but the darkness in front of him stood its ground. 

While tightening his grip on the wheel, Father Richardson took a deep, cleansing breath and once again recited his prayer of protection. He took his foot (both feet, actually) off of the brake and drove forward. The shape did not move. Father Richardson continued prayer and gas pedal. He reached the dark figure and without hesitation and continued driving directly through it. There was no impact, no collision. In a mere second he had passed it, like the thing had never existed at all. 

His heart calmed, and his hands stopped shaking after a few minutes. He wasn’t ready to claim victory yet, but he had proven to himself that confidence in his faith was all he needed for protection. He continued his prayer until he finally—safely—reached the monastery. “What is happening?” he said aloud to the dark interior of the car. Thankfully, the darkness did not answer.

TWO

Adult life has a way of chipping you apart, piece by microscopic piece. They say from the moment you’re born you begin the long arduous trek to the grave, all while life nibbles at you—some times chewing on you—like a school of blood thirsty piranhas during a feeding frenzy. Some people allow it to happen as simply a condition of their existence (life sucks, then you die), while others take a more positive approach, choosing to be optimistic, seeking the best life can offer. At times, you can actually recharge and gain back some of what life has ripped from you. Vacations, meditation, hobbies, exercise, and sleep are just a few things folks have found that can help one recover from life’s daily erosion of the mind, body, and soul. 

For Henry Ward, the tool he had needed to take back some of what life had stripped away was simply a day spent with his parents. Nothing fancy, but it was exactly the right thing to make him feel like himself again. He had helped his mother in the kitchen during breakfast, cleaned up the garage with his father (who took the day off from work to spend it with his son), and spent some time alone in the one place on earth that made him feel safe. The sights, the smells, and sounds all combined to offer him the same protection he had felt as a child in this house. He could never deny the feeling of warmth, love, and safety that home offered. 

Henry stayed for dinner again, but left after he had helped clean up the dishes. He wanted to stay another night, but knew it was more important to get back to his regular life and fix the problems waiting for him on that side of the world. Besides, if he stayed here again, he’d never want to leave (which would’ve been just fine with his parents; they loved having their boy at home). It probably made them feel young again or something along those lines.

On the way back to Pittsburgh, Ward suddenly got the taste in his mouth for a beer. He didn’t drink the stuff very often, but sometimes it was just the right topper for the day. Most bars on a Friday night would be loud and crowded—he was in no mood for any of that—but a six-pack and a movie on his couch was definitely a party he could handle. And luckily there was a Sheetz convenience store next to a supermarket just up the road that sold beer to go. In Pennsylvania, finding a place that sold six packs that wasn’t a bar was an enormous pain in the ass. It was some sort of political bullshit that had to do with the state’s liquor laws—legislative kick backs and bureaucracy was the real reason. As of late, though, they had let a few convenience stores sell the golden liquid, and Ward knew right where to find the closest one. 

The Sheetz parking lot was half empty (or half full if you wanted to look at it that way), so Ward pulled into an open space a couple of slots over from the front doors. When he walked in, there were several customers droning through the aisles looking for late night snacks. One in particular was a suspicious looking skinny guy in a white t-shirt with dark greasy hair. A combination of his academy training and investigative instincts made it hard for Ward to go anywhere without sizing up everyone in the room. The greasy, skinny guy looked harmless enough at the moment, but his presence was noted. 

He grabbed the six-pack that fit his taste from the cooler and went up to the counter to pay. Scrawny white t-shirt guy walked passed him and headed out the door. Ward noted him once again, even noticing his height on the marked tape along the door frame. Five foot nine. What was it about this guy that peeked the agent’s curiosity? The man had done nothing wrong. Perhaps he reminded him of someone? His interest in the guy was enough to make him hurry his transaction with the cashier and rush outside for a closer look.

Ward stopped in front of the doors and looked around. It took a few seconds to find the guy, but he finally did, at the last parking stall to his left by the dumpster. He was getting into a…

A white van.

The driver's side door was open and the vehicle dome light gave off enough light to illuminate at least some of the interior. An image flashed for a split second before the guy shut the door, just long enough for Ward to record it in his mind for further analysis. There was something brown on the floor that looked like… hair. Was that brown hair? The man bent down and moved it, even spoke to it. Whatever rested on the floor of that van had required attention. 

The man started the engine, then backed out of the parking space.

There was a partial amount of information for Agent Ward to work with, so his memory and imagination had to fill in the rest. Something small with brown hair was on the floor of that van, and the guy spoke to it, attended to it. The more his mind worked through the possibilities, the more the picture became clear. That was not a something, it was a someone—a child. The bastard had a child subdued on the floor of his van. Holy shit!

The six-pack of long-neck bottles Ward had held crashed and broke as he dropped them on the cement pavement, spilling beer in all directions. It didn’t matter. The only thing in the world of any importance was saving a child from an abductor—which Agent Ward was now one hundred percent certain was happening here. 

The van had already headed out of the parking lot, so instead of rushing it on foot, Ward jumped in his car and pursued by vehicle. He didn’t hide his tail on the guy, shadowing him within one car length. There was nowhere on earth this prick could hide now. Ward would tail him until one of them ran out of gas, then on foot if he had to. He would not allow this helpless child to suffer the same fate as his niece. He wasn’t there to save her on that terrible day, but he was here for this one. There was a reason he suddenly wanted a beer on the way home and a reason for him to be at that store at that exact second. The timing of the universe had placed him in the path of someone who needed saving. Why he couldn’t have been there like this on the day Hanson Parker had abducted Katie didn’t matter to him at the moment. He was here now, and he would make sure another family would not have to suffer how his family had suffered.

