 
#

## The Grass Monkey

## And Other Dark Tales

## By

## Scott Langrel

## Smashwords Edition

### Copyright©2012Scott Langrel

### All Rights Reserved

### This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents

The Grass Monkey

Wood

The Moss God

The Sinkhole

The Otter King

Preview of Homecoming: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #1

Preview of Shadows in the Sand: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #2

# The Grass Monkey

The old man rattled up around seven, his ancient Dodge pickup wheezing, dying of automobile emphysema. A gust of blue smoke spewed from the exhaust and floated lazily along the hedgerow, only to become lost in the shadows of the pines on the east end of the house. Cynthie came bursting through the screen door, drawn from the house by the sound of the truck's geriatric engine.

"Who?" she asked simply, pointing to the truck and its lone occupant. Cynthie, like most three-year olds, didn't mince words.

"Dunno," I answered as I waved my hand in front of my face, partly in greeting, mostly to fan away the gnats.

Millie was next out of the house, her eyes lighting on the newcomer and then looking questioningly at me. I shrugged. I could tell she was peeved; we were still in the midst of unpacking, and one of the reasons we'd moved to Miller's Ridge was the prominent lack of neighbors.

It took the old man forever and three days to drag his carcass out of the pickup. Like most of the old-timers we'd encountered since the move, he wore grimy coveralls and a ball cap. The cap advertised a certain brand of chewing tobacco.

"Hullo," I called, rising. It was a good fifteen yards from the driveway to the porch, and at the rate the geezer was moving he would make it by dark. I walked down the steps and went out to meet him.

"Evenin'," he said, and no more. Old folks and three-year olds seem to share the same vocabulary.

I'd thought that Millie would follow me out, but when I glanced back at the porch I saw that she'd slipped back inside the house. I hadn't been completely deserted, though. Cynthie loped beside me, dogging my steps.

"Name's Dalton," the old-timer mumbled, sticking out a leathery hand. I shook it, and was surprised at the strength of his grip.

"Dave Baracheck," I said. "And this is Cynthia."

"Cynthie," she corrected.

Dalton nodded. For some reason, it struck me that he hadn't smiled once since his arrival.

"Figured you might have little 'uns." He turned and started back towards the truck, and for an instant I got the crazy notion that he was leaving, that Cynthie's mere presence had somehow offended him. But he reached through the truck's window, into the cab, and retrieved something.

"Housewarmin' present, I guess you could call it." He offered the thing to me, but I guess I just stood there and stared at it because he turned and gave it to Cynthie. She held it at arm's length and studied it curiously.

The thing was made out of some sort of dried grass, which had been bound with string and shaped into the form of a crude doll. Two eyes were the extent of its features, these a pair of shiny black stones which had somehow been fastened to the doll's head. It was an ugly little critter, and a hell of a thing to give someone as a housewarming gift.

"What's it?" Cynthie asked as she fondled the doll with all the grace of a drunken baboon.

"Ain't got a name, really," Dalton shrugged. "Least ways, none that folks can remember. I always called 'em grass monkeys, 'cause that's what they look like."

I had to stifle a laugh. If Dalton had known that 'grass monkey' was also a popular term for a pothead, I'm sure he would have come up with a different name.

"Monkey," said Cynthie, and she hugged the doll.

I had to admit that it did more resemble a monkey than a human doll, but that still didn't change the fact that it was ugly, even tacky, like some of the homemade crafts they sell in the shops down in Shallow Springs. Millie would never allow such a thing to sit out in the open in _her_ house. Most likely, it would find the trash can as soon as Cynthie put it down.

"Set it in your window, missy," Dalton was saying. "It'll keep the boogers away."

"Boogers?" The old man had Cynthie's undivided attention.

"You know, princess," I said, shooting Dalton a warning glance. "Monsters. The things that aren't real, just make-believe."

"Oh. Them."

"Yeah. Now why don't you go show Mommy the doll that Mr. Dalton gave you?"

"Monkey," Cynthie corrected, and scrambled toward the house.

"Didn't mean to offend," Dalton said as soon as she was out of earshot.

"We moved here from Knoxville," I explained. It's been quite a culture shock for all of us, but Cynthie especially. She's not used to the quietness. It's kept her a little unnerved."

Dalton nodded, his face stoic. "Missus makes them things. She's mostly Cherokee."

I could only assume he was talking about the grass monkey. Mountain people tend to have a one-track mind, and nothing much derails them.

"We're down the mountain a bit, you need anything." He was heading back to his truck, his business apparently finished. That's what this little visit had been to him—a business call. Monkey delivered, mission accomplished. Time to go home and slop the hogs.

Dalton paused, one hand on the truck door, and turned to regard me.

"The mountains can be just like the city, Mr. Baracheck. Sometimes they ain't quiet." He opened the door and heaved himself up into the cab.

"Sometimes the mountains ain't quiet at all."

Millie hated the monkey, just as I'd known she would, but Cynthie refused to surrender the thing. It sat beside her at supper, and during her bath it sat upon the toilet seat, always within reach. When bedtime came, Millie tried putting her foot down, but Cynthie would have none of it. The monkey rested on her nightstand as she drifted off to sleep.

"I'll bribe her tomorrow," Millie decided later as we sat watching the tube. "Cookies, maybe. Or ice cream." She gave me a sour look. "Why in the world did you let that old fart give her that thing?"

"It was a gift," I shrugged. "I didn't want to hurt his feelings. We _are_ new here, after all."

"But it's so damn ugly. And what if she's allergic to it? It's made out of weeds, you know."

I sighed. "She'll forget about in a couple of days. Or play with it so much it'll just fall apart."

"It shed grass on the toilet seat."

She said it so solemnly that I had to laugh, and soon we both had the giggling fits. In moments, the grass monkey was all but forgotten. At least until the next morning, when Millie called from Cynthie's room.

"Did you move that thing last night?"

"Move what?" I was still half asleep.

"That grass thingamabob. I know I left it on her nightstand." She appeared in the bedroom doorway and leaned against the jamb.

"And it's not there now?"

"It's with Cynthie now. She's been up for over an hour." There was a hint of accusation in her voice. "But it was on the window sill when I checked on her this morning."

"Don't look at me," I said. "I slept like a log last night. She probably moved it."

"She says she didn't."

"She's also three years old."

I got hit by one of her looks at point blank range, and it was enough to send me outside to work in the yard for the rest of the morning. Cynthie darted about under a perfect mid-summer sky, the monkey always with her, never more than an arm's reach away. Around noon Millie put in a rare guest appearance, coming out onto the porch to announce that lunch was ready.

After lunch, Millie attacked with the ice cream bribe, but it failed miserably. Cynthie had taken to talking to the monkey, even pausing to listen to its imaginary responses. This irritated Millie even more, and I figured it was time to step in before it became an all-out war.

"Look," I said later. "We've just moved to a strange place. She's missing her grandmother. The monkey's just a way for her to cope."

"But she has dolls. Pretty dolls."

"The monkey's new. And different. It's just a phase."

That evening we sat the monkey on Cynthie's nightstand, and the next morning it was back on the window sill. I guessed it was some sort of game for Cynthie. Dalton had told her to put it there, after all.

"Monkey keeps out boogers," she remarked idly over breakfast.

"There are no boogers," I said as Millie nearly choked on a mouthful of corn flakes. "no monsters, no ghosts. Mr. Dalton was only teasing."

"Monkey says they're real."

"Then monkey's teasing, too."

She looked at the monkey, which sat in the chair beside her, then shook her head.

"Monkey doesn't tease."

Millie somehow waited until Cynthie had skipped outside, monkey in tow, before exploding.

"Monsters now? Ghosts? Jesus, Dave! She's regressing right before our eyes!"

"Millie she's three—"

"Don't give me that crap." Millie was fuming. "She was smart enough to know the difference before we moved here."

"A move which was your idea," I snapped.

Her eyes widened and I knew I'd hurt her, but I was getting tired of this whole monkey thing. Let Millie and Cynthie settle the issue between themselves. As far as I was concerned, I was out of it.

A week passed. Cynthie remained firmly attached to the monkey. Millie was strangely quiet—pouting, I knew. Each morning the monkey sat on the window sill, regardless of where it had been placed the night before. I have to admit that I was beginning to enjoy the game in a childish sort of way. Once, I even crept into Cynthie's room after she'd fallen asleep and hid the monkey under her bed. The next morning it was back on the sill, and I grinned as I wondered how long it had taken her to find the thing.

It was on a Sunday night that it turned suddenly bad. We'd turned the fourth bedroom into a study, and I was in there goofing around on the computer. I looked up to see Millie in the doorway. I thought at first that she'd come to make peace (we hadn't really talked for days), but then I saw the frightened look on her face.

"Come listen," she said, and then she was gone. I jumped up and followed, thinking that a raccoon was in the trash again, but I found her standing outside Cynthie's door. She put her finger to her lips, a nervous gesture. I tiptoed over to the closed door and listened.

"Do you hear it?" Millie whispered.

At first I didn't, but then suddenly it was there—a faint scratching, like someone rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together. There was a metallic quality to the scratching, something I'd heard before but couldn't quite place.

"Is it Cynthie?" I asked in a low voice.

Millie shook her head, "I haven't opened the door. I've just been listening."

That irritated me. "Well, let's look in and find out."

I eased the door open, and immediately the scratching stopped. Enough light fell into the room for us to see Cynthie lying in the bed, unmoving. I entered the room with Millie on my heels, so close that I could feel her breath on my neck. Cynthie was spread-eagle on her stomach, the way she always slept. A slight breeze floated through the window. Outside, crickets and frogs competed for the airwaves. Everything seemed in order, nothing out of place.

"We may have mice," I told Millie. "I'll go into town tomorrow and get some bait."

"Are you sure?" she asked, but she was already scrunching her nose as she considered the thought of furry little critters in _her_ house.

"Must be. Probably hiding in the walls."

Millie checked on Cynthie again, then crept out of the room. I was about to follow when I noticed the monkey. It was sitting on the sill as usual, but there was something different. It took me a moment to realize what was odd, but it finally hit me. Every time I had seen the monkey on the window sill, it had been facing the room, its back to the window. Now it was turned, looking through the screen and into the blackness beyond.

The screen.

And then I knew what had been so familiar about the scratching noises we'd heard moments ago, the scratching with the metallic quality.

Something had been scratching at the screen.

I went into Shallow Springs the next morning and returned with enough rat poison to wipe out the Pied Piper's original entourage. I hadn't quite convinced myself that the house was rodent-infested, but I had to follow through with the plan so that Millie would be content. We spent the better part of the afternoon setting out bait, and by dinnertime I was pretty well exhausted. I went to bed soon after, and as I slept I dreamt of the grass monkey.

In the dream, I was looking at my house from the outside. Due to that certain surreal quality inherent to all dreams, I could see each side of the house simultaneously, a sort of picture-in-picture effect. Grass monkeys, hundreds of them, clung to the screens fitting over each of the windows and doors. They were moving about as if blown by a strong breeze, and their coarse bodies rubbed against the screens, producing a noise that sounded like someone taking a rasp to a piece of metal. The scratching noise was maddeningly loud, but behind it, almost drowned out, I heard laughter. It was coming from the woods behind the house, and suddenly I wanted very much to be inside the house, away from the woods, because the laughter rang of death and death waited in the woods. I ran for the back door, my heart probably racing as fast as I lay in bed as it did in the dream. I reached for the doorknob, but in a flash it was gone, swallowed by the writhing tide of monkeys which clung to the screen. I tried to reach through them but their small, brittle bodies squirmed and twisted, blocking my probing fingers. At my back, the laughter grew louder and my dread grew with it. I glanced at the window beside the door and for an instant the sea of monkeys parted. I saw Cynthie looking out at me. She was giggling happily.

"Monkey keeps boogers out," she said, her tone cheerful but a bit tired, as if repeating a truth which should be universally known by now. _Silly Daddy. Don't you get it? Well, you're fixing to, if you don't get inside before the boogers come out of the woods._ And then the monkeys closed in and she was gone.

I turned back to the door, but the house was gone. It had been replaced by walls of grass monkeys. The walls seemed to pulsate as the monkeys slithered over and around each other, and I was reminded of maggots on a rancid piece of meat. Their movements were such that it was becoming difficult to get a good look at an individual monkey, but I got the sense that they were changing somehow, mutating from something that vaguely resembled a monkey into things that weren't monkeys at all. Even as I stared into the mass, I was aware of the laughter growing louder. I wanted to turn, to look behind me. I wanted to see what had come out of the woods and was now stealing across the narrow swath of back yard, evil and hungry, coming for me. But I could not turn, could not move, could only stare at the walls of monkeys which were no longer monkeys and listen to them scream...

Millie's scream brought me out of the bed and into the hall before I was even fully awake. I stopped, trying to get my bearings, and another shout sent me sprinting towards Cynthie's room. I nearly slammed into the small table in the hallway (an occasional table, Millie had called it, and I had asked her what it was the rest of the time), but somehow managed to merely brush against it, sending some of the knickknacks sitting on it tumbling to the floor. I heard one of them break as it hit.

I slid around the corner to find Millie, in sheer panic, at Cynthie's door. She was twisting the knob and pushing on the door so hard that her socked feet kept sliding out from under her.

"Dave!" she yelled. "It won't let me in! It won't let me _in_!"

"What?" I hadn't shaken all of sleeps cobwebs from my head yet. The door was stuck—that much I had figured out—but the rest was gibberish. _It_ wouldn't let her in? What was _it_?

"The door!" she pleaded.

"Millie, calm down. You'll scare Cynthie."

"Scare _Cynthie_?" She was hysterical. "Christ, Dave! Open the damn door! It's locked!"

I nudged her out of the way, that familiar irritation starting to settle in. "There's no lock, Millie. The door's just swelled a little. Probably the humidity."

"Open the fucking door!" she screamed, and that was the only time in my married life that I really came close to hitting her. Just a quick slap to the face, just to calm her down. I turned my aggression to the stubborn door, gave it a half-hearted shoulder, and it popped right open.

I was looking at the window when the door opened. There was the monkey—not one of my dream monkeys, but the regular old housewarming variety—sitting on its customary spot on the sill. There was a flash, a hint of movement, and I almost jumped, thinking at first that the monkey had moved. But it had not been the monkey.

Something was outside.

Millie nearly bowled me over coming in and ran straight to Cynthie, who was sitting in the bed, rubbing her sleepy eyes.

"Why didn't you open the door, baby? Didn't you hear Mommy calling?"

I eased over to the window and peered outside. Nothing moved in the darkness. I could hear no strange sounds over Millie's constant blubbering.

"Why're you crying, Mommy?" It was apparent that she'd been sleeping soundly until only a few moments ago. She was still half asleep, but she was beginning to get frightened.

"I'm going outside," I said, and started for the door. Millie darted in front of me, face stern.

"I could use a little help here, Dave."

"You're doing a fine job of scaring her without my help," I said. I pushed by her and made my way to the back door. I'd meant to stop at the hall closet and get a flashlight, but I was so pissed at Millie I wasn't thinking straight. What the hell was with her, anyway? Why the hysterics? We'd left the city so that we could slow things down, kick back and enjoy life. Now I was wondering if Millie could make the adjustment. She'd been on the verge of stressing out before the move; she'd needed the change even more than I. And it had worked, I know, because the old stress _was_ gone. I could see it in her face. But it had been replaced by something new: paranoia, and an obsession with that damned monkey.

I opened the back door, already doubting whether or not I'd actually seen anything at all. I'd still been half asleep when I'd opened Cynthie's door, still reeling from that screwy dream I'd been having. It must have been my imagination. Cynthie's window was a good six feet off the ground on the outside.

The night was dark and moonless. A gentle breeze was blowing. Perhaps I'd seen tree branches in the woods behind the house blowing in the wind. I didn't really believe that, but as I stepped into the yard I saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that led me to believe that I'd seen anything other than the movement of the trees, if anything at all. It had simply been the combination of Millie's irrational antics and the lingering effects of the dream. Nothing more.

I turned, half expecting to find the door covered with grass monkeys. I found Millie instead, blocking the doorway, the light from inside casting cruel shadows on her face. She was holding something. I looked down to see the grass monkey grasped in her hand.

"Get rid of this thing, Dave." From inside, Cynthie's anguished screams rang through the house.

"Millie..."

"It's bad, Dave. It's a bad thing. I'll not have it in _my_ house another minute." She was speaking softly, but I saw something inside her that was about to erupt.

I was close to snapping. My wife was acting like a three year-old while my daughter was wailing her head off in abandoned misery. I had the feeling that something was slipping away, something vital.

"Give it to me," I said, indicating the monkey. I had no intention of getting rid of it; rather, I planned to return the thing to Cynthie so she'd stop screaming. Millie had become completely irrational, and it was time to put my foot down and talk some sense into her. But I had to calm Cynthie first.

I think Millie saw through me, saw that I was not going to aid her in disposing of the monkey. Or perhaps she simply decided to take matters into her own hands. Whatever the reason, she went into a windup, like a major league pitcher on the mound. Before I could stop her, she hurled the grass monkey into the dark woods. It disappeared into the gloom and hit the forest floor with a soft rustle.

"Damnit!" I cursed. Now I would have to go get the flashlight and find the thing if I wanted to hush Cynthie.

I started toward the door, meaning to push past Millie and get the flashlight from the hall closet, when the woods suddenly came to life. There was a flurry of movement around the area where Millie had tossed the monkey, as if dozens of hidden creatures were converging on the spot, snarling with unbridled anticipation. I snapped around, my eyes futilely searching, seeing only hints of their passing as saplings and brush parted for them. The sounds made me think of a pack of wild dogs, or maybe wolves, though I didn't think there were any wolves in southwestern Virginia. Coyotes, maybe; I'd heard that there had been sightings. Whatever they were, they must have been hiding in the shadows, watching me as I'd come outside, unarmed. The thought sent a shiver though my body.

"Get inside!" I shouted at Millie. She didn't move, and I saw that her face was slack, eyes empty. She was spacing out on me, and she'd picked a hell of a time for it. I shoved her inside none too gently and started to shut the door, but a new sound from the woods held me frozen. The shiver which had run through me only moments before returned tenfold, a veritable quake that literally left me shaking in my shoes.

I'd heard the sounds of monkeys before, in the movies and on television, and had seen and heard them at the zoo in Knoxville. What I was hearing from the woods as I stood in the doorway was definitely some sort of monkey, its screams mingling with the frenzied snarls of its attackers, echoing off the dark hills. There was a terrible thrashing sound and the monkey's screams grew shriller, more desperate. I slammed the door shut, sweat beading on my forehead, my stomach twisting into knots. Something gave a sharp jerk on my pants leg and I spun around, expecting to see either a rabid wolf or the bleeding carcass of a monkey. It was Cynthie, eyes wide with horror.

"There's too many, Daddy!" she wailed. "Too many for monkey! Help, Daddy! Please help monkey!"

I looked to Millie for help, but she was out of the game. I grabbed her arm with one hand, took Cynthie by the other, and led them both into Cynthie's room. Millie sat down on the bed, zombie-like, and Cynthie scampered up beside her, gripping her mother's arm. I ran to the open window and listened.

Silence once again reigned in the forest.

I closed the window, locked it, and pulled the heavy drapes shut. I then walked over to my wife and daughter. Cynthie was crying softly, but she seemed more sad than frightened. Millie was staring blankly into space. I took Millie by the shoulders and shook her hard, causing Cynthie to gasp and scoot several inches away.

"Millie? I need you here, hon. I need you here for a few minutes."

She looked at me and her eyes focused somewhat. "Dave. Is it time for bed?"

"In just a little while. I need to go outside for a minute, Millie. Do you hear me? I want you to stay here with Cynthie until I get back. Understand?"

"Okay," she nodded. "Hurry, though. I'm awfully tired."

She still wasn't in the game, but at least she had wandered back into the ballpark. I glanced at Cynthie, and I will always be haunted by how miserable she looked at that moment, how small and alone she seemed.

"Stay right here with Mommy," I told her, my heart aching. I wanted to grab her and hold her. I should have, but I felt that I had to check things out first.

"Millie?"

"Just hurry, Dave. I'm tired."

I left them in the bedroom and went to the hall closet. I found my old twelve-gauge with little problem, then the flashlight, but it took me several minutes to locate the shells for the gun. I loaded both barrels with hands a heartbeat away from shaking, then headed out the back door.

I had my hand on the knob when glass shattered.

Cynthie screamed.

I knew it was the window in Cynthie's room. I knew it. If I had opened the door, stepped outside and turned left, I would have been right there. But I didn't. I turned and ran back down the hallway, back towards her bedroom, and this time I didn't brush that damned table but crashed headlong into it, spilling the remaining knickknacks and myself to the floor. The gun discharged with a deafening roar, and for a few seconds the world went black. Just a few seconds.

The cops finally came, and an ambulance from the volunteer squad down in Shallow Springs. Millie left in that ambulance, as blank and empty as she'd been when I'd found her in Cynthie's bedroom, alone, her hair gently stirring from the breeze coming through the shattered window. They took her to the community hospital in Kingsport, then to the psychiatric facility where she has remained this past year. I visit her once a week or so, and it's always the same, so that I hate to go back but I always do.

The cops put on a good search, and most of the locals joined in. Everyone was super nice—the wives sent plenty of food—and the state police even put in an appearance. The search petered out after a couple of weeks with no progress, and by September they had pretty much given up, though Sheriff Lyle down in the Springs calls once a week to keep me humored. Dalton stops by every now and then, and we sit on the porch and drink a few beers, and sometimes he drinks while I cry.

I go out every day, rain or shine. I take the shotgun, though Dalton doesn't seem to think it'll do much good, and I canvass the hills and hollows and ridges, and I look for my little girl. Then I come home at night and pull the curtains and sit in my old recliner. I sit, and I listen to the rustling of the grass monkeys, dozens of them now, hanging like sentinels from each window and door.

# Wood

Cabe liked driving in the snow at night. The snowflakes seemed to appear out of nowhere, only to be caught in the truck's headlights where they careened at him, kamikaze-style, until they veered off at the last possible second and disappeared into the blackness behind him. It reminded Cabe of the viewing screen on the old _Star Trek_ episodes, and sometimes he imagined that the snowflakes were actually stars and planets, that he was in a futuristic spaceship instead of a telephone truck, and that he was travelling not along the back roads of Meade County but across the reaches of deep space, his mission to discover strange, new life forms on equally strange and distant planets.

His real mission was neither exciting nor romantic. The snow had started around noon, and for the first two or three hours it had been wet and heavy, clinging to tree branches and overhead utility lines, piling up until something had to give. There were reports of outages all over the county, both power and telephone service. The power crews were out in force; in this day and time, even in little shitholes like Shallow Springs, folks relied on electricity for heat, though some old-timers still clung to wood or coal burners. But phone service was a secondary issue, except, of course, for emergency response systems like 911. Most people, even the ones out in the backwoods, had cell phones these days, and though they would bitch and complain, they would make do until the weather broke.

So it wasn't an out-of-service call that brought Cabe out of his warm house on a frigid and snowy night, a night when he'd just taken the first couple of sips that he hoped would lead to eventual mind-numbing bliss. Nor was it the promise of exploring strange, new worlds. It was simply a line down, hanging a dangerous three feet off the ground, about three miles out Duncan Road. Sal, when he had called, pleading, had assured him that it wouldn't take long, and Cabe had agreed to go, though certainly not for Sal's sake. Sal was in _his_ nice, warm house, in there with his wife and children. They were probably decorating for Christmas, laughing and happy, the way a family should be. Sal did not care about the downed line, only that it was his responsibility to see that it got fixed. And Cabe, who had no laughing family, not anymore, was the perfect candidate. Assuming, of course, that he hadn't already drunk himself into a stupor.

Cabe chose not to dwell on these things. He'd agreed to go out, but only because it was an excuse to get out of the house, and it was something to occupy his hands and mind. The whiskey could wait; it wasn't as if he had an actual taste for it, anyway. Only the foggy cloud of forgetfulness it induced.

Duncan Road lay a good ways out of town, past the fairgrounds and small apple orchards. It was just past the turnoff to Monster Road, so named because of its steep grade and treacherous horseshoe curves. Monster Road ran up the side of Drover Mountain, and Cabe was glad he didn't have to go up there. The road would likely be impassable by now; even in the summer months his truck would gasp and shudder as it climbed the mountain. Cabe didn't like it up there. It was a lonely place, lonelier than any place had a right to be. It reminded him of himself.

The snow that now fell was not heavy and wet but light and fluffy, a colder snow. A plow had been through earlier, and the road wasn't really slick yet—that would happen overnight, when the temperature dropped well below freezing. Cabe figured he would be able to get the cable out of the road in no time, even if he had to rig up a temporary fix. But he was damn well going to charge three or four hours to the job. Sal wouldn't mind; it wasn't his money, after all. Besides, the overtime pay would buy a lot of hooch. It wasn't like he had presents to buy—well, if he didn't count Fran, whose name Cabe had drawn in the storeroom pool.

He tried the two-way radio just to see if anyone else had been coerced into coming out in the storm, but only static and silence answered him. If he needed to, he could switch channels and get a hold of someone in dispatch, but there was no need for that. He was alone, but that was something he was used to. He did not fear solitude, but neither did he embrace it. It was simply what was, and what had been since Chloe had left, taking Ricky and Mona with her. Last he'd heard, they'd been staying with her parents in Indiana, and she'd made it clear that he was no longer a part of them, just as they had abandoned his world. Losing Chloe didn't bother Cabe; she'd been a bitch when they'd married and had changed very little over the years. But he missed the kids. A lot. He'd never been much of a husband, he knew, but he thought he'd been a pretty good Dad.

He came to the intersection and eased the bucket truck onto Duncan Road. The truck was heavy enough so that it went in the snow without much trouble. It might slide or spin a little if he tried a steep hill, or if he really goosed it, but Duncan Road was basically flat and he was in no particular hurry. The plow had evidently not come this way, for the snow was deeper—four or five inches on the roadway itself. If the report was right, he had less than three miles to go and would be there in no time. He might even get lucky and find that it was a cable TV or power line instead of a telephone line, in which case he could waste some time and go back home without ever having to get out of the truck, and get paid for it.

Luck was not with him, for when he finally came upon the line he saw at once that it was indeed a telephone cable. The line ran across the road at an angle, with one pole sitting on the right, next to the road, while the other pole was located up a hill to the left. If luck _had_ been with him, the problem would have been at the pole nearest the road. As it was, he could see that a tree had snapped and hit the line up on the hill, about thirty feet from the second pole. It would be impossible to get to with the truck's bucket. He would have to walk up the hill, saw the fallen tree off the line, and climb the pole to reattach the cable.

The road was deserted, and that was good, for he could not pull completely off the pavement. He set the truck's beacon and flashers, made sure the parking brake was engaged, and left the motor running as he got out to get the chainsaw and climbing gear. He was not about to shut the truck off; it wasn't _his_ gas. He left the heater going full blast.

A frozen wind swept down the hillside, found an opening at the collar of his overalls, and chilled him to the bone. Maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to take the job. Inebriation was all that awaited him back home, but at least it was warm there. He was forty-six, too old for this shit. Had he been able to use the hydraulic bucket on the truck, it would have been a pie job. Now it was starting to look like there might actually be work involved, and he had developed a definite disdain for hard labor.

Cabe donned his hardhat and safety belt, grabbed his climbers and saw, and started up the hill. The snow was much deeper off the road, and slick, but the incline was gentle and he could make out the indentation of a path leading up to the pole. The woods were white but dark at the same time, and the orange light from the truck's flashing beacon caused the shadows of the trees to chase each other in a never-ending circle. He followed the hinted-at path, twice slipped and nearly fell, and finally he was at the troublesome tree. It was a poplar, not old but obviously dead for some time, most likely the victim of some disease.

He kicked at the snow to clear a patch of ground and set the saw and climbers down. The tree had knocked the cable off the pole. Even when the tree was sawed off, the line would not rise enough to safely clear the road below. He would have to climb the pole and reattach the line, and that would be dangerous. If a snow plow or other large vehicle were to come along and snag the line before he got it raised, it would jerk him off the pole and sling him into the forest. He wished for some help, someone at least to watch for traffic while he went up the pole, but if he called in now it would take at least an hour for another worker to make it out. Better to go ahead and do the job as quickly as possible.

There was a noise behind him and he turned, listening. A word, whispered, floated by on the frigid wind. It had sounded like _damnit_ , or maybe _dandy_. He called out on impulse, then instantly felt foolish. He was alone on the snow-covered road. No one would be traipsing about on foot in weather like this; besides, he couldn't have possibly heard someone whispering above the clatter of the wind. Still, his eyes lingered on the snowy trees behind him for quite a while before he picked up the chainsaw and jerked it to life.