The van pulled into a shopping plaza with one large grocery store and several other smaller supporting businesses. Ward followed, his heart pounding with adrenaline. The target headed for the back of the lot and parked under a street lamp where there were no other cars. Ward flanked his vehicle to the edge of the lot, about twenty yards away, and turned off the lights. What was greasy t-shirt guy doing up there? Did he know the agent had followed him? Was he trying to wait out his pursuer? See if he’d give up? Or was something else going on in that van?

The thought made Ward sick and outraged. If there was even the slightest chance the bastard was hurting a child in there, he had no more time to delay. The kid surely did not need to endure another second of this ordeal.

He slipped out of the car with subtle grace then tactically stealth’d his way toward the van with his Glock pistol raised to his line of sight. Halfway between his car and the target, Ward sped up to a run, then planted himself right outside the driver’s side door.

“FBI! Come out with your hands up!” he yelled. “Exit the vehicle, now!”

The dome light came on as the van door slowly creaked open. At this moment, Ward had a dangerous split second of hope the asshole would pull a weapon. He had a full magazine of high velocity hollow point rounds with this shit bag’s name on each one, if he just happened to make one false move. 

The thought faded as quickly as it came on. Ward was not a murderer, not a cold-blooded killer. In fact, that was the last thing he’d ever want to have happen, and he knew it deep down. But the thought had come to the surface, and at a perilous moment. He’d need to work this issue out in his head later.  

“Slow!” Ward commanded. “Let me see those hands.”

“Ok, man,” a voice said from the driver's seat. “Please don’t shoot me!”

“Keep coming,” Ward continued his commands. “Slow!”

The man did as ordered until he was fully out of the vehicle, standing face to face with the agent. His hands trembling in the air.

Ward kept the gun pointed at the guy’s face with one hand and used his other to flip his catch around and shove him against the side of the van. He held him by the back of the neck, jamming his face into the mental exterior while he put his firearm back into its waste holster. He then swept the man’s legs out from underneath him and drove him down to the ground on his chest. The guy let out a muffled scream as the cold, damp pavement forced the air out of his lungs. Agent Ward then secured the man’s hands behind his back and handcuffed them with standard issue restraints. Standing up, out of breath, Ward looked down on his catch as if he had just lassoed and tied a run away calf in front of an arena full of screaming rodeo fans. It was a proud moment—for the time being.

When he was sure the prick was secure and not going anywhere, he went to the door to rescue what he was certain would be an abducted child. What he saw when he fully opened the door made his heart fall to the ground—he almost dropped to his knees along with it.

There was no child in distress, tied up on the floor like his imagination had assured him there would be. Instead, there was only a small, hairy dog staring back at him. The thing even turned its head back and forth a few times, trying to figure out what all the commotion was about. Some of its long hair was tied up on its head in a pink bow (of course it was). 

The man on the ground was crying and trying to catch his breath. 

Just to be on the safe side, Ward walked around to the back of the van and pulled the doors open. There was nothing but a bunch of clothes and a makeshift bed with a dirty sleeping bag on top. No Child. It looked like the guy was probably living in this thing.

Walking like the empty shell of a man who had lost all purpose in life, Ward came back to the man on the ground and took the cuffs off his wrists. He then sat on the ground, leaned against the back tire, and succumbed to the flood of emotions he could no longer hold at bay. The dam had ruptured, and Henry Ward felt like he was at the lowest point of his life. He cried into his folded arms for an unknown amount of time—it felt like hours.

Finally, something brought him back, a presence standing in front of him, looking down at him in his state of despair. It was the man he had so brutally accosted. He was holding something in his hand, offering it to Ward.

“Here,” the man said. “Take it.”

Agent Ward reached out and took the object. It was cold and wet. When he finally realized what it was, he smiled at the irony. A can of beer.

The greasy-haired man in the white t-shirt who owned a little brown-haired dog with a pink bow on its head sat down beside Henry Ward and cracked open a beer of his own. They didn’t speak until they had both opened a second can. By then, Ward was ready to articulate an apology that was at least somewhat appropriate for what he had done. And for whatever reason, the man forgave him immediately, an act and a moment that would stick with Henry for the rest of his life. 

Henry gave him one of his FBI business cards. “Here’s your one get out of jail free card, buddy. I owe it to you.”

The man looked at the card and smiled, then put it in his shirt pocket.

THREE

At first, he didn’t even see the structure from the road. It was pretty far back and obstructed by a growth of trees and bushes. Vines and thick briars had also added to its natural camouflage, climbing at its walls in a slow, seasonal attack on the building. Eventually, in a few years, the vines would win their siege and overtake it completely. The future fate of the old barn was of no consequence to Gary at the moment. Here and now, this fucker looked perfect!

The sun had gone down about an hour ago, so Gary felt quite confident he could scout the area without drawing much attention. Though he took great care not to drive the same streets twice—that could easily toss up a red flag within the neighborhood, especially in a place like this. Half of these people were probably related, and guaranteed they all knew the local cops by name. “Yeah, I saw it a few times, a blue van cruising the front street. Never seen it before. Oh, and here’s the license plate number.” Caution was the key to making this operation work. But other than the cars in the parking lot at that bar—Stoney’s or something—the only other traffic he’d seen on the road tonight was the one car he’d passed over by the hospital. 

He had scouted for about an hour before stumbling upon the desolate barn in the overgrown pasture. It was on a rural road heading out of town, but not so far out that he couldn’t get back to it on foot when the action started. 

Best-case scenario would be if he could make his grabs quick and get out of the area before anyone knew three kids were missing. There was some kind of yard sale going on all day, too, which might just be the perfect cover—lots of people in town for the event. He could easily blend the van into the influx of out-of-town vehicles and slide out unnoticed after filling his quota. Not to mention many of the parents would be busy with the event and not paying close enough attention to their hyper excited children. He figured if he could get the job done within an hour from the time he started, the venture might just go off without a hitch. 

It wouldn’t be that easy, of course; nothing ever was. But there wasn’t time to work out contingencies at the moment. He’d have to stick with the plan as is and improvise on the fly if necessary. 

The sudden need for a fix came over him—that sweet reward promised to him by his traveling companion. The power was calling. Dominance over all living creatures was ready for him to take the reins. They wanted to be ruled and begged for Gary to give his commands. Nothing could stand in his way today, nothing! He longed for the sun to come up so he could get right to work and kick off this new era—the age of Gary Elmer.

With the van tucked neatly away and out of sight at the edge of the tree-line, Gary took a walk up to the barn through an open field that had not been mowed in quite a while, possibly years. During his hike through the tall grass and iron weeds, he had the sinking feeling he might get bitten by a snake at any moment. Shit like that happened all the time in the wild, or so he imagined. 

From the rusted metal pasture gate by the road to the main doors of the old building was about 200 yards, give or take. It could have been further; he wasn’t a very good judge of distances. What he did learn was that this grass was not as easy to navigate on foot as he had initially imagined. 

The large double doors took a great deal of strength and energy to pry open, and actually reminded him of the garage doors at Jenna’s grandfather’s place. The night he killed her in that very garage flashed through his mind for a moment, making him smile. His heart felt nothing for Jenna or the disgraceful way he disposed of her body. His delight came from knowing he had turned her into something more than the mere worthless flesh sack she had been since birth. And she wasn’t just a rotting corpse in a fifty-five gallon drum full of used motor oil in a dump far away. She was a work of art now—his art. He hoped someday someone might find her remains and expose his creation. The world needed to see Gary Elmer’s creativity and feel the emotion he had put into his work. She was one of his first creations, the beginning of a series of work mankind would revere for centuries, possibly even for eternity.   

Once inside the barn, Gary knew for certain he had hit pay dirt. The big open space was empty, save for some old, dilapidated farm equipment in the back under a dusty canvas tarp. And the tarp itself was another gift from the universe. He didn’t think it would be safe, hauling his captured prey around in the van with him while he searched for others; they were bound to wake up and make noise, alerting anyone outside that something was amiss. The best thing he could think of was to hide them here in this barn, tie them securely to some of the old machinery he had just found, and cover them over with the tarp. Once he bagged the last one, he could come back for the other two, then cruise the hell out of town. The only thing that might give him away was if someone saw him driving the van through the field up to the barn. But this old farm road didn’t look like it saw much traffic. There weren’t even any houses out here. Yep, the old barn was definitely the right place. 

There wasn’t much time to fuck around in here, so he headed back down to where he had parked the van, drove it through the field, then pulled it inside the barn. When he closed the rusted metal gate at the entrance to the field, he realized the van was going to leave a trail of tamped down grass leading up to the structure. It would definitely be visible from the road. A minor problem at the moment, but still a problem. He’d hoped to be well on his way out of here before this town even knew what had hit them, so the tracks in the grass didn’t warrant his attention now.

This was actually about to happen. Gary’s life, strange as it had been lately, was about to start today. Nothing would ever be the same, which was a good thing. Life up to this point had pretty much sucked. But now, a purpose had risen to the surface like the little white answer cube in the dark liquid of a Magic 8 Ball (outlook good; signs point to yes; it is decidedly so). What would he give back to the world, though? What would be his contribution to society? That was simple: art. His role was to create and stir emotion from his art. And oh, what emotions he would stir.

FOUR

The 3/11 shift at the hospital tonight was uneventful. Two patients in the ICU to watch over, a small amount of paperwork, and that was about it. Well, except for Reverend Allen showing up unannounced with what looked like a Catholic Priest by his side. Lauren thought about that for the rest of her shift. She had considered texting the reverend about it, but dropped the idea after a while. He’d probably fill her in the next time she saw him. They went into that room, that horrible room. Did he bring a priest here to exorcise it? She laughed at the idea. Though the reverend hadn’t been to the hospital—at least that she was aware of—since that terrible night back in November. What was he up to?

None of that mattered now. Her shift was over and she was heading home. And she felt pretty good tonight, better than she had felt in quite a while. She had slept soundly the night before and woke refreshed and happy this morning. If she could have a few more nights like that in a row, there was no telling how her life would improve. She wasn’t back to normal yet, by any means, but there was a glimmer of hope ahead, a flicker of light at the end of a damp, dark tunnel. 

Once in the car, Lauren buckled up and put the radio on. She hadn’t had the desire to listen to music in months, but tonight seemed like the perfect time to enjoy a few tunes while driving home. The house was only a couple minutes down the road; there was still enough time to get at least two songs in.

At the bottom of Hospital Hill, she turned left onto the main road and headed for home. Singing along to a Miranda Lambert song on the radio and tapping the steering wheel like a professional drummer made her feel alive again. She even rolled down the driver's side window to allow some of the crisp night air to fill the car. There was nothing like singing out loud with the windows down. 

It began slowly at first, then became thicker, like trying to trudge your way through a vat of chocolate pudding. Sadness. But it was more than just that single emotion. Desperation and fear had mixed into this cocktail as well. She couldn’t believe this was happening now. Her mood had been so positive, so healthy and happy. How could it just fall apart suddenly? The dark emotions were getting stronger, making her sick and anxious. Night after night of relentless nightmares had also left her feeling terrible and broken, but not like this. The only thing she could compare this to was… last November. She had gone through what was undoubtedly the worst time of her life, then. Those feelings of despair and agony and hopelessness surrounding the dying patient in room 337 had driven her nearly mad. It had come from him, John Doe, the half dead creature who had never said a word to her, but had brought with him all the misery and sorrow hell could spew forth. Her terrifying dreams since then had kept some of those feelings alive, but not like this. Whatever this was had the same texture as the filth surrounding that patient. The evil thing had loathed her and wanted her to suffer; it wanted her dead. Now it was here again. 