Cabe was careful with the tree. If it kicked on him, he would probably be dead before anyone found him. There was not much traffic on Duncan Road when the weather was good. There were only five or six houses further up, and since they'd opened up the four-lane to Kingsport no one bothered using this route. It was a narrow and winding thing, much like its sister which ran up Drover Mountain. Here, though, the road ran through a small valley and was thus relatively flat. Cabe once again thought of the mountain while he worked, and again he was thankful he was not up there. Strange things had gone on up on that mountain, things that folks back in the Springs talked about in hushed tones, and then only when alcohol loosened their lips.

His last cut brought the tree tumbling off the cable. It began rolling down the hill toward his truck and he watched, wide-eyed, until it came to a stop against an old oak halfway down the slope. He breathed a relieved sigh and shut the saw off. That would have been a kicker—out here alone and his truck demolished by a runaway log. Sal would have loved that. The company would have loved it even more. He would have earned a week's vacation, sans pay, for that one.

Though the temperature was dropping and the wind had not abated, his activity had worked up a sweat and he was tempted to unbutton his overcoat. From somewhere nearby an owl broke cover and swooped down to his left, causing him to jump and drop the saw. The bird crossed the road, its eyes flashing bright in the beacon's strobe, and disappeared into the pines on the opposite hillside. Cabe looked after it and wondered if it felt the cold as sharply as he. He'd forgotten his wool cap, and now his ears felt as if they were beginning to freeze. He rubbed at them, trying to warm them with friction, and it was then that he heard the whisper once more.

It had seemed louder this time, and he felt that if he hadn't been rubbing on his ears he would have heard the word clearly. As it was, he'd only gotten the first of it. _Da_.

_Danger_? Maybe, but he didn't think so. The _a_ sound was wrong. It was more like the sound in _Dan_ or _damp_. He scanned the woods again and almost called out a second time, but something inside him warned against it. If there was anyone out there, they would have made themselves known by now. Unless they were up to no good, in which case they wouldn't answer if he called all night. Probably kids, out enjoying the snow and fucking with him.

He wanted to believe that, but he suddenly felt very alone. Not the kind of alone he felt when he went home every night, or even when he took out an old photo album. This loneliness was even more intense, as if it had a physical weight that he could feel bearing down upon him, bearing down like the snow on the trees. For a moment something in him faltered and he wanted badly to scamper down the hill and back into his warm truck, turn that mother around and head back into town. Then it passed, and he was able to steel himself , at least from the chill on the inside. He was acting like a young boy, fearful of shadows. It was his present frame of mind, that was all. And maybe few sips of whiskey he'd downed before Sal had called.

He gathered his climbers and walked up to the pole. It was a good one, saturated with creosote and not too ragged from being climbed repeatedly. With any luck, he would have the line back up in fifteen minutes, twenty at most. It would be difficult to drag the cable with him as he climbed, but the span was not overly long and he was pretty sure he could manage it. He stuck one climber into the pole, raised his foot into it, and went about securing the straps which bound the climber to his boot. He was almost done when he happened to glance up at the pole, eye level, and found himself staring into a face.

He yelled and lurched backwards, slipped in the snow, and landed heavily on his ass. Even as he hit he was kicking his legs, scuttling back like a crab, until a tree trunk halted him. Shivering, he forced himself to look back at the pole.

The face was gone.

No, that wasn't quite right. There was still a blotch there, some spots where the creosote was darker, and the grain of the wood. If he looked at it just right and used some imagination, it might come to resemble a face.

But that was not what he had seen. The image he had gazed upon had been sharp and focused, not a random sampling of creosote and knots. He had seen eyes, bright and dull at the same time, looking into his own. Eyes that were almost familiar, had they not been composed of wood and oil.

He regained his feet and shook the snow from his clothes. Now that they were wet, he would get cold, and quickly. Not for the first time, he wondered if he were losing his grip. The solitude he endured wasn't healthy, he knew, and neither was the booze. He tried to remember if he'd cried since his family had left and found that he couldn't. But it had only been eight months, and Cabe was a hard man, not one given to whims of emotion. And certainly not one given to irrational fear. Suddenly angry, he marched back to the pole, snatched up his other climber, and rammed the spike deep into the center of where the face had been, or where he had imagined the face to be. It did not reappear howling in agony, and he spat at the ground in defiance. The saliva bored a narrow tunnel through the snow.

He attached the second climber, checked the first again, and grabbed the cable. He was all business now; it was time to shut his overactive imagination down for the night, and the best way to do that was to concentrate on the task at hand. The temperature was dropping, his clothes were now wet, and he was missing a golden opportunity to get thoroughly soused. He began to ascend the pole, forcefully driving his gaffs into the cold-hardened wood. It was awkward trying to climb while lugging the cable, but he used his safety belt as he went up and was thus able to keep one hand free to wrangle the heavy line.

As if sensing his present vulnerability, the wind redoubled its effort. He paused in his climb to brace himself against its onslaught. A forceful gust caught his hardhat and lifted it from his head. It seemed to hover for a moment, just out of his reach, taunting him. Then it fell to the ground where it was caught again by the wind. It scurried down the hillside like a small animal and was lost from sight.

Cursing, Cabe resumed his climb. His legs were starting to ache, both from the cold and the added weight of the cable. He focused his attention on his climbing, one foot at a time, making sure his gaff took a good hold before putting his weight on it. He had cut out of poles before, and it was never any fun, but it would be even less so now. An image of himself lying on the ground, broken and freezing, came unbidden to his mind's eye. He shook his head to dispel the image and realized that he had failed to contain his imagination, had succeeded only in pushing it back a few steps. Now it was with him again, shadowing his movements, and when he heard the whispered word once more, clear as it was, he might have dismissed it, were it not for the word itself:

Daddy.

He stopped, frozen as the night itself. Someone was out there; he could no longer deny the fact. The word had been to clear, too tangible, to chalk up to imagination. He swiveled around on the pole, looking and listening. From his vantage point halfway up the pole, he had a better chance of seeing anyone who might be about, though the smaller trees partially obstructed his view of the ground. They must be close; he had heard the word clearly, and that with the wind howling.

_Daddy_!

It was louder this time, but still he could not pinpoint its source. It seemed to come from everywhere, as if the wind itself spoke to him. Now he did call out, angrily, but the wind resumed its soft moan and uttered nothing more. He scanned the frozen landscape below him until his eyes began to sting, but nothing moved except for the blowing snow.

He was alone.

The thought did not creep up on him, but instead hit him like a sledgehammer. His legs nearly buckled under the weight of his solitude and he threw the cable down, certain that he was going to come off the pole. Around him, the forest spun about in a dizzying pirouette. He grabbed at the pole to steady himself and stared at his feet, trying to regain control. He studied his climbers, concentrated solely on them, and tried to block out the flood of despair in which he was drowning. He noticed the workmanship of the metal, the leather straps worn soft from use, the way his gaffs angled into the wood...

Something began to ooze from the punctured wood. It flowed around his gaffs and ran down the pole in small rivulets, some of which merged to form larger streams. His first thought was creosote, but that was ludicrous; the pole, and its preservative, were as frozen as the bleak landscape that surrounded them. The fluid was thick and dark, almost black in contrast to the snow's harsh glare. Small tendrils of steam rose from it as it trickled down the pole.

_Daddy_.

The voice was inches from his face, and he looked up into the wooden eyes of his son. Reflex pushed him back, straining until his body belt dug deeply into his back and lower ribs. Ricky's lips, black with creosote, twisted into a grotesque smile. It lingered there only momentarily, for as Cabe watched, numb with dread, the face in the wood shifted, melted, until he could recognize Mona. A fat glob of oil formed to make the mole on her left cheek.

Daddy. Come to us, Daddy. Come to us.

The sides of the pole rippled. Slender shoots sprang out of the wood and continued to grow outward. They writhed with the sudden, clumsy motions of a newborn animal. The shoots began to form fingers, then hands. Wrists, knotted and grainy. When the forearms began to protrude, he somehow broke the spell, his numbness replaced by stark terror. He began to descend rapidly. Mona screamed at him, then Ricky. He even heard Chloe's voice, raspy, beseeching. He chanced a look upwards, only a dozen feet from the ground now and certain to make it, and his right foot cut out of the pole. He fell awkwardly, his safety belt still fastened, keeping him close to the pole. Oily splinters slashed through his wet clothing and into his flesh, burning. He hit the ground almost—but not quite—upright, and his ankle twisted in an agonizing flash of pain. He tried to fall backwards but the belt would not allow it. He slid to the base of the pole and lay in the snow.

Tiny, white missiles stung his face. Around him, the wind howled, and the trees moaned under the weight of the snow and whispered urgently to him. Cabe looked at the pole. There were no faces, and nothing seeped from the holes his gaffs had left in the wood, but still the wood cried to him, softly, not just from the frozen pole but from every tree around him. They bent their limbs, reaching for him, wanting, desiring. He was warm, though some part of him must have realized that he was freezing to death. More than that, he no longer felt alone. He was wanted, not just by his children but by all of them, hundreds, maybe more. They wanted him, would not stop until they had him...

Something fell from the sky and landed nearby. There was a loud noise, not the soft whispers of the wood but a shrill cry. The sound startled Cabe, and he turned to see the owl. Maybe it was the same one he'd seen earlier, maybe not. It had not sought a perch on any of the nearby branches; rather, it had settled directly on the ground and was nearly half-buried in the snow.

In the limited light, Cabe should not have been able to make out the birds eyes at all. But he saw them, clearly, and what they told him was that death waited for him in the snow covered woods. Death, or possibly even something worse. _Maybe_ , the owl's eyes said, _even worse than going on living with the loneliness, the failure. Maybe even worse than that_.

The cold returned to him suddenly, biting into his flesh. In an instant he was free from the pole and running toward the truck, his eyes fixed on the flashing orange beacon, his twisted ankle throbbing. He charged down the slope, high-stepping in the deep snow, arms windmilling at his sides like an awkward drunk. Nearly to the road and the safety of the waiting truck, he came upon something in the snow, a rock, too quickly to stop. He leapt to one side trying to avoid it, and then he was sliding on one foot, out of control, past the thing which he realized, too late, was not a rock at all but his own lost hat. For a moment he was sure he would make it, that he could regain his footing, and then both feet were in the air and he landed hard on his back. There was a crunching sound and his back screamed. His mouth followed close behind.

The world was black for a little while, and while it was black Cabe visited with Ricky and Mona. He shot some hoops with Ricky, outside by the garage, because it was summertime and there was no snow and his back didn't hurt. Then he got down on all fours and gave Mona a horsey ride, and she giggled like she always did because she wasn't in Indiana, why should she be? And he would have played some more, wanted to, but then his back started hurting, just a little, and then it started to snow really hard and he couldn't see the kids so clearly anymore, and his damn back...

He woke to the sensation of snow stinging his face. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out; maybe a minute, maybe ten. The small of his back felt like it was on fire, but at least his ankle wasn't throbbing anymore. That, of course, was probably because it had gone numb. Cabe wished that his back would follow suit. He tried to rise, made it to one elbow, and fell cursing back into the snow. Tears welled in his eyes from the intense pain, and for several seconds he couldn't catch his breath. Panicked, he tried both arms and legs, then fingers and toes. Everything seemed to be working. That meant he hadn't broken his spine, anyway. But something sure hurt like hell.

Cabe craned his neck to look back at the silent woods. Nothing moved, no trees were shambling down the slope after him, and as far as he could tell no wooden faces peered at him from their trunks.

He needed to get to the truck in a bad way. He was obviously injured and needed to get to the radio. On the plus side, he'd been on the clock when it happened, so the company would foot any medical bills. On the down side, being off work—hurt—would consist of sitting at home. Alone.

Cabe didn't think he could drink that much.

He tried again to get to one elbow and this time his back complied, though under heavy protest. His clothes, now thoroughly soaked, felt as if they were starting to freeze. He needed to get to the truck and its warm cab, call dispatch and tell them what had happened, then get the hell out of Dodge. He'd fucked things up enough for one night; Sal would just have to understand. He could tie a red flag to the cable, maybe set out some traffic cones. It wasn't as if the road were a major thoroughfare, anyway. It would wait until morning.

He managed to rise to a sitting position. His back went along grudgingly, and the pain was not as sharp as it had been at first, which renewed his hope that he hadn't done any major damage. He tried to stand, but for some reason his left foot wouldn't budge. Was it broken, after all? No, he thought, trying to calm himself. Not broken, just stuck. Something under the snow. His boot was stuck, that was all.

Cabe leaned forward and brushed the powdery snow away from his foot. There was some sort of woody vine wrapped around the ankle of his boot. He must have gotten tangled in it as he'd fallen. The wind picked up again, and he could almost feel his body temperature plummeting. He had to get back to the truck. He reached down, grasped the vine, and had just started to pull when the thing constricted violently, jerking his arm forward and crushing his gloved fingers.

He screamed as the vine cut through his gloves and tore into his flesh. He felt the glove becoming saturated with his own warm blood and still the vine squeezed tighter, now digging into the leather of his boot. He felt his pinky finger break. With his free hand he reached into the pouch attached to his belt, groping blindly, desperately, until his fingers gripped the handle of his lineman's pliers.

A second finger popped, but Cabe was all out of screams. He grunted instead, a sound like a mad bull, and tried to catch the vine between the pliers. The pliers were large, and there wasn't much room, but he was able to slide them in beside his tortured hand. He was expecting a fight, like trying to cut through a steel cable (God knows that's what it felt like), but the pliers did their job and the vine snapped. A dark fluid, the same as he'd seen coming out of the pole, spewed from the severed vine. Some of it splattered onto Cabe's face. The vine writhed and thrashed, reminding Cabe of a snake in its death throes.

All around him, the wood screamed.

He staggered to his feet, pain wracking his body. Ankle, back and fingers all competed for time on the main stage. The truck, with its warm cab and solid metal body, was a mere twenty yards away. A haven. There was no fucking wood in the truck, but there _was_ the radio. He had to get a hold of dispatch, tell them what had happened (omitting, of course, the parts that would make him sound like a raving lunatic), maybe get an ambulance on the way.

Salvation was twenty yards away.

He started toward it, fighting the urge to run. Aside from the fact that he just wasn't physically able, he was afraid another vine might be hiding beneath the snow, ready to snag him and send him for yet another tumble. Cabe didn't think he could stand anymore of those. And still be able to walk, anyway.