“No,” she yelled over the radio and the wind from the open window. “It can’t be!”

Headlights approached from the opposite direction. A large vehicle was about to pass her on the other side of the road. As it came closer, her feelings intensified, almost to where she couldn’t breathe. The vehicle was larger than a car (a truck or a van perhaps), but the thing was dark and so was the night. She couldn’t identify it. When it passed her, the feelings were at their most intense, making every nightmare she’d ever had look like a children’s school play. It was back, just like before, and it had come here in this devilish vehicle she had just passed on the road. 

When the thing had finally gone by and was no longer in her rear-view mirror, she could breathe again. The terrible emotions had subsided and were no longer causing her to shut down, but they hadn’t completely vanished. She didn’t know what had just happened, but she couldn’t focus on that right now. The only thing of importance was getting home, getting safe. Hopefully, once she was at home, this feeling of dread would fade away and she could find her path back to being whole again.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Clay said when his wife walked through the front door. She was crying and visibly shaken. “Honey?”

“I don’t know, Clay,” Lauren said.

“Did something happen at the hospital?” He was up off the couch now, cradling the sides of his wife’s face and wiping her tears with his thumbs. He looked her over with great concern.

“There’s something out there,” Lauren said.

“Where?” Clay said, stepping past his wife. He bowled through the open front door, unafraid of what dangers might wait outside. Something had upset his wife, and he needed to take care of that shit right now. He stood on the porch, looking around at what he could see from the porch light. “Somebody out here?” he yelled into the darkness. “We might need to have a talk if there is!” The night did not reply. He came back inside after a few minutes. “Somebody follow you home?”

“No, baby, that’s not it,” Lauren said. She was sitting on the couch holding a tissue.

Clay sat next to his wife and looked her over, making sure no one had touched her or hurt her. “What’s going on?”

“It’s happening again, the feeling I had with that patient I told you about. It’s back.”

Clay held his wife’s hand. “You said something was out there. Did you see it?”

Lauren’s eyes were still glassy, but she had calmed. Being at home with Clay, seeing him jump into action, ready to protect her at all costs, made her feel safe. She told him what had happened on the way home and how she suddenly became overwhelmed with grief and despair, the exact way she had felt around the John Doe patient. She also told him about the vehicle that had passed her on the road and how she had sensed something terrible inside of it. 

Clay listened to every word, doing his best to take it all in, but not fully understanding. “Babe, if somebody had followed you home or said something to upset you, I could easily take care of it. But a feeling? I just don’t know what to do.”

“I know, Clay,” Lauren said. “I really can’t expect you to do anything. It’s my problem.”

“No, it’s not, Lauren. It’s our problem. I just need to figure out my part in all this.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes. Then Clay said: “I think we should call Reverend Allen.”

“It’s late, Clay,” Lauren said. “Let’s not bother him.”

“He said to call anytime at any hour if something else happened,” Clay said. “I think this fits the description of something happening.” He picked up his phone from the coffee table and dialed the number. When the man answered, he handed the phone over to Lauren.

“Hello, Reverend?” Lauren said. “I’m so sorry to call you this late, but there’s something I think you should hear about right away.”

FIVE

“Beers tonight?” Ronnie Miller asked Devon. There were about twenty minutes left on their 4/12 shift. It had been a quiet, uneventful shift (only one call which came in around 7:00 PM). The only thing to do after inventorying the ambulance and the stockroom was to sit around and watch TV. Ed Martin, the ambulance driver, slept the whole shift. It didn’t seem to matter what shift they were on—12/8, 8/4, 4/12—Ed crashed on the couch in the break room every chance he got. They estimated he must have slept at least twelve hours per day, if not more. 

“I don’t know, Ronnie,” Devon said. “I’m not feeling it tonight. Plus, I don’t want to go to a bar on a Friday night without Linda.”

Ronnie smiled. “Your wife? Oh, I texted her for you already. She said a few beers with your ole buddy would be good for you.” He held up his phone to show the open message. 

Devon looked at the conversation on the screen. Linda really did tell Ronnie to take her husband out for a couple of cold ones after work. “Ok. Sure. Why not?” he said.

Tonight’s 4/12 wasn’t only quiet because it was a slow night; it was quiet because Ronnie couldn’t pull more than two words out of Devon all evening. He had tried his best, but his lifelong friend and partner had nothing to say. Something heavy weighed on his mind, that was clear, and the only way Ronnie could think to bring his partner out of it was with a couple of ice cold beers at Stoney’s Tavern after work. They didn’t invite Ed. 

At the end of the shift, they grabbed their personal stuff and left the ambulance station behind for the night. They didn’t bother to wake Ed. It was funnier when the next crew came in and did it. Sometimes they’d let him sleep until he awoke on his own and realized his shift had ended hours ago. His round face with the outdated Fu Man Chu mustache was priceless at those moments.

The bar was crowded—usual for a Friday night. There were a couple of other places to get a drink in Cumberland Springs, but those were just little hole in the wall spots where old men sat around and bitched about the state of the world today over cheap drafts and free peanuts. Stoney’s was the only place around to have any real enjoyment.

But Ronnie’s reason for bringing Devon out tonight had nothing to do with fun. There was business at hand. His friend was out of sorts again, and Ronnie had taken it upon himself to intervene. There were things you could tell a therapist, and there were things you could tell your wife, but a lifelong best friend… well, there was nothing you couldn’t share with them. Ronnie understood his role very well and was proud to uphold his duties. 

They grabbed two long-necks from the bar and found an open booth in the back corner. Devon pulled out a pack of Camel Filters and lit one with a chrome plated Zippo lighter. He didn’t smoke often that Ronnie had noticed—Linda most likely had a say in that—but at the bar, he didn’t seem to care. Lite ‘em up; fuck it!