The wood grew suddenly silent. Nothing moved to impede his progress as he stumbled toward the truck. Shivers wracked his body as he walked, each one sending magnificent waves of pain through his various injuries. In the beacon's light, the snow no longer looked like stars. Instead, they reminded him of tiny fireballs, thousands upon thousands of them, miniature versions of the ones which had destroyed the earth in at least three recent movies. He'd never liked that kind of movie before, when Chloe and the kids had been there, but he'd found himself watching more of them lately

Ten yards to go

and he'd even read a couple of books, for Christ's sake, something utterly unheard of until recently, though it had been a struggle to get through the first one, what with being out of practice and all, and besides it was hard to concentrate with your head spinning and spinning

No! Only a few more feet! Hold on...

and it's getting dark and everybody knows you can't read in the...

This time he played with the kids a little longer. They were at one of the go-cart tracks near Gatlinburg, one of the more recent additions which featured shiny new cars that were actually halfway fast. Around and around they went, and maybe they were going faster, too. Cabe wasn't positive, but it sure felt like it. At first, he was right behind Ricky and Mona, but then Ricky began to pull away from him. He called out, telling Ricky to slow it down a bit, ease up on the ol' throttle just a little, son, but Ricky was laughing and Cabe could tell that he hadn't heard. Then Mona turned, gave Cabe a sly wink, and goosed her own cart. Soon he was losing ground to them, cursing his own fat ass. The kids were much lighter; that's why they were outrunning him.

Then he _was_ going faster, really moving now, but so were the kids. He felt a ball of fear settle in his stomach. They were going way too fast. If one of them were to lose control...

There was a horrendous crashing noise, the sound of metal twisting in upon itself, and he rounded the next turn to see his children, or what was left of them, lying in a warped, broken jumble of go-cart and human parts. He hit the brakes, screaming their names, but the cart did not slow, just kept getting faster. He tried to swerve into a stack of hay bales, but the cart would have none of that, either. Around and around it took him, going much too fast for him to dare to jump, past the broken and bleeding bodies of his children who were begging for him to stop, to help them, to make it stop _Daddy PLEASE make it stop_...

Cabe awoke with a scream, clawing his way into a sitting position, heedless of the pain, the screams of his children still ringing in his ears. There was an odd cracking noise as he moved, and he looked down to see that his clothes were actually starting to freeze. He had to get to the truck before he blacked out again. It was only a few yards away...

He remembered the crushing sound from the dream, the twisting metal. Obviously, the sound had been real. His mind had simply incorporated it into the dream, attributing the sound to the crashing go-carts. But there were no go-carts here. Here, there was only a telephone truck, or the remains of one, to be more precise. A large oak had fallen, smashing the cab to the point of separating it from the bed.

The orange beacon was now dark and silent.

There was no warm cab now, nor was there any way to get to the radio, assuming it hadn't been smashed to bits, anyway. He was hurt, freezing, and miles from anywhere.

But he wasn't alone. Not anymore.

"Bastards!" he screamed at the wood, and it laughed at him, mocking him. On the oak which had crushed the truck, faces flowed in and out of sight along the length of its trunk, each pausing just long enough for Cabe to get a glimpse. Here was Mona, then Ricky, and then it was Chole, laughing at him in that snooty little giggle of hers. To his right, a stand of pines grew the faces of Sal and his family. Sap oozed from their eyes and noses and seeped from the corners of their mouths. A few yards up the slope, a gnarled hickory stump took on the visage of Fran Tate. Her mouth opened and insects began crawling out into the frigid air.

"What do you want?" he cried, and still the laughter rode on the wind, saturated it. Panic and mad frenzy struggled for control of Cabe's mind. Already his head was feeling light again. One more time passing out in the snow and he didn't think he'd be waking up again.

A fire. That's what he needed. Kill two birds with one stone. It would keep him from freezing and it would keep the wood away from him. It wouldn't dare come near a fire, surely it wouldn't. The only problem was that he would need wood to build a fire in the first place.

Aye, there was the rub.

Something shot out of the snow near his feet and he jumped back involuntarily. It was a small pine sapling which had been buried under the snow. It writhed and reached for him, alive, and he kicked at it without thinking. It shrank back beneath its white blanket and disappeared.

The lightness in his head was starting to spread to his muscles. He was running out of time; if there was going to be a fire, he would have to work quickly. He would need the chainsaw, and it was still halfway up the slope. He would need some kindling as well. There were road flares stored in the back of the truck, where he could still get to them, and they would work to get the fire started.

All he needed was the wood.

He started back up the slope, his battered body running on fumes. Around him the wood laughed and cried and called to him, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on retrieving the saw. Things moved under the snow, causing ridges to form in the powdery crust, but nothing reached to grab him. When he got to the saw, he was covered in a thin layer of sweat.

He reached down and picked the saw up, his vision swaying dangerously as he did so, but he stood still for a moment, concentrating, and it cleared up. Now that he had the saw in his hands, he felt better. It wouldn't screw with him now, better not. He could cut it now; hell, he could cut it all down, as long as the gas held out. He could cut it and watch it bleed, then burn it and piss on the ashes.

That sounded like a plan and he jerked the saw to life, relishing the sound it made. He turned to the nearest tree. He wasn't really surprised to see Ricky's face looking at him, longing and sadness in his wooden eyes. But it wasn't Ricky. Ricky was in Indiana with Mona and Chloe. Whatever this was, it was straight from hell, and Cabe meant to send it back.

"Daddy!" the wooden Ricky-thing cried. "Please Daddy, don't! Please don't hurt me! I miss you, Daddy. I want to be with you. So does Mona. Even Mommy."

Cabe did not stop advancing on the tree, but he slowed a little and let the saw drop a bit. It sounded so much like Ricky, so much like his little man.

"Don't you love us anymore, Daddy? Don't you want to be with us? We want to be with you. We want to be with you forever."

"You're not my goddamn son!" Cabe screamed, close enough now to hit it, to cut it, and was just about to do so when the roots shot upward, through his boots and into his legs, securing him to the frozen ground, pressing up into his chest, his throat, filling him and driving the loneliness, finally, away.

# The Moss God

Buck let one rip, a real tear-ass by the sound of it, and Jonesy guffawed as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Under other circumstances, Mack would have thought it funny, too, but the morning was cool and they were riding with the windows up.

"Jesus, Buck! A little warning, huh?" Mack said as he hurried the window crank. The little rubber knob kept coming off in his hand—he'd been meaning to fix that for over a week now. Hell, the whole truck was falling apart, piece by piece. Soon it would be time for a new one. He wanted a new four-wheel drive, but so far Annette had balked at the payments.

"Better check your drawers, compadre," Gary said from behind them. That set Jonesy, who had almost quieted down, off again. Mack scrunched his nose and made a gagging sound, though in truth it had been one of Buck's tamer efforts.

The truck made its way up state route 620, its diesel engine clattering like a worn-out jackhammer. 620, better known to the locals as Monster Road, was basically a never-ending series of kiss-your-ass curves that ran straight up the side of Drover Mountain. The mountain was a nice place in the summer, even prettier in the fall, but come winter you either got your tail to lower ground or you laid in enough food and supplies to do you a while. At its peak, Drover Mountain neared nosebleed altitude.

Very few houses lined the road as they made their way up to the job site. Actually, it would be very generous to call them houses at all. They were cabins mostly, made from sawmill lumber that none of the occupants had ever seen fit to paint. People up here were either rustic types—high-browed folks who wanted to get in touch with nature—or else they were too poor to live anywhere else. Mack wanted little to do with either class, but one of the high-brows, a man named Madsen, was trying to make trouble for the loggers.

As far as Mack could figure, Madsen was a tree-hugging liberal nut with nothing better to do than show his ass to the honest working man. He'd tried numerous times to get injunctions against the logging companies and had never succeeded, but the little fart was persistent, if nothing else. They'd tried bullying him on several occasions, but apparently Madsen was too stupid to get the point. They had finally decided that ignoring him would be the best policy, and it seemed to be working; they hadn't had any run-ins in the past month or so.

That was about to change.

"Shit!" Buck spat, sending Mack scurrying to prepare for another gas attack. But Buck was pointing through the windshield. "Look at that!"

Mack followed Buck's finger and saw the sign. At first, he couldn't believe it; not even Madsen would have the balls. But there it was, standing tall and proud in the tree-hugger's front yard. Mack slowed and read it again, anger building inside him like steam inside a pressure cooker.

WELCOME TO DROVER MOUNTAIN INDUSTRIAL PARK!

HOME OF SCENIC CLEARCUTS AND STRIP MINES!

Below this, in smaller letters, the sign read:

Pay to park, hunt, and fish

"Bastard," Jonesy said, his face flushed. Mack laid on the horn and hoped sincerely that he'd startled Madsen from a sound sleep.

The day went by quickly, as fall days tend to do. Twice, the skidder broke down, and that had held them up a bit, but they were still pretty much on schedule. Winter wasn't far off, and then the work would dwindle down to almost nothing.

It was nearing dusk when they loaded up the last of the day's logs. Mack was ready to go; he'd rounded up Buck and Gary, but Jonesy was nowhere to be found.

"Saw 'im over there a while ago." Buck pointed toward the north slope. "Maybe he had to take a whiz."

"He'd better hurry if he doesn't wanted to walk back to Shallow Springs," Mack grumbled.

"He'll show up in a minute," Gary wheezed, then blew a snotball into his grimy bandana. Gary was a big guy—six-four and maybe three-hundred pounds—but he had allergies that kicked his butt every spring and fall. Fall was the worst, but he wouldn't take his pills because they kicked his butt even more.

"Here he comes," said Buck.

Mack checked the north slope. Sure enough, Jonesy came creeping out of the tree line. From that distance, it looked to Mack like Jonesy was tiptoeing, and he had a strange look about him, like maybe he _had_ gone over there to take a whiz, but had forgotten to and still had to go.

"What's up with you?" Mack asked when Jonesy had danced up to them.

"I saw 'im, Mack!" He was whispering, even though the rest of crew had already lit out. "Saw 'im big as an ol' bear!"

"Who?" Mack was growing impatient. It was feeding time. His belly was growling.

"Madsen! I was over there, fixin' to take a leak, and there he was, big as an ol' Indian."

"In the woods?" Buck asked, doubtful.

"Little ways down the slope."

"You're sure it's him?" Mack asked.

"Sure as shit. It's Madsen, all right."

Everyone looked at Mack then, for Mack was the leader. What Mack said would go, no questions asked. Either they would hop in the truck and go home to their families, or they would go down there and teach that tree-hugger a lesson his momma should have taught him a long time ago.

"He was alone?" asked Mack.

Jonesy nodded. "As far as I could tell."

Mack grinned. It was too sweet to pass up, way too sweet, even if his belly was growling and it was getting late. They were miles from nowhere, they were alone, and they had him dead to rights.

"When we get done with him," he smiled at the boys, "he won't be able to take down that sign fast enough."

They crept quietly into the trees, Buck lugging his chainsaw. The plan, hurried as it was, was to scare Madsen good, send him running like a scared rabbit back to his home, maybe even send him packing from the mountain altogether. Then they would share a good laugh on the way back to the Springs and head back to their families for a hot meal and some tube time.

Jonesy led the way, Mack close behind. Crisp, freshly-fallen leaves crunched beneath their feet and threatened to give them away, but none of them was a stranger to the hunt, each of them having spent as much time in the woods stalking deer as they had sleeping. The early autumn daylight was on the wane, giving their progress a sense of urgency, yet each knew that they would have sufficient time to perform their task and be back at the job site before complete darkness fell.

They followed Jonesy down the north slope which, for the most part, eased at a gentle angle into the valley below. There were a couple of sheer drops, some perhaps seventy or eighty feet, but most of those lay further out the ridge. Here the timber was tall and virgin, with little undergrowth to impede them as they crept along.

Jonesy pulled up short before a grove of hemlocks and motioned for the others to do the same. Mack glanced down the slope and saw that a fog was rising.

"He in there?" he hissed at Jonesy.

"That's where he went," came the whispered reply.

"Then let's get going. Thirty minutes and the fog'll be as thick as shit soup."

They burst out of concealment then, like commandos initiating an assault, no longer caring about the noise because they knew that had him. Jonesy, small and wiry, was the first into the grove, Mack and Buck on his heels. Gary, wheezing, lumbered behind.

The grove opened up into a small clearing. Jonesy came to a sudden stop, his eyes wide. Mack had a split second to register the look on Jonesy's face (shock? disgust?) before his eyes lighted on Madsen, and then he, too, came to a screeching halt. Buck, not as observant, plowed into Mack, nearly knocking him over."

"Lord God," Jonesy breathed.

Madsen was there before them, kneeling on the dead leaves, naked as a by-God jay bird. At his side were his clothes, neatly folded and placed in a little pile. He'd had his back to them, and his head was turned as he regarded them with shock. Even then, though, Mack could see a hint of defiance in the man's expression.

"Somebody else," Buck whispered, and Mack looked beyond Madsen to a figure hidden in the shadows at the far end of the clearing. It appeared to be a man standing with arms stretched toward the sky, silent and unmoving.

"Wait here," Mack told the others. He started cautiously toward the dark figure, which remained perfectly still.

Suddenly Madsen was on his feet, eyes burning with rage and hatred.

"You've no right to be here!" he spat, contempt saturating his voice. "Your precious company doesn't own this land! Get the hell out of here!"

"Best you be quiet," Mack said and shoved Madsen, sending the naked man sprawling to the forest floor. Madsen jumped back into a crouch, eyes wild, and might even have rushed Mack. But then Buck was there, saw in hand. Madsen made no move.

Mack returned his attention to the man-shape in the shadows. Surely it was no man; it had not moved since he had first seen it. Still wary, he inched closer.

Now he could see that it was no man at all, but a misshapen tree trunk covered with moss. Around the dead tree's base someone had fashioned a crude circle out of rocks. The moss was so thick on the tree that not even the smallest section of bark peeked through. Even now, knowing what it was, Mack saw that it still held an uncanny resemblance to a man.

"What is it?" Jonesy yelled.

"Damn tree," Mack replied and returned to the group. "I think Mr. Tree-Hugger here was getting' ready to do just that" He threw Madsen a cruel look. "Maybe even more than that. Maybe there's a nice knothole in the rear of that thing. Could be ol' Tree-Hugger was going to show that tree how much he loves it."