Devon was still in his solemn mood, not making eye contact and fidgeting with his lighter. Ronnie had been in this situation with his friend before and knew eventually—hopefully—he’d open up, but he was going to have to be the one to get the ball rolling. And he couldn’t simply charge the gates by asking, What’s wrong, buddy? That never worked.

“Do you know that little ICU nurse at the hospital? I think her name is Lauren.” Devon said, surprising his friend. Ronnie thought he’d be pulling teeth, trying to get Devon to start talking. 

“Yeah, Lauren,” Ronnie said. “She’s married to Clay Rivers. You remember him, right? He’s a year or two younger than us, and I think she’s probably about a year younger than him. Why do you ask?”

Devon let out a short laugh. “She came up to me in the hospital cafeteria today and said she needed to talk.”

“Really? Why?”

“That’s the weird part,” Devon said. “She didn’t know. She just felt like she was supposed to reach out to me for some unexplainable reason.”

Ronnie leaned back in his seat. “About what?”

“Like I said: she didn’t know.”

“What did you say back to her?” Ronnie asked.

“I didn’t know what the hell to say, dude. The whole thing was just… weird,” Devon said, and took a sip of his beer. “Ya know what, though?” he continued. “I got the strangest feeling I was supposed to talk to her, too. I didn’t at the time. In fact, I kinda blew her off. But it’s been nagging at me all night, ever since I ran into her. Weird, huh?”

“Have you ever talked to her before?” Ronnie asked. 

“Not really,” Devon said, thinking back over his time as a medic for Cumberland Springs EMS, making countless trips to the hospital and interacting with the staff. “I mean, maybe a cordial ‘hello’ in passing, but nothing more than that.” Then a vague memory came to him from the not so distant past. He was in the chapel at the hospital and Lauren Rivers had come in and sat beside him. There was another guy there, too, someone he’d never seen before. The three of them sat together for a while, never saying a word, then parted company. He hadn’t spoken of it since that day. He almost didn’t even remember the event taking place, like his mind had obscured the memory in a fog bank over calm water.

“Is that what’s been on your mind today?” Ronnie asked, attempting to lead the conversation toward the issue at hand. 

Devon broke out of his thoughts. “Huh? Oh, no. I’m just having one of those days—one of those weeks, actually.”

“Want to talk about it?” Ronnie asked. 

“I don’t, honestly,” Devon said. “But thanks for caring, man. I appreciate it.”

They stayed for about an hour, and Devon lightened up enough to share a few laughs with his friend. But Ronnie sensed Dev was having deeper issues than he had let on. He knew the man well enough to understand that something more troubling was bubbling under the surface. But Devon would come out with it when he was ready, and not a moment sooner. Waiting for it to emerge was part of being his friend, and that was just fine.

SIX

The beds at the Monastery of St. Vincent were, to put it politely, not much better than sleeping on barn straw. Which for a priest shouldn’t have been a problem, considering that Jesus Himself had slept in a manger of straw when He first came into the world. If it was good enough for the Savior, it should be good enough for Father Richardson. It still sucked, though, no matter how he tried to spin it. 

But a crappy mattress was only one explanation for his sleeplessness. He was very well aware of the real issue bubbling underneath. Evil had come into his corner of the world and had forced him to face it. It was the most important victory of his life to date. Nothing could measure up to his triumph over the darkness tonight. Nothing. But by all rights, he should be sleeping soundly right now, knowing he was safe as long as his faith remained strong. Perhaps it was that last cup of coffee he’d had after dinner. Reverend Allen had been filling him up with caffeine all day. No wonder he was still buzzing at this late hour.

Or was there something else? Something keeping his senses alert and ready for action? That was possible; he couldn’t count it out. The human survival instincts are a wondrous thing that are nearly impossible to explain. Sometimes we just know when a threat is near, even if we can’t see or smell it, like the intention to cause us harm is somehow present in the air. The hair on the back of the neck stands up; a chill surfaces from under the skin; the heart pumps faster for no reason. We’re in danger, and we know it before we see it. 

He had taken in a lot today. How could he possibly expel it all out of his mind and sleep with a clear head? The stories from Reverend Allen were bad enough—those could give the most hardened criminal nightmares—but the feelings and sensations were the real blood soaked cherry on top of this milkshake of dread. His instincts had come alive and warned him of an invisible danger that had looked at him with the most grievous of intentions. These memories and feelings would be with him for the rest of his days. 

He thought of the reverend and all the other people involved in his stories. They were having nightmares and visions and so many other problems stemming from their brush with the darkness. Was this to be his destiny now, too? He could certainly understand what was happening in the lives of those people—if his ordeal tonight was any indication. God, they need help. But what can I do for them?

He thought about his superiors and how his meeting in the afternoon might go. They wanted this to be a cut and dry evaluation. Debunk it and put it to bed with no further church involvement. The last thing they needed was another Exorcism of (insert name here) movie coming out with their name plastered on it. Father Richardson couldn’t really blame them. He’d seen a few of those films in the past; they were pretty ridiculous.

At first, he had to think about it (after all, this monastery was built in the late eighteen hundreds. It was bound to give off a few creaks and moans from time to time). But the second time he heard the sound, there was no mistaking it. It was a voice coming from outside his door in the hallway, just above a whisper. He focused his attention on the old wooden door and listened closely. Probably nothing, he tried to reassure himself. Then, as he was about to give up on his surveillance, the sound came again, this time more audible and strange. He couldn’t believe it, but the voice sounded like it belonged to a child. He knew it couldn’t be; there were no children at the monastery. 

“I’m cold, Father,” the voice said, now plain as day, just outside his door. The light from the hallway had cast a glow under the door. Suddenly, something partially blocked out the light, like someone was standing in front of it. “Can I have your blanket, Father? I’m so cold.” There was no mistaking it; that was a child. And it laughed when it finished speaking. 