Jonesy gave a nervous giggle. Madsen remained crouched on the ground, his eyes burning into Mack.

"What's the matter?" asked Mack. "No snappy comeback? Not like you to be at a loss for words, Madsen. Take that sign in your yard. No shortage of things to say there."

"You and your kind are ruining this land," Madsen answered.

"Me and my _kind_? You mean a working man?"

"There are other ways to make a living."

"Of course there are," Mack said. They began to circle around Madsen. "We could be coal miners...oh, wait. What was I thinking? Strip mines, that sort of thing. You don't cotton to that, do you, Madsen?"

"This land was here long before you ever walked upon it." A crooked little smile twisted Madsen's lips. "It'll be here long after you're gone."

"Damn nature lover. What the hell are you doing out here, anyway? Naked as the day you were born. And what's with your little altar over there? Were you praying to that freaking tree?"

Madsen jumped up, his fear of Buck and the saw forgotten. The sudden motion even startled Buck into retreating a step.

"You're a fool, Mack Housewright! You stick your nose into things that are best left alone."

"That's something you should have thought about before you started messing with me. And my _kind_. Mack looked at Buck, motioned to the moss-covered tree. "Saw that damn thing down."

With a shriek, Madsen flung himself at Buck. Buck brought the saw up, more of a defensive move than any planned attack, but it proved to be unlucky for Madsen. The blade caught him in the neck as he rushed in, and even though the saw wasn't running, the sharp teeth cut a ragged gash in his throat. He sank to his knees, clutching at the wound.

"Jesus Christ, Buck!" Jonesy screamed. "You done went and killed 'im!"

"I didn't..." Buck stammered. "Hell, he was comin' after me!"

The woods fell silent, except for Madsen's liquidy gurgling and Gary's wheezing, both growing considerably worse. Mack stared at the fallen Madsen, Blood ran in streams down the man's chest and stomach. Mack had seen blood before, plenty of it. He'd even seen a man lop off his own leg, right below the knee, with a chainsaw. But this was worse, somehow. Maybe it was because Madsen was dying naked and alone, surrounded by his killers. He'd even lost his dignity. Maybe that was the worst of it.

Madsen looked up at Mack with eyes starting to glaze. His lips moved feebly as if he were trying to speak, but the hole in his throat would not allow it. Then he pitched forward onto his face and it was over. They'd killed a man, just like that.

"Jesus Christ," Jonesy said again.

"We're screwed, boys," Gary said. "We won't see daylight 'till we're old and gray."

"The hell with that," said Mack. "Nobody knows what just happened here. Nobody but us four and Madsen. And he ain't talking."

"But somebody's gonna miss him, Mack," Buck argued.

"Maybe not for a while," Mack said. "He's not married. I don't think he has any kin close. If we're really lucky, he might not be missed for a good while."

"Yeah, and he don't work anywhere," added Jonesy.

"That's right. No boss to miss him come morning. I'm telling you boys, we keep our heads, we got nothing to worry about."

"I didn't mean to kill him." Buck looked miserable.

"It was an accident," Mack said. "we didn't come down here to snuff him. Hell, I feel bad about it, too. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna rot in prison because of it."

"So, what do we do?" Gary asked.

Mack thought for a moment. Whatever they did, it needed to be done quickly. The fog was almost upon them, and there was precious little light left. Also, their families would start to wonder if they stayed out much longer. It would be best not to arouse any suspicion about their whereabouts this evening.

"Okay. Jonesy, you and Gary come with me back to the truck. I've got some shovels in the bed. We'll bury him right here in this grove."

"Soil's awful rocky," Gary said.

"Don't have much choice. We can't risk leaving him out in the open."

"Maybe we could toss him over a drop," Jonesy offered, "They might think it was an accident."

"And him buck naked?" Mack asked. "You want to dress him?"

Jonesy didn't, and neither did anyone else.

"Come on," Mack said.

"What about me?" asked Buck.

Mack pointed to the mossy tree. "Cut that thing down."

"What?" Buck was incredulous. "Why? Madsen's dead."

"Because I don't like it, that's all. It gives me the creeps."

"But..."

"Just do it, Buck!" Mack snapped.

Mack, Jonesy and Gary left Buck with the dead tree and returned to Mack's truck. The first probing tendrils of fog groped at their feet as they climbed back up to the job site. Darkness had very nearly fallen; soon the light would be gone altogether. From the truck, they took two shovels, an axe, and the tarp that the tools were wrapped in. Mack grabbed a flashlight from the cab, and the three started back down the north slope. The going was a bit trickier this time, for the fog had now covered the forest floor, concealing any fallen tree limb or rock that might be waiting to trip them up. From somewhere below them, Buck's saw came to life.

"We've got to hurry," Mack said as they neared the hemlock grove. "If we're too late getting back, the wives will start asking questions, and that won't be good. The sooner we get this done..."

A sudden scream from the grove cut him off. Jonesy dropped the shovels, ready to run, but Mack and Gary sprinted the last twenty yards to the clearing. Buck, on his way out in a hurry, almost collided with Mack again.

"What happened?" Mack asked as he latched onto Buck's shoulders. "Jesus! They probably heard you all the way back in the Springs!"

"I cut that thing," Buck moaned. "I cut it, and it bled. It _bled_!"

Jonesy, having just entered the clearing, gave a low wail at this news.

"Shut up!" Mack snapped. "Didn't I tell you we can't go losing our heads here?" He returned his attention to Buck. "Christ's sake, man! Get a grip. It was probably only stump water."

Buck looked unconvinced, but Jonesy, eager for an explanation, agreed.

"Sure! Just ol' brown stump water. Hell, we all been sprayed before by them dead trees."

"You're letting your imagination get the better of you, pal," Mack said. "Maybe we shouldn't have left you alone. Jonesy and I could have carried the stuff."

That put Buck on the defensive. "I don't need no babysitter," he said. "It just startled me, that's all. It looked like blood in the dark."

"Do you want me to finish it?" Mack asked. "You can help Gary and Jonesy."

"I can do it," Buck said, trying to save face. "Just dig a damn hole and chuck him in it. I want to go home."

Jonesy and Gary started the digging, with Mack using the axe for tree roots and spelling the others when they got tired. It was rough going; the soil was incredibly thin and rocky, and they had no mattock to help them break though the unyielding earth. Buck returned to the dead tree, hesitant, and started his saw.

"It's like trying to dig through concrete," Gary rasped. He sounded as if he were talking underwater.

"You sound awful," said Mack. "You sure you don't have asthma?"

"Allergies, that's all."

In the background, Buck's chainsaw whined.

"My sister's got asthma," Jonesy said as he struck another lick with his shovel. "'Course, she smokes two packs'a Camels a day."

The saw continued its screaming attack on the mossy tree.

"That's not her only problem," Mack grinned. "I heard she caught something from Bobby Pelfry she can't get rid of."

Jonesy stiffened with mock indignation. "You questionin' my sister's honor?"

The saw fell silent.

"Let's break for a sec," Mack said.

They walked over to a fallen log and plopped down. Darkness had officially arrived, but the moon was nearly full and lent them enough light to see by. The fog, as thick as Mack had predicted, swirled about their knees. Mack turned to see Buck approaching through the haze.

"Take care of that tree?" Mack asked.

Buck said nothing. He came to a stop beside Gary and stood, head bowed.

"C'mon, Buck," Mack said. "It wasn't your fault. Like you said, he came at you."

Buck was silent.

"You all right?" asked Mack. He flipped the flashlight on and shone it on the standing man.

Buck was sweaty, his black hair matted to his scalp. Had it taken so much effort to saw down a single dead tree? Reddish-brown droplets stained his white t-shirt, and his body appeared limp, as if he were exhausted.

"Hey, pal," Mack laughed. "We were the ones doing the digging."

Buck looked up. Tiny specks of green covered his face. He grinned, and Mack saw with disgust that there were a couple of pieces lodged in his teeth.

"Aw, man. You've got that moss all over..."

Buck made a sudden whip-like movement and the saw roared to life. Jonesy, startled by the sound, sprang off the log, but Gary was not as quick. Buck swung the saw into Gary's face, catching him just below the nose. Gary screamed a high-pitched wail of agony and surprise. Buck forced the saw deeper, the muscles and tendons in his arms tight with the effort. Gary jerked and then went limp, but the saw embedded in his face held him in a sitting position.

"Buck!" Mack screamed. A bone chip had struck him in the cheek, slicing it, and blood trickled down his face. He paid it no attention. "Buck! Oh _God_!"

Buck yanked the saw free, and Gary toppled backwards to stare at the moon with unseeing eyes. Jonesy had leapt several yards away and now stood, eyes glued to Gary's blood-soaked body. Buck looked at Jonesy and smiled.

"Jonesy!" Mack yelled. "Run, Jonesy!"

Buck advanced on Jonesy, revving the saw as he walked. Jonesy remained frozen, his only movement the slow shaking of his head, as if he were trying to deny what his eyes were showing him. He paid no attention to Buck, even when Mack's axe struck Buck in the back of the head, spilling him to the earth, unmoving.

"Jesus," Mack said as he stood over the fallen Buck. He kicked the still running chainsaw away from Buck's crumpled from. Cat-like, he reached down and shut off the motor, then sprang back, axe at the ready. He looked at Jonesy, who was still staring at Gary.

"Jonesy. _Jonesy_!"

Jonesy looked at Mack, then at Buck. At first, he didn't seem to realize what had happened, then understanding filled his eyes. He bent over and puked.

Mack grabbed the flashlight, then Jonesy, and began dragging him out of the grove. Several times they almost fell, for the fog now covered everything as far as they could see, which wasn't far at all. Initially, Jonesy wasn't much help, but then he seemed to find his legs and after a while Mack didn't have to drag him along.

"Are they dead?" he asked Mack. "Are they both dead?"

"Deader than four o'clock."

"Why?" Jonesy sounded like a little kid who'd just discovered his pet dog smashed flat in the road.

"How should I know?" Mack hissed. "Buck just snapped, I guess." He stopped and turned. "I had to put him down, Jonesy. He was comin' after you. You know I had to do it, right?"

Jonesy nodded, sullen.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Mack said.

They had nearly topped the hill which led back to the job site when they both stopped, frozen. From somewhere in the fog below came a loud moan, followed by another. Jonesy peered into the swirling curtain of mist, listening intently.

"That's Gary," he whispered. "That sounds like Gary."

"Forget it, Jonesy. He's dead. They're all dead."

"You don't know that," Jonesy argued. "Neither do I. We didn't really check 'em, didn't take a pulse."

"Gary's down there with his head sawed almost in half!" Mack pressed. "And I split Buck's skull with that axe!"

"So maybe it's Madsen."

The moan drifted up the slope again, louder.

"We watched him die," Mack said. "Come on. Let's go."

The moan came again, followed by a word: _Jonesy_.

"That's Gary!" Jonesy yelped, and sprinted back down the hill. Mack made a grab for him but missed. He toppled over into the brush.

"Wait!" Mack yelled, but the fog had already swallowed Jonesy. Mack pulled himself up and hesitated, unsure of what to do. Then he started down the slope, calling for Jonesy.

Only silence answered.

Mack pulled his lock-blade knife from his pocket and flicked it open. Maybe it was Madsen, after all. He was sure Buck and Gary were beyond calling out to anyone. And if it _was_ Madsen, the job would have to be finished. Buck and Gary were dead, and Madsen couldn't be allowed to tell _that_ story.

He entered the grove cautiously, the flashlight's beam probing in front of him. The fog reflected most of the light back, so that he could see only five or six feet ahead.

"Jonesy?"

Neither Jonesy nor the moaner deigned to answer. Mack crept forward, flashlight in one hand and knife in the other. The woods were silent; no nocturnal animals scurried through the brush or treetops. The moon had clouded over, sending the forest into total darkness.

"Jonesy? Where are you, man?"

Mack's light settled on the unfinished grave. Just beyond that lay Madsen, as dead as they'd left him. So it hadn't been Madsen who had called out. Could it have really been Gary? Buck? He had a hard time accepting that, given the severity of their wounds. Still, if it hadn't been Madsen...

Mack turned in the direction of the fallen log they'd sat upon. He saw Buck first, or at least the lower part of his body, and that was enough to assure him that Buck had not moved, either. That left Gary. Gary, who had wheezed like a steam engine before his face had been cut in two. Gary, whose nose and mouth were now a good six inches apart.

"Jonesy, damnit! Answer me!"

And then he saw Jonesy, kneeling over Gary's body. He was crying, his shoulders lurching with the force of his sobs. Mack looked at Gary. He looked worse than either of the other two. How had he managed to live long enough to call to them?

Well, he was obviously dead now. Jonesy was taking it pretty hard, but he would have to pull himself together. They would gather up Mack's shovels, maybe put the axe in Madsen's hands. Make it look like these three had somehow offed each other. Then he and Jonesy would skedaddle, go into town and tell the cops what they'd found. It could work, but they would need to hurry.

"Jonesy, come on. I got a plan that'll put us in the clear, but we'll have to..."

Jonesy looked up, and Mack saw that he had been wrong. Jonesy was not crying. It was laughter that wracked his body. Through the hazy mist, Mack could make out the green splotches on Jonesy's face.

Jonesy looked at Mack. He stopped laughing, but a cruel smile remained on his lips.

"Come to us," he said It was Jonesy's voice, but in it Mack could also hear Gary. And Buck. And countless others.

"Oh God," Mack whispered. "Jonesy don't do this don't Jonesy please..." He was backing away, or thought he was, but his legs would take only little baby steps.

"Come join us." Jonesy rose and advanced on him.

"Jonesy come on!" Mack bawled. "Quit fuckin' around, man! Don't you do this to me!"

Jonesy came, arms outstretched as if greeting a dearly loved friend or relative. Mack wanted to run, wanted to more than anything, but all he could do was to keep backing, keep taking tiny steps, and then his back hit a tree and even that option was gone. Still Jonesy came, and in a final fit of insane energy, Mack broke free and launched himself at Jonesy, sinking the knife deep into his chest. Jonesy stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide.

"Mack?" said Jonesy, and Mack found himself looking into the familiar face of his best friend, saw the trickle of blood begin to ooze from the corner of Jonesy's mouth, saw the light fade from his eyes. Mack listened as Jonesy's breathing ended in a final, ragged gasp.

"JONESY!" he screamed, tears flowing down his cheeks. "Oh God, no! Not you, Jonesy!" He held his dead friend in his arms, unwilling to set him down in this bad place. He could leave the others here, but not Jonesy. He would take Jonesy back to the truck, back to the Springs. Back home.