His instincts told him something in the world was wrong again. The chill was back, so were the gooseflesh and rapid heartbeat.

“Won’t you help me, Father? I’m so cold,” it said, pleading. This time it scratched frantically at the wooden door the way a cat would claw at a carpeted scratching post. “Let me in, Father! I’m so cold! Help me!” It laughed again, but almost as if it was trying to hold the laugh in.

He couldn’t discern if the voice was male or female—it shared characteristics of both—but he was certain it was a child out there. 

I can’t be afraid, he thought. “I won’t be afraid,” he said aloud. Father Richardson turned on the reading lamp on the nightstand next to the bed (the only other furnishings in this small, humble room were a corner desk, a picture of the pope on the wall next to the door, and a wooden crucifix above the head of the bed). When the light came on, the shadow of the person’s feet—seen under the crack of the door—ran off. He heard light footsteps trotting away down the hall.

Now he was just mad. After the day he’d had, someone was going to screw around with him tonight? They definitely picked the wrong priest on the wrong day. He threw off his one blanket and sprung to his feet with a head full of anger. Whoever was out there was about to catch an earful. The door flung open without resistance and he stood looking at an empty spot in front of him. There was no one here. 

His room was in the monastery’s attic and there were only two other doors in this hallway (one led to a small bathroom, the other to a storage closet). The end of the corridor turned to the right and led to the only stairway. Who ever was up here had to have come up those stairs. The bathroom door was open. He could see the room was empty. He opened the storage closet and turned on the light. Nothing. 

He spun around quickly, facing the direction of the stairs. A noise had broken the silence from the bottom of the staircase. A child’s laugh, followed by a voice: “Father, I’m so cold! Please help me!” the child’s voice spoke again. This time, it did not conceal the laughter. 

Enraged, Father Richardson stomped toward the stairs. He rounded the corner and looked down at the bottom of the dimly lit stairwell, ready to unleash his wrath on whoever was playing games. But something had stopped him. He stood, petrified in fear, unable to move, nearly unable to breathe. A smell filled his nose, throat, and mouth. It was the acrid, putrid odor of rotten flesh, sulfur, and bile, all mixed into one horrific gas. It wasn’t the disgusting fetor that had turned him into stone at the top of the stairs. At the bottom, peering up at him with cold, black eyes, was the cloaked figure he had seen in the road. This time, though the thing was still dark and nearly featureless, he thought he could make out the face. Maybe it was a mask, he couldn’t be sure, but the thing had what he perceived to be a short, black beak. One thing he was absolutely certain of was that this thing did not belong in our world. It didn’t speak, but the priest could feel its hatred for him pouring out of it. The thing wanted to see the worst imaginable horrors done to Father Richardson. It wanted him to suffer unimaginable torture, and it wanted to witness this torment for its own enjoyment. The beast was agony, shame, and sorrow formed into existence. We are not intended to know such things in our world, but here it stood, peering into the priest’s soul, hating him, cursing him. 

Somehow, the tangled wires in Father Richardson’s head suddenly unfurled and released his panic induced shock. He turned and calmly walked back to his room (taking notice of the scratches that had shredded the wood in the center of his door). He closed the door, knelt in the middle of the floor, looked up at the wooden cross on the wall, and prayed. He prayed every prayer he had learned from Catholic grade school, to seminary school, to things he’d heard the Pope say, and anything else he could think of. He prayed all night and well into the morning without stopping. There were no more sounds at his door for the rest of the night, and the odor had faded without a trace.

Something had come into Father Richardson’s life to cause him harm. It wasn’t a mere warning—that he understood. The thing wanted him to suffer inconceivable pain for all eternity. But it could not have him. He would not slip into the night—as they say. If the bastard wanted a piece of Father Thomas Richardson, it was going to have a tough time of it. 

He thought of Cumberland Springs. It was all true. He had seen for himself what Reverend Allen and the others had faced. They needed his help and all the support he could muster for the coming battle. This would be his life’s work now. His purpose (God’s purpose for him) was clear and laid out. He had work to do (the hardest work of his life), and he was ready, wholeheartedly ready.

SEVEN

The lights were out. Dim overheads in the corridor outside the cells kept the place from becoming pitch black, but the Somerset Correctional Facility was now dark. A few voices murmured out from behind iron bars, though not loud enough to draw attention from the night guards. It was time to sleep and prepare for another day of misery, bright and early.

Harry and Billy could relax at night. They didn’t have to worry about getting shivved—or worse—by a crazed convict with an attitude. That could happen at anytime during the day, but at night there was no need to worry. They were able to sleep with both eyes closed, knowing the other person in the cell didn’t have a late night boner and a grim idea about where to put it.

“You awake, man?” Harry said in a low voice. “Billy?”

“Yo,” Billy said.

“Hey, bro. I can’t stop thinkin’ about those two creepy dudes,” Harry said.

“Well, you need to stop,” Billy said. “Somethin’ ain’t right with either of ‘em.”

“Yeah, man, I know they’re fucked up, but can you just imagine the two of them on our side? Nobody in this—”

“Shut the fuck up, Harry!” Billy said.

But Harry could not shut up. He had become a moderately successful criminal on the outside by identifying opportunities and seizing upon them quickly. The idea of befriending two inmates who might protect them in this shit-hole was just too good to pass up. No more fear of walking through a crowd; no more giving up food from their dinner trays if some bigger asshole came by and took something he wanted; no more hiding. Maybe—he dared to think—they could actually have some respect for a change. 

“Sorry, bro. I can’t shut up about it,” Harry said. “We need those creepy fuckers, and you know it. I’m tired of walking around this joint like I’m running through a minefield.”

“Did you not get the same freaky vibe I got when we walked up to those two?” Billy said. “They didn’t even flinch, and I about shit my pants!”

“I know, bro,” Harry said. “Now imagine if those two were watch’n our backs. Damn! You can’t deny how much our lives would change if that happened.”

Billy laughed. “And you can’t deny how much our lives would change if those two ripped our heads off!”

Billy’s concerns fell on def ears. Harry had had enough of this place. Every day, they endured bitter jeers and shitty remarks, not to mention getting hit and spit on and poked with makeshift weapons. They were the smallest guys in the facility, which made them the softest targets, and no one—not even the guards—gave a shit about them. Actually, nobody gave a shit about anybody in this hell-hole, but if he could figure out how to get Somerset’s two most feared inmates (probably the two most feared in the world) on their side, things would really change around here. 

“I can’t let it go, Billy,” Harry said. “This is just too big to pass up.”

Billy didn’t answer.

“You still got that candy bar?” Harry asked. 

The cell was quiet. Nothing was said between the two men for several minutes. Suddenly, Harry felt an object land on his chest from the top bunk. It was the Snicker bar Billy had been saving.

EIGHT

He drove. With no destination or purpose, Henry Ward drove into the night. He took back roads and farm roads and even dirt roads, not caring at all where he might land. The mindless driving without an objective seemed to be the only thing that gave him peace at the moment, peace he desperately needed. His emotions and subsequent actions were all at peak levels lately, and he couldn’t seem to bring those levels down, no matter what he had tried. Twisted wires of thoughts rambled through his head, taunting him with visions of every fear or sorrow he’d ever had. They were relentless, brutal, cold. His heart rate was probably off the charts; he had felt it pounding in his chest for most of the evening. He needed to calm down soon.

The beers he drank with the man he was certain was a child abductor—Jimmy was the guy’s actual name—had taken a touch of the edge off, but not enough. The effects had faded in less than thirty minutes after he had left the shopping center parking lot. So now he was driving blindly into the night. Or perhaps it wasn’t such a blind drive after all. It was very possible his subconscious had taken the wheel and had a plan for him tonight. This theory gained merit when he saw the sign for the Whites Creek Recreation Area.

How the hell did he end up clear out here? It started as just a drive without a destination in mind. Now he was approaching the place where they had found Katie’s body. Shit! I don’t want to be here tonight! But he was here, now, heading into the park and down the hill to the bank of the creek where the picnic tables dotted the shore and the multi-colored canoe rack—where they had discovered Katie’s cold and pallid body—stood ready to use. He swore he had no plan in mind tonight, just a drive to clear the head. His psyche obviously had other ideas.

He parked the car in the same spot from his dream last night and stared at the area by the light of his headlamps. It was exact; not a thing out of order. “Goddamn this place,” he said to no one.

The water of the meandering creek was hypnotic. He didn’t want to sleep here, but it was the first time since leaving his parent’s house that he had actually felt calm. Maybe he needed to be here? Apparently so, since he had somehow found his way to this spot without trying. Ward didn’t care anymore. Fuck this day, he thought, and closed his eyes. There was no more energy left to give the world. Tomorrow might be better—or not.

A jolt of adrenaline woke him up, causing him to shout a less than manly scream. He had fallen asleep with his head against the window, and a loud tapping noise on the glass brought him back to life with the efficiency of a defibrillator. A shadow stood at the door, tall and menacing. His first instinct, of course, was to grab his weapon—sitting on the passenger seat next to him—but after his overreaction with the guy in the van and his dog, he felt it best to assess first. No need to go “guns blazing” a second time tonight.

“Are you ok in there, sir?” the muffled voice of a tall figure asked.

The voice didn’t sound threatening, which made Ward think less of grabbing his gun. He lowered the driver's side window and looked up. As soon as he saw the silver badge and perfectly pressed grey shirt, he realized who he was looking at. This was a cop.

“Are you alright, sir?” the man asked again, genuinely sounding concerned. 

Henry burped a short laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine, officer.”

“The park is closed, sir. I’m going to need to see some I.D.”

“Sure. No problem,” Ward said and reached inside his suit jacket pocket. He pulled out his FBI credentials and handed them to the man.

“Whoa,” the cop said. “I’m not interrupting an investigation or something, am I?”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” Ward said.

“Ok,” the cop said, handing back the credentials. “Well, what are you doing clear out here in the middle of the night? Something wrong?”

“I just needed some time to myself, I guess,” Ward said. “It’s quiet here.”

The cop studied Ward for a few seconds before saying: “You look familiar, buddy. Where have I seen you before?”

Ward shrugged his shoulders, but the cop kept staring, studying his face and features. 

Finally, it dawned on him like a brilliant revelation. “You were investigating the little girl who died here several years ago. I remember! I was part of the search and I spoke with you briefly when you got here. Yeah, that’s it.” He paused, reflecting on that time. “Her name was—”

“—Katie,” Ward interrupted. “Her name was Katie. She was my niece.”

“Oh,” the cop said. He looked sorry for bringing it up.

“No worries,” Ward said. 

“You finally caught the guy, right? Out in Cumberland Springs?”

Ward looked up at the cop’s face. He didn’t want to give a play-by-play to this guy, who was probably a late night, true crime junkie. He imagined him listening to those investigative serial podcasts while he sat by the road clocking speeders. “Yes,” Ward said. “He was apprehended in Cumberland Springs.”

“Yes, he was,” the cop said. “You know you have to go back there, right?”

Ward looked at the cop, puzzled at his statement. He didn’t know what to say.

“Cumberland Springs,” the cop spoke again. “You need to go back there right now.”

“What are you talking about?” Ward finally said. “Why the hell do I need to go back there?”

“Your mind doesn’t think you need to, but your heart does,” the cop said. “You need to go immediately!”