Suddenly his arms were itching. Then his chest. He put Jonesy down, only for a moment, only long enough to scratch...

And then he saw the moss. It was covering his arms, his hands. He beat at himself violently, trying to brush it off, but it only spread faster, engulfing him. He ran, flailing away at his own body, until he tripped over a rock and tumbled to the ground. He was up instantly, trying to run, but his legs had become rooted to the spot. His body stiffened, and his arms rose to the heavens. Absently, he saw that he was standing inside the circle of rocks. The moss continued to cover him, flowing into his ears, his eyes, his mouth and nostrils, choking him, encasing him, making him one with nature.

# The Sinkhole

The sinkhole sat in the woods near the end of the gravel road which wound lazily in front of my house and disappeared into the pine thickets at the base of Drover Mountain. Ol' Hank, when he was feeling talkative (a condition usually brought on by finding the bottom of a liquor bottle), would spin a morbid tale about the old homestead which once sat on that spot, and of the woman who dwelt within the house.

"A witch," he would say with simple and absolute conviction, though the events that had supposedly taken place there had transpired way before his time. The graveness of his tone never failed to amuse me; however, Hank would not speak of the thing unless the sun was bright overhead, and even then only when alcohol had loosened his lips.

In truth, I never considered the story to be anything other than an old wives' tale, something constructed to send children (as well as adults of questionable intelligence) racing to their bedrooms to hunker under their covers until sleep or dawn found them. Modern thinking and logic demanded no less; these were not, after all, the ages of the witch trials in Salem. Yet, though I fancied myself a man of reason since returning from the university, I was still a child of the Appalachian hills in which I had been raised. In some instances, ingrained superstition refuses to be swayed by a fancy degree.

I tell you this in preface so that you might understand my frame of mind during the events which occurred in the spring of 1936. The area had received a copious amount of snowfall during the previous winter season, and the spring had arrived wet and chilly. Having finished my studies nearly six months prior, I had returned home to Shallow Springs and promptly hung out my shingle in the town proper. Being the only lawyer within fifty miles guaranteed me a limited number of clients, though even then it was apparent that I would have to move elsewhere to find more than a meager income.

It began with a knock upon my door on a rainy evening in April. I was still a bachelor in those days, and given to working late into the night, so the knocking did not rouse me from slumber. I was, however, immersed in my work and was thus a trifle annoyed at the interruption, especially when I opened the door and discovered that the source of the knocking was none other than William Bennet, my direct neighbor to the north. Mr. Bennet and I had recently exchanged heated words over a property boundary, and I had no desire to resume the conversation at such an hour. I strove to remain cordial, though, and inquired as to his business.

"Cow's been poisoned," he said. "I mean to file a complaint."

"Poisoned?" I asked, uncertain as to whether he was accusing me or asking me to act on his behalf. "How can you be sure? Is the animal dead?"

"No, it's the calf. Come take a look."

"Mr. Bennet, I am an attorney. If you suspect that a crime has been committed, you need to contact the sheriff."

"Come take a look," he repeated, and after a pause added, "please?"

It was then that I noticed that his demeanor, which I had at first taken to be disgruntlement, was more fearful than contrary. Though I was loath to leave my warm and dry house, my curiosity began to get the better of me, and I consented to accompany him.

After taking the time to get my coat and hat, I followed him to his pickup. The distance from my house to Bennet's farm was less than a quarter mile, but the rain and darkness conspired to make the trip longer than it should have taken otherwise. After a time, however, Bennet's farmhouse appeared in the yellowish glow of the truck's headlamps.

Bennet pulled in front of the house, yet seemed reluctant to leave the confines of the vehicle. Though the night was tinged by a definite chill, sweat had nonetheless formed on his forehead. I thought to inquire as to the nature of his apparent unease, but then he shut off the engine and exited the vehicle, motioning for me to follow.

We proceeded not toward the darkened house, but instead to the large barn which sat at the rear of a fenced-in lot and bordered the pasture field. As we stepped out of the rain into the structure, I was hard pressed to see anything past the length of my outstretched arm. I heard Bennet fumbling with something, and suddenly the interior of the barn was cast into a bright light. Squinting against the glare, I saw that he had lit an oil lamp.

"It's back here," he said, and advanced deeper into the black void. I followed quickly behind him, suddenly having no desire to linger in the inky shadows, though I had no tangible reason for my sudden unease. The smell of damp hay and manure was nearly insufferable, but I steeled my senses as we hastened to one of the stalls near the back of the barn. Here Bennet paused, either unwilling or unable to cross the threshold. Though still ill at ease, my curiosity was piqued. I strained to peer into the dark stall.

"The calf is in there?" I asked, anxious to get this business over with and return to my warm house.

Bennet nodded and licked his lips, a nervous gesture. He said nothing, but offered me the lantern. I took it from him impatiently. I had seen dead animals before, and nothing I had heard or seen up till then had led me to believe that I would see anything different here.

"Mind the cow," Bennet whispered harshly. "She's plenty spooked."

I studied him for a moment before nodding, then turned my attention to the stall's interior. The first thing that caught my attention was the cow. She was pressing heavily against the side of the stall, as if attempting to break through the wooden boards and escape beyond the confinement of the small room. Her large eyes were wide and fixated upon something on the floor, which I was as yet unable to see due to the mounds of hay and shadows.

Cautiously, I stepped further into the stall, all the while being mindful of the cow, which looked to be ready to bolt at any given moment. A shrill noise stung my ears, a sound somewhere between the cry of a newborn baby and the screech of an attacking bird of prey. I swung around in an attempt to identify the source of this wretched sound and my gaze fell upon a sight which has haunted my nightmares to this very day.

The thing that lay on the floor of the stall, thrashing weakly in the scattered hay, was nothing short of an abomination. That I did not drop the lamp and run blindly from the barn is something that I still marvel at. Surely any reasonable man would have done as much. Yet I believe now that only sheer terror held me rooted to the spot, though I would like to think that morbid curiosity kept me from fleeing into the rainy night.

To call the thing a calf required a colossal stretch of the imagination. Only the color of the thing—and the fact that it had four legs—even remotely resembled a young bovine. The head was large and misshapen, in which were set a pair of eyes more closely akin to those of a reptile. A black tongue of improbable length and width lolled from the creature's mouth, which was also unproportionately large. Forcing myself to inspect the thing more closely, I saw that the mouth contained teeth—not the rounded molars of a herbivore, but the saber-like teeth of a gar fish. The thing's body was serpentine and lacked real substance, and the frail, spindly legs seemed to have been added merely as an afterthought.

"Dear God," I breathed, and turned to look at Bennet. He still stood outside the stall, his eyes averted downward. Whether it was from shame for not entering the stall with me or from no desire to look upon the pitiful creature again, I do not know.

"Some kind of poison, wouldn't you think?" he asked, still regarding the earthen floor. "I mean, it would have to be, to cause something like... that."

"I have no idea," I replied truthfully. "I have never before seen anything like it." I shuddered involuntarily. "What do you mean to do with it?"

He shrugged. "It won't live for long. Can't. The mother'll have nothing to do with it."

I couldn't properly say that I blamed the cow. Yet the thought of leaving one of God's creatures, even one so horribly disfigured, to starve to death did not sit well with me. I figured it would be more humane to end the beast's suffering, and said as much.

"Do as you like," Bennet said. "I ain't touching the thing."

I started to point out that it was, after all, his property, and that it was only fitting that he should assist me, but I wished to take my leave as soon as possible, and I didn't see the need for argument. I inquired if he might have a shovel handy, and he went to fetch one.

The few moments that Bennet was gone were some of the longest of my life. Though reason told me I had nothing to fear from the misshapen mass on the floor behind me, the mountain boy within me wanted desperately to flee. That part of me had no truck with poisons or freaks of nature. To that superstitious part of my mind, the reason behind the deformed calf was obvious.

_Witchcraft_.

I shook my head vigorously, determined not to fall victim to hysteria. Events such as this were not uncommon; most travelling carnivals had their share of such oddities stored in large glass jars filled with formaldehyde. It was an unfortunate event, yes, but there was nothing supernatural about it. The weather and lateness of the hour simply combined to make it seem so.

Bennet returned with the shovel, and I gave an involuntary sigh of relief. Steeling my resolve, I took the shovel from him and turned back to the pitiful creature. I took no pleasure in dispatching the beast, yet I would be lying if I said that I did not feel somehow better when it had taken its last breath. I do not say this to seem cruel. It was as if some small part of the world had been returned to normal. Even the cow seemed to sense it, and relaxed somewhat.

I helped Bennet wrangle the carcass into a burlap sack, after which we hastily buried the thing behind the barn. As we walked back to the pickup, I couldn't help but notice a change in him. The relief on his face was palpable. We spoke little on the drive back to my house, but as I was readying to get out of the truck, he put a hand on my shoulder.

"I want to thank you," he said. "As for that business with the property line, I want to apologize."

"There's no need," I assured him. "Bygones are bygones, as far as I'm concerned."

"Even so, I feel bad for the way I acted." His face brightened somewhat. "Why don't you come over for dinner Friday? I haven't had much company since the Missus passed away."

I started to beg off, but felt instantly ashamed. What would it hurt?

"That would be nice. Thank you." I again started to exit the pickup, but a question suddenly popped into my mind, and I turned back to him before I could think about it.

"You haven't been up to the sinkhole lately, have you?"

"I was up that way last week, hunting. Why?"

"Just wondering if it was still there," I lied. "Haven't been there since I was a boy."

"Hasn't changed a bit," he said. "Nothing much around these parts does."

I nodded. "Well, good evening. I'll see you Friday." I alit from the truck and shut the door behind me.

I stood in the rain and I watched his taillights until they faded from view, and then I turned and walked to my house, shivering not from the night's damp chill, but from a premonition of things to come.

***

The familiar drudgery of work served to soothe my nerves over the next several days, and by the time Friday came, logic and reason once again ruled my mind. Though the frightful image of the deformed calf had not diminished in my memory, I now attributed it no more superstition than the sight of a black cat or the accidental spilling of salt at the dinner table. It was fodder for the uneducated, and nothing more.

The day was still bright and warm when I arrived home, though the shadows were beginning to lengthen. I hastened inside, resolved to forego any work, and went about preparing myself for the evening. I had even undergone a change of attitude and was actually looking forward to dinner with Bennet, having decided that it would serve me well to be on good terms with my closest neighbor.

The sun had just settled on the mountaintop when I emerged from my house and walked to my car. The air had taken on the hint of a chill, but the coming evening held the promise of clear skies and no rain. Spring had indeed arrived, and with it the anticipation of a world reborn. I whistled a tune as I started the engine and pulled the car out into the lane.

By the time I arrived at Bennet's house, the hollow was cast in deep shadow. A warm light shone from the windows of the farmhouse, beckoning with the enticement of good food and fellowship. I got out of the car and was preparing to take the walkway which led to the front porch when a scream from the barn froze me in my tracks.

There followed the sound of quite a ruckus, and my first thought was that Bennet was being trampled by some of his livestock. I darted toward the structure, my mind already trying to judge the length of time it would take me to get him to the doctor in the event he was badly injured. I nearly slipped in the mud more than once, managing to retain my balance only through sheer luck.

I arrived at the entrance to the barn only to be greeted by darkness and silence. Was I already too late? With fumbling and shaky hands, I groped for the oil lamp Bennet had used several days before. Eventually, my fingers settled on the object, and I grasped it with one hand while digging for my matches with the other. The first match slipped from my numb fingers, but I was able to steady myself enough to light the second. I touched the flame to the oil lamp's wick and adjusted the flame.

Earlier in the week, on my previous trip to the barn, I had witnessed a sight so disturbing that I'd been certain that it would haunt my dreams forever. But the scene that the light from the oil lamp revealed to my beleaguered eyes assaulted my senses by tenfold.

The thing was the size of an adult horse, its stature made seemingly larger due to the fact that it was standing on its hind legs. Its elongated, serpentine body was covered with bristles of grayish-black hair, though that was the limit to any resemblance to a mammal. The shape of the head was that of a large viper, and the burning eyes set on either side featured the vertical pupils of a poisonous snake. The mouth was elongated, and the lower jaw was unhinged to such a degree as to allow for the consumption of its prey as a whole.

The upper part of Bennet's lifeless body, from the chest up, protruded from the thing's horrible maw.

I screamed, uncaring that I drew the creature's attention. It whirled upon me, its body seeming to coil like a cobra preparing to strike. Upon recognizing my presence, the monster hurriedly sucked down the last of its meal. With a dreadful slurping sound, Bennet was no more.

By divine grace, my rational mind was somehow able to regain control of my paralyzed body. As the thing before me drew back in preparation to attack, I slung the oil lamp with all the strength I could muster. The lamp hit the creature mid body and broke apart, dousing the fiendish beast with flaming oil. Droplets of burning liquid splattered onto the hay-covered floor, producing an instant inferno.

The monstrosity drew back upon itself and emitted an ear-piercing cry. It began to thrash about in a futile effort to rid its body of the burning oil. I gazed upon the grotesque sight for a few brief moments, then hurried across the threshold and barred the heavy wooden doors behind me. No sooner had I retreated several steps away when the doors shook from a violent impact.

The thing was attempting to break free.

I turned and ran to my car, not daring even the slightest glance back at the burning barn. Smoke from the engulfed building descended upon me as I reached the vehicle, burning my eyes and lungs. I started the car, put the transmission into reverse, and backed out of the drive with such reckless abandon that I plowed Bennet's mailbox down in the process.

As I pointed the car towards home, I paused for the briefest moment to look upon the burning mass which had once been Bennet's barn. Through the swirling clouds of thick smoke, the light of the fire showed me the one thing I wanted to see.

The doors still held.

I tore away at a breakneck pace, slowing only when the outline of my own house appeared in the glow of the headlamps.

***

That was over seven years ago. I moved almost immediately thereafter, away from the shadow of Drover Mountain and that cursed sinkhole. I now reside near the other end of the county, in a fine house on the shore of Clairbourne Lake. I have married, and my wife has given me a son. He's a fine lad of two years, already strapping and hale at such a young age.

I have never returned to Bennet's place—in any event, there would be precious little to return to. The farmhouse caught as the barn burned, and by dawn all of the structures on the farm had been reduced to nothing but glowing cinders. Of Bennet himself, no trace was ever found, and there were no stories of anything out of the ordinary being found in the ashes.

I tell myself that the unholy creature met its demise in the fire that night, and I really want to believe that.

But earlier in the evening, while stacking firewood, I heard something in the woods down by the water's edge. Something that sounded like the cross of a baby's cry and the shriek of an eagle.

I look in on my wife and son, both abed and sleeping peacefully. I could never let anything hurt them, and I know what I must do.

I am taking my shotgun, and I'm going down to the lake. I will leave this written account where it can be found in the event that I do not return.

For, God forgive me, I fear that I may not.

Alvin Theodore McCoy, Esq.

November 20, 1943

# The Otter King

He looked nothing at all like anything she had imagined, and she had imagined a lot during the drive over from Shallow Springs. Shoulder-length hair, curly and disheveled, flowed from beneath a worn straw cowboy hat, which was settled low and forward on his head, shielding the upper part of his face. From where she was sitting, Amanda could make out a goatee, neatly trimmed. He was wearing a sleeveless denim shirt, both arms covered myriad of colorful tattoos.

Amanda glanced up at the waitress and tried to hide the skepticism in her voice. "Are you sure that's him?"

"Only Finn McCoy I know," the waitress replied shortly, apparently catching the inflected tone anyway.

Amanda nodded, embarrassed, and returned her attention to the man. The waitress hovered for a second, making sure that the conversation was over, and then flitted away. _This is a mistake_ , Amanda thought. Even if appearances were deceiving, and Finn McCoy turned out to be worthy of his reputation, the odds were good that her problem was not one that he could help her with. Unless, that is, he practiced therapy on the side.

A man, shit-faced drunk, stumbled into her table as he passed by. He steadied himself, taking no notice of Amanda or her nearly spilled drink, and continued on his way. The bar reeked of sweat and stale cigarette smoke, with a hefty dose of cheap perfume and aftershave thrown in for good measure. Add the blaring country music, and Amanda was hitting the expressway toward a major headache. If she was going to do this, it had to be soon. Her determination, for all its strength on the drive over, was waning.

She finished her drink and sat the glass down on the table. The lights from a large disco ball, once a mainstay in all the high-class clubs but now only popular in backwoods dives like this, twinkled on the glass. For some reason, the image bothered her.

"Ma'am?"

Amanda jumped. She looked to where Finn McCoy had been sitting. He was gone.

"You looking for me?"

She turned and saw that he was standing beside her. She gave him an involuntary up-and-down once over. He wasn't tall; maybe five-nine or five-ten. Amanda could tell that he had once been what she liked to call _lean and mean_ , but he was now sporting a bit of a paunch. It was understandable though. He looked to be in his mid to late forties; most men struggled with a belly by that age.

"Finn McCoy?" she asked.

"The one and only" His smile was easy and natural, his tone whimsical, but Amanda sensed an underlying weariness. The hat was now hiked up somewhat, and she could see his eyes – not piercing blue as she had imagined in her fantasy versions of him, but brown and warm. He looked, for all in the world, like any other aging redneck who was trying to hold on to his youth through dress and manner.

She realized that she was simply staring and blushed. "Would you like to sit?" she asked, and he lowered himself gracefully into the other chair at the small table. He removed his hat as he did so, revealing a full but graying head of hair, and Amanda suppressed a smile as she realized he had done it unconsciously, the result of a lifetime of believing that one should remove one's hat in the presence of a lady. Manners, thank God, were not dead yet, though they were likely on life support.

She started to speak, but he held up a finger, the universal sign for _just a sec_. He whistled softly at the waitress Amanda had spoken to earlier, and somehow, despite the music and dull roar of dozens of conversations going on at once, the woman turned to him. He motioned her over.

"How about another beer, sweetie?" he asked, giving a wolfish grin which the waitress obviously ate up. "And the lady will have another one of... whatever the lady is having."

"Rum and cola," Amanda said. The waitress, her eyes never leaving Finn McCoy, simply nodded Amanda's way and hurried off. He turned his attention back to Amanda, still grinning, and shrugged. _What's a fella to do_? the shrug asked.

She found herself returning the smile in spite of herself. The old boy had some charisma, she'd give him that.

"Now, Miss..."

"Porter. Amanda Porter."

"Miss Amanda Porter. I assume it's "Miss" 'cause I don't see a ring. How can I help you?"

That was her cue, and suddenly Amanda felt like a foolish, scared child. What had seemed so real and terrifying back at the lake house now seemed silly in the neon glare of the bar. She had the sudden urge to thank him for his time and leave before she made a complete ass of herself, but the thought of returning back to that house with no promise of help steadied her. Besides, from what she'd heard, something like thus should be right up Finn McCoy's alley.

"I've heard... is it true that you...specialize in certain things?"

He studied her for a moment, then his smile grew. "Other than drinking and womanizing, I assume?"

Amanda felt her cheeks redden but refused to be sidetracked. "Mr. McCoy," she began.

"Please, Finn."

"Finn. You're a paranormal investigator, right?"

"Paranormal handler."

"What's the difference?"

"An investigator investigates. I handle."

"Handle what?" she asked, confused.

"Problems."

She suppressed a smile. He was obviously enjoying being enigmatic. "Are you familiar with Clairbourne Lake?"

"Sure. Over in Meade County, just outside The Springs." His eyes narrowed slightly, and Amanda sensed he was really looking at her for the first time, not just checking her out. "That where you're from? The Springs?"

"Yes." She paused, needing to take a slight detour but not really wanting to. "I moved there last fall. I'm not a native."

He surprised her by laughing. "Who in their right mind would move _to_ Shallow Springs? I'm sorry, Miss Porter..."

"Amanda. Please."

"Amanda. I don't mean to be nosy or rude, but that place has been dying for years. Nobody moves _to_ The Springs. Most people would give their right arm to get out, if they could."

Amanda's blush had become a full-on fire. Her whole face felt hot, and she shifted her gaze to the table. He had no way of knowing how hard this was for her, of course, but he sure as hell wasn't making it easy. Thankfully, the waitress arrived with their drinks, taking his attention off of Amanda.

"Little something for you, Becky dear" he said, handing the waitress a ten. Becky giggled like a schoolgirl and returned to the bar. Amanda took her drink and stared into it. None of this was going as she'd hoped, and it was only the sheer dread of returning to the lake house alone that kept her from getting up and walking out. Apparently Finn McCoy sensed some of this, because when she returned her gaze to him he was staring at her thoughtfully.

"Forgive me," he said. "I can see you're upset, and here I am ragging on you. Why don't you tell me what it is that brought you all the way over from Shallow Springs to see me?"

"A Sasquatch, I think. Or possibly a chupacabra"

He had been in the midst of taking a swig of his beer, and now he nearly spit a mouthful onto the table. He succeeded in swallowing, though he got strangled and spent several seconds in a coughing fit. Impossibly, Amanda's face turned even redder and she grabbed her purse and stood abruptly, but McCoy, still coughing, waved her back into her seat. The scene brought a few glances from the nearest tables, causing Amanda to consider dropping to all fours and crawling out of the bar.

"Sorry," he wheezed, still trying to catch his breath. "You gotta understand, Miss...Amanda, I've been doing this for a long time, and never once have I seen, or gathered any evidence of, a Sasquatch. _Or_ a chupacabra."

"Well, it's _something_!" she said, sounding more like a hurt little girl than she would have liked. "I've heard it. More than once. And poor Buddy is dead."

"Buddy?" He seemed genuinely interested.

"My dog," Amanda replied, and she felt the tears welling up. She started to fight them and then gave in. Hell, maybe he would feel sorry for her.

"I'm sorry. What happened to him?"

"That thing, whatever it is, killed him."

McCoy stroked his goatee. "Could've been a bear. Maybe a coyote. They're thick as fleas in these parts nowadays."

"It drank all of his blood."

"What?"

"It's true," Amanda said. "That's why I was thinking chupacabra. I looked it up on the internet."

"Well," said McCoy, "that's a game changer, for sure. I don't know about a chupacabra, though."

"Then what could it be?"

"Off the top of my head? I haven't a clue."

Amanda was disappointed, and apparently it showed.

"When you waltzed in here eyeing me from across the room like a schoolgirl with a crush, I figured you had something easy," McCoy said. "Poor ol' dead Uncle Bob rattling chains in the attic. Creepy shadows in your bedroom at night, something like that." He took another swig of beer. "We'll get to the end of this, don't you worry. It's just that every case is unique. Some take a little more research than others."

Amanda brightened. "Then you'll help me?"

"Like the man said, does a chupacabra shit in the woods?"

A smile started across her face, then faltered. "Mr.... Finn. I'm not exactly what you'd call financially stable at the moment."

He smiled, not the wolfish redneck smile but more real, and almost sad. "I guess whoever it was that put you on to me neglected to mention that I never charge for these things. I've got my own reasons for helping, and, for now at least, I'll keep them to myself."

Amanda nodded, curious but so full of relief that she dared not jinx the deal by being nosy. The bar seemed somehow brighter than it had earlier, and even the thought of returning to the lake house after dark did not seem as unbearably daunting. Someone believed her, was actually going to help her. And not just any someone. _The_ Finn McCoy! She felt giddy and wondered if it might just be the alcohol.

No. It wasn't the booze. It was hope. And hope was something she'd felt preciously little of in the past year.

"When will you start?"

"Tomorrow, I guess," he said. "No later than the day after." He saw disappointment creeping back into her face and hurried on. "I have to do some research, try to figure out what we're up against. You can't just run at something without knowing what it is you're running at. Mistakes like that will get you hurt, or worse. Rule number one."

"How many rules are there?" she asked.

McCoy took another gulp of beer. "Tell the truth, I sort of make 'em up as I go."

Amanda smiled and opened her purse. She dug for a moment and produced a slip of paper. On it were her address and phone number, which she had printed before leaving home. She handed it to McCoy. He studied it briefly and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

"I really want to thank you," Amanda said, rising from her seat. "I know it's cliché, but you just don't know what this means to me."

He smiled gently. "One more for the road?" he asked.

"I'd better not. It's late, and the drive is over an hour."

"Okay. Drive safe. I'll call tomorrow."

She thanked him again and headed for the door. McCoy watched her ass the whole way.

The street was quiet when McCoy arrived home. Most of his neighbors were elderly and went to bed with the chickens, which suited him fine. Unfortunately, they also rose with the chickens, whereas McCoy preferred to sleep in, but this was generally only troublesome in the summer during mowing season. As it was early spring, the mowers had yet to be cranked, and all was right with the world.

He pulled his well-worn pick-up in front of his house. It had been advertised as a "bungalow" when he'd purchased it years earlier; in truth, "shack" was a more accurate description. It was all he needed, however. It was small and cozy. Larger houses had too many places for something to hide.

He walked through the small front lawn, which was completely devoid of trees and shrubbery. Again, this was a conscious decision on his part. The less hiding places, the better. There were bad things out there, and they were sneaky as hell. If you gave them an advantage, you were liable to be in a world of hurt.

The light over the front stoop was motion activated, and it blinked on as McCoy neared the house. He kept only two keys on his key ring – the house key and the truck key – so that he wouldn't have to fumble around for the right one if he was rushed. Before unlocking the door, he knelt to inspect the line of red brick dust on the stoop just under the door. It hadn't been disturbed. Rising, he inserted the key into the lock, and with his free hand he removed the 9mm pistol from underneath his shirt. Not all things, after all, were deterred by magic.

A lamp in the front room was also motion activated, and it lit up as the door swung inward. McCoy entered the house but did not shut the door behind him. He stood still for a moment, listening. The house was quiet.

Satisfied, he closed the door and locked it, blocking out the night and all its mysteries. The room was sparsely furnished. A worn recliner sat against one wall, and across the small room was a television on a small stand. A computer desk and chair occupied one corner, and flanking the desk was a pair of large bookshelves, each nearly overflowing with tomes of various size and content. The computer was the faster way to find information, but McCoy distrusted much of the content online, which was often conflicting and nearly impossible to verify. He found the books to be much more reliable, though considerably less convenient.

He walked to the desk, removed his hat, and hung it askew on the dark monitor. It was late, and he was tired, but he needed to research some things before he turned in. He had promised Amanda Porter a phone call tomorrow, and he needed to have something to tell her. She seemed like a nice girl, and she had a hell of an ass on her; the least he could do was to follow through.

The Springs. It had to be the Springs. He had no business going back there, and he would be a damned fool if he did. That place was the worst infestation he had ever come across, and that was the reason he'd left over fifteen years ago. If he hadn't, he would surely be dead by now. Or wishing he was dead. He shouldn't have agreed to help her.

But she had been so desperate, so vulnerable. He just couldn't blow her off, not even when he'd learned about Shallow Springs and that damned lake. And what was she even doing there? Her accent literally screamed Yankee. It almost had a Canadian flavor to it – Wisconsin or Michigan were more likely suspects – but she was definitely a long way from home.

McCoy dropped into the chair in front of the computer and rubbed his eyes. He was a careful man, and he knew what was out there. Still, for him, going back to Shallow Springs was akin to an average person walking into a cage full of hungry lions. Unspeakable things roamed those mountains and valleys, and they tended to hold grudges and have long memories. He could handle ghosts, and had on several occasions. Even demons, mean little pricks that they were, could be handled fairly easily if you knew how and had the stomach for it.

But the Fey were altogether something else.

He switched the computer on and waited for it to load. His head was starting to throb slowly, a sure sign that a doozy of a headache was merrily on its way. Perhaps it would hold off for just a little while, long enough for him to do what he needed to do and crawl into bed. He wasn't young anymore, and the all-nighters he had so easily pulled off twenty years ago were now out of the question. Absently, he wondered what would become of him twenty years from now, assuming he made it that long. Arthritis and failing eyesight would make a man in his line of work an easy target. As a younger man, he had assumed that he would always be able to keep one step ahead of whatever the horror-of-the-day was. Now, he was sure that the day would come when he was just a little too slow, a little too distracted. He was also pretty sure that his death would not be a pleasant one.

If he didn't keep a close watch on his own ass while in the Springs, that day might come sooner than expected. The nature spirits were nasty and unnaturally cunning. They had little fear of anything human, and in fact hated humans above anything else. Many a resident of Shallow Springs had fallen victim to their merciless pleasures over the years: the telephone lineman who had disappeared during a snowstorm years ago; a group of loggers who never returned from Drover Mountain. Those were but a few of many instances of people turning up gone or turning up dead. The locals attributed it to bad luck.

It was bad luck, all right. The kind that followed the original settlers of the area, mostly Scots-Irish, across the sea from their homelands, hiding like rats in the dark bowels of their ships. Once in the New World, the evil entities set up shop and thrived amid the pristine forests and untouched lakes and rivers. Kelpies, dryads and elementals had free roam over the countryside. The older folk knew how to protect themselves from these monstrosities, but such knowledge was lost over generations, particularly with the advent of science and technology. Fearsome creatures were reduced to nothing more than boogey men created to keep misbehaving children in line. People stopped believing, and people became vulnerable.

The computer finished loading, and McCoy found that his throat was dry. He shambled into the kitchen and retrieved a beer from the fridge. It was dangerous to get too much of a buzz going, but one more tonight wouldn't hurt him. Besides, once inside his home, he had much more protection. He had taken precautions.

Sitting back down at the computer, he couldn't help entering _chupacabra_ into the search engine. Thinking about the scene earlier in the bar made him smile. Amanda really believed that such a creature existed. Hell, a lot of people did. But ask those same people if they believed in fairies and they'd laugh you right out of town. The irony being, of course, that while a chupacabra almost certainly did not exist, fairies were real and would happily rip your face off if given half a chance.

The search engine brought up the usual plethora of faked pictures and "firsthand accounts". Useless bunk. He would have to look elsewhere if he wanted to get to the bottom of this. Truthfully, McCoy figured he was probably dealing with a pack of coyotes, nothing more. Amanda had heard something thrashing about in the woods and her dog had been killed. The Fey usually held no animosity toward animals; if they had been there to kill something, it would have been Amanda. Likewise, they were stealthy, and not given to making their presence known until it was time for the wet work.

The Sasquatch angle was interesting; he had lied to Amanda back at the bar. To a degree, the Sasquatch _did_ exist, just not as the man-ape link that most people associated it with. The woodwose was a type of Fey which was also known as the Wild Man of the Woods, and was almost certainly responsible for any number of Sasquatch sightings. However, it was pretty docile by Fey standards. The woodwose usually kept to themselves and only attacked when threatened. This brought him back to square one.

The _modus operandi_ did not quite match anything he knew to exist in the area. A vampire would not drink a dog's blood, and a lycanthrope would not drink blood at all. Neither would any ghost, spirit, or poltergeist. An ahool might, but the giant bat-like creatures weren't native to the region, and they did not go thrashing about in the underbrush, preferring to swoop down upon their victims.

The pounding in his head was beginning to intensify. He switched off the computer and rose from the chair. It was time for bed. He would call Amanda in the morning and explain that he needed to check the area out before reaching any conclusions. Then, though he dreaded it, he would make the trip over to Clairbourne Lake and hopefully find something to put her mind at ease. And get out of there before dark.

Definitely before dark.

The moon was peeking through the clouds as Amanda arrived back at the lake house. The intermittent light twinkled on the dark water of the lake, reminding her of the disco light in the bar, and she once again felt uneasy. The house stood dark and silent. She felt a pang as she realized Buddy would not be rushing to the door to greet her. Damn this place. And damn her life, for that matter.

She dreaded the short walk to the house, but she didn't want to sit in the vehicle, either. She felt too exposed outside, even within the confines of the car. She felt as if something were watching her, something cold and slimy and, most of all, hungry. There was no choice but to put on her big girl panties and go inside.

Amanda searched her key ring for the front door key, found it, and got out of the car. The breeze coming off the lake was cold, and she shivered as she walked to the door. There was no motion sensor on her front porch light, but she thought she remembered having left it on. It was dark now, however, and even though she had the key ready, it took several moments of fumbling around before she got it in the keyhole. Finally, she gave a twist and the door opened.

A shuffling noise from behind froze her in mid-step. She whirled around, half expecting to see the slimy horror from her imagination. Nothing moved. Moonlight danced across the windshield of her car.

Amanda hurried inside and closed and locked the door. She hit the lights and quickly moved to close the curtains in the front den. After that mission was accomplished, she systematically checked every room in the house, then made a sweep of all the doors, including the one through which she had just entered. Once she was certain that the house was secure and that all windows and doors were locked, she allowed herself to relax. Slipping out of her jacket, she sank down into the recliner in front of the television. She wasn't in the mood for any of the mindless drivel spewing forth from the idiot box, however. Most of the giddiness she'd felt after talking to Finn McCoy had faded on the drive home, and now she felt like a scared little girl again.

Amanda wasn't at all used to such a feeling. Normally, or at least what had passed for normal before moving to Shallow Springs, she was confident and outgoing. A serious-minded person not given to flights of imagination or superstition, she would have scoffed at her present state and been unable to conceive being reduced to a nervous, frightened mess by a few noises. But that had been before the divorce, and before her ex had spread so many half-truths and full blown lies that Amanda found herself alone and without any friends.

Her parents had divorced when Amanda was four, and by the time she was a teenager she and her father has ceased all contact. She was living with her mother in Wisconsin by then, and it was there that she'd met Bradley. Like Amanda, Bradley was driven and focused. Unfortunately, he was also cruel, abusive, and an incessant womanizer. By the time Amanda gleaned these tasty nuggets of knowledge about Bradley's true character, they had been married for several years. The divorce was bitter and prolonged; the only thing that remotely resembled a bright side was the fact that they'd had no children together. When the dust settled, Amanda was left without the proverbial pot to piss in. Her lawyer, while good, had been no match for Bradley's high-priced shysters.

The thought of moving back in with her mother had depressed Amanda to no end, but what else was there to do? Bradley had managed to have her blackballed; her business degree might as well have been written on toilet paper with a crayon. Then, out of the blue, came the news that her father had passed away, and that she was the sole heir to property in Shallow Springs, Virginia. Amanda had jumped at the chance for self-sufficiency.

An owl called out from somewhere in the night, and Amanda shuddered in spite of herself. The thing that scared her most, even more than something foul and evil stalking her in her own home, was the possibility that she was losing it, that maybe there was no monster hiding in the dark woods. Maybe it was all in her head. To say that she had been under some stress lately was like saying the Titanic had taken on a little water. Maybe it had all been too much for her to handle.

She thought about making some hot tea, but the liquor in her stomach rebelled at the idea. It would be better to just go to bed. It had been a long day, and she was emotionally exhausted. Surely the morning would be brighter with the knowledge that help was on the way. Whatever her impression of Finn McCoy had been, he did not strike her as incompetent. Nor was he hard on the eyes, though he was easily fifteen years her senior.

_That's the booze talking_ , she told herself. But was it, really? It had been over a year since she'd been with a man, mostly because the mere thought of it scared her shitless. Amanda didn't think Bradley had broken her, but she knew she was badly bent. Damaged goods, as they say. She also knew that she was attractive, and she wasn't blind enough not to have noticed McCoy checking her out. He didn't seem to be the marrying kind, but he might prove useful for other things besides chasing away ghosts and things that go bump in the night.

Since Finn McCoy was nowhere around, her present train of thought would only take her to Frustration Station. Amanda rose from the recliner and started toward the stairs, then decided to make another sweep of the downstairs rooms. Better safe than sorry. She went from room to room, checking all the windows and the back door. All were securely locked. Only the front door remained, and she was certain that she had locked it, but if she was going to play she might as well bat a thousand. She crossed the floor and was reaching for the knob when she heard something, or thought she did. Something soft and light, like fur rubbing against a piece of wood.

Amanda froze and held her breath, waiting for the noise to come again. The thought came to her, unwanted, that whatever was stalking her was on the other side of the door, waiting, maybe holding its breath as it listened for her. She wanted to break and run for the stairs, but a little voice that she used to listen to when she had been Strong and Confident Amanda warned against it. _Don't let it know you're scared_ , the voice said. _Whatever you do, don't let it know how scared you are. The door's locked. Of course it is. Just turn and go to bed like nothing in the world is wrong._

The noise did not return. The house was silent.

Amanda had once been very successful in her career because she had trusted that inner voice, and she trusted it now. She turned, trying with everything she had to stay calm, and headed for the stairs. It was a performance worthy of an Academy Award, but she made it to the stairs and managed to ascend them without jumping two at a time. She went to her room, shut and locked the door, and then fell apart.

Shaking uncontrollably, she sat down upon the bed and buried her face in her hands. Everything was going to hell, had been for over a year now. The divorce, the alienation... and now _this_ , whatever _this_ was.e had no businessH Either she was going bat-shit loopy or there was something outside, something hungry that was waiting to dig its claws into her. The worst part was that she could actually feel its presence, its cold, alien longing. It was toying with her now, was enjoying stalking and frightening her, but it would soon tire of the game and move in for the kill.

On the other hand, it was possible that she was experiencing some sort of psychotic break, in which case she would soon be enjoying an extended stay at the Nut Farm on the taxpayer's dollar. Neither scenario was particularly appealing, yet one had to be true. Flip a coin; heads you're fucked, tails you're screwed.

Distraught as she was, Amanda knew that the only thing she could do was to go to bed and await the call from Finn McCoy. She removed her shoes and slipped under the covers fully clothed. She told herself it was because she was tired and didn't feel like undressing, but the little voice knew better. The little voice knew that she might have to be ready to run.

Amanda turned off the light.

It watched the woman in the house, and it delighted in her terror.

It was ancient, but not old. Stalking the woman made it feel as youthful and vibrant as it had ever been. There had been so many hunts, so many kills, but each one was unique and fulfilling in its own way.

With the lights out, it could no longer see the woman, and it turned and headed back towards the lake. It could easily break down the door and take the woman now, but there was no rush. It would have its prize in time; this was the way things were, and how they had always been. It was, after all, the Father, the King of the Lakes. It bowed to nothing, as the foolish kelpies which had inhabited the lake when it had arrived had discovered. Many had felt its fury, and few still lived to tell of the horror of it.

It crawled along the rocky shore and slipped into the lake. The woman was going nowhere, and soon, very soon, it would take her.

This was they the way things had always been.

Finn McCoy awoke earlier than usual, and earlier than he would have liked. He might have rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but his full bladder would have none of that, so he shrugged off the covers and headed to the bathroom. When the First Piss of the Day was history, he loaded the coffee maker and hit the button. While that nectar of the morning gods was brewing, he slipped on jeans and a T-shirt and went to the small porch which was attached to the back of the house.

As per Finn McCoy standards, the porch held only two items of furniture: a small table and a rocking chair. The rocking chair was his favorite piece of furniture in the house, and the porch was his favorite place. Though he was rarely out there at night, mornings were made for rocking in that chair, sipping coffee, and thinking.

The sun was just starting to peek above the mountains, and a lazy fog enshrouded the valley. The morning was cool but brought the promise of a warm, beautiful day. At least it would be a nice drive over to Shallow Springs, if such a thing were possible. He needed to shower and pack a few things before making the call to Amanda, but that would have to wait until after the coffee. Rituals were rituals, and for McCoy the Morning Coffee Ritual was one of the strictest order, never to be skipped or ignored.

He lived his life according to an informal set of rules, and one of the most important (right after _Always Know What You're Up Against_ ) was to never, under any circumstances, get involved with a client. This was not a difficult rule to follow most of the time, but it could be problematic when it came to Amanda Porter. The woman was certainly attractive, not to mention vulnerable, and she was looking to McCoy to be her knight in shining armor. But there was something more to it. She had a kind soul, and he was convinced that she harbored a strength that she might not know she possessed. This made her even more attractive.

McCoy was far from celibate, but his usual conquests ran more along the lines of Becky the waitress – pretty but shallow, nice but not overly intelligent. These women provided a limited form of companionship, and some pretty darned good sex, but they were kind of like a box of donuts. Enjoyed then easily forgotten. Amanda was more like a steak dinner at a high-class restaurant. Which made it all the more important that he keep this on a strictly professional level.

He could not afford to get close to anyone. If he got close, _really_ close, he would end up telling them things that they were better off not knowing. He would give them knowledge that would make it difficult, if not impossible, for them to enjoy a beautiful spring morning such as this. And the night would forever more become their enemy, something to be distrusted and avoided. He had no wish to burden anyone with such unwelcome knowledge, especially not someone he cared about.

When the coffee was ready, McCoy poured a cup and returned to the rocking chair. A few years earlier, he would have lit a cigarette to go along with the Joe, but he'd quit when he discovered that he didn't have the breath that he used to. He had since taken to the occasional dip of snuff, but never this early. The coffee was good, though, and the morning chill was beginning to ebb.

When he finished his coffee, McCoy took a quick shower and dressed for the day. Jeans, a short sleeved button-up over a white tank top, and hiking boots. He tucked the 9mm inside his pants and strapped a small-frame .380 to his right ankle. From his closet, he retrieved a pump action twelve gauge shotgun, along with a small canvas knapsack. And, finally, the well-worn straw hat and sunglasses.

It took a moment to find Amanda's number; he'd left it on the computer desk. He dialed the number, hoping that it wasn't too early. She answered on the first ring.

"I was hoping I wouldn't wake you," he said.

"Are you kidding me? I don't think I slept at all last night. Please tell me you're coming."

"Getting ready to leave as we speak. Did something happen last night?"

Amanda paused. "I don't know. Maybe. Just some noises, really. And I got a bad feeling I couldn't shake."

"Well, I'll be there in a few hours. Do me a favor, though. Stay inside until I get there."

"Do you think I'm in danger?" she asked, her voice worried.

"No," he replied. "I just don't want you trampling all over and contaminating the scene. I want to check things out while it's still fresh."

"Oh." She sounded relieved, and maybe a little disappointed.

"For your safety, too," he backpedaled. "I mean, I just didn't want to alarm you. Let's play it safe, though."

"Sure," she said, her tone brightening. It made McCoy feel better.

They exchanged goodbyes and he took the shotgun and knapsack out to the truck. Before leaving, he returned to the house and checked all the windows and doors, as well as the red brick dust under the entrances. He uttered a short hoodoo spell of protection, then hopped in the truck. He put the key in the ignition switch and paused to check his hand. It wasn't shaking. Good.

He stopped on the outskirts of town to fuel up, then hit the four-lane highway towards Shallow Springs. The day was beginning to get warm. The truck's air conditioning had given up the ghost years ago, so McCoy rolled down the driver's side window. The CD player had also gone that great electronic graveyard in the sky, but the radio part of it still worked, and he tuned in a classic rock station.

The drive to the Springs was a much quicker one than it would have been ten years ago. Back then, the road was a two-lane monster with switchback curves and narrow, steep grades. Add