That place hadn’t entered Ward’s mind since he oversaw the removal of Hanson Parker’s body from the hospital morgue. There were aspects of the case that revolved around Cumberland Springs, dating back over thirty years, but now that Parker was dead and the case was closed, the place meant nothing to him. He suddenly became angry with this cop. Who the hell did this asshole think he was? He looked up at the man, preparing to unleash an eloquent scolding of profanity at this jerk-off, but stopped when he saw his expression. It was deadly serious. 

“You’re not at the end, Henry,” the cop said. “On the contrary. You’re just now at the beginning.”

Ward squinted his eyes then sarcastically said: “Ok, officer. Thank you very much. You have a nice night now.” He had put his window up while he was giving the cop the brush-off. He placed both hands firmly on his face and pulled them down his cheeks to refresh himself. When he opened his eyes, the shock of what he saw made him jolt in his seat. The sun was coming up. It was pitch dark in the middle of the night just one second ago, but now it was early morning. He looked to his left, and the shock intensified. The cop was gone. 

Ward opened the car door and stepped out into the light mist of the morning. He was alone. There was no cop, no police cruiser, no nothing. Just him, standing in the parking lot of the one place on earth he never wanted to see again. 

He bent into the car and grabbed his phone from the passenger seat. The clock on the home screen said 5:10 AM. “Jesus Christ!” Ward said. “What the fuck is going on with me?”

Cumberland Springs.

The cop had said he needed to go to Cumberland Springs immediately. The guy seemed serious about it, too. But did he even exist at all? That had to have been a dream. Ward rationalized: ok, I got drunk in that shopping center parking lot with hippie-van-guy and his shitty little dog, then I got in the car, feeling sorry for myself, and drove out to the one place that triggers my worst memory. I fell asleep in the car, had a dream about a cop telling me to go out to that little town in the middle of nowhere, and now I’m standing here like an asshole, trying to sort out my life. Yeah, that about sums it up.

But if it was a dream, it was the most vivid one he’d ever had. He leaned against the car and looked at the creek and those damn canoes over there. I should burn those wretched things, he thought. The image of the boats on fire made him smile.

You have to go immediately!

Really? Immediately? Right now? It was insanity; had to be. Normal people don’t act like this. Normal people live normal lives and have normal kids that normally don’t get murdered by some fucking shit-head and left for dead under that goddamn rack of canoes over there!

He looked down at his phone and couldn’t believe what he was about to do. He opened Google Maps and entered Cumberland Springs, PA, in the search field. It was sixty-seven miles from where he stood. If he headed that way now, he’d be there around 6:30 AM-ish. Was he really considering this venture? Shouldn’t he just go the fuck home and sleep for a week, then get back to work? But where’s the fun in that? He’d just had a vivid dream while camping out at Katie’s abduction site about a cop who had told him to go back to Cumberland Springs. Now there’s one hell of an adventure. 

“Fuck it,” he said and pushed the button to begin the route. He had nothing else going on today.

NINE

What was he doing out here in the middle of the night? Was this a stakeout? Could it even be considered a stakeout if he wasn’t a cop? That was something cops did. They sat in their cars, watching and waiting for something to happen so they could make an arrest or gain intelligence. Private investigators did this sort of thing, too, except they smoked cigarettes—or so the noir movies would have you believe. No, he wasn’t a private investigator or a cop. He was simply a plain old, small town Baptist preacher. So what was he hoping to discover while sitting in his car in the middle of the night in front of the hardware store? Reverend Allen didn’t have an answer to that question, either. 

What had brought him out this late at night—when the town was as silent as the inside of a mausoleum—was a phone call from Lauren Rivers. She had told him a very disturbing story about the presence of evil in a vehicle she had passed on the road tonight. She was very convincing. In fact, she had even been reduced to tears twice during their conversation. Something sinister had come to town and young Lauren had felt it. The girl was certainly capable of having such a premonition; she had strongly proven her gift (if that’s what it was) last November. So perhaps evil had once again come to Cumberland Springs. Now what? 

There wasn’t a plan in Reverend Allen’s mind at the moment, but he had to do something. Sitting behind the computer doing research had its place—it’s what had led their little group in the direction they were heading now—but he couldn’t just sit at home tonight while evil lurked in the streets of his town. These were his people, whether they attended First Baptist Church or not. He felt a responsibility for keeping the soul of this town safe. The devil and his crew were not welcome here; they never would be. 

Evil flourished throughout the world, but it had somehow passed Cumberland Springs by. It was entirely possible, he imagined, that the beast had just recently come to realize this place existed and felt it was due to be corrupted. The reverend couldn’t allow that. His purpose in life was to guide and protect his flock for the duration of his life and theirs. Standing by helplessly was not an option.

He looked up at the interior roof of his car, but was, in essence, looking through it. After taking a deep, calming breath, the reverend spoke. “Dear Father, please give me strength. Please guide me through this tribulation I feel is about to begin. I understand being tested is a part of life, but Your help is truly needed, now and always. Please guide me, Lord, so I can protect us all from this thing that wants to destroy us. We are all in need of Your help, Lord, and we welcome you into our lives with open arms and open hearts. Show us the way, Father. Give us the strength to cast out the beast and maintain our faith and love for You. In the name of Jesus Christ, my Savior, I pray. Amen.”

After a few moments of quiet reflection, Reverend Allen felt peace. A calmness had come over him. He knew God was listening and watching. After his prayer, a thought had come to him that didn’t sound like his own internal voice: The right people are coming together now and once they have joined, evil will have no place. You will know what to do when the time is at hand. He smiled, feeling like he was no longer alone in all of this. The thought was comforting. He didn’t think it was just a random idea or something he wanted himself to hear. It felt much different from his own thoughts, warmer.

 It was time to go home now. The days ahead were going to be rough, that he knew for certain, but his action was not needed tonight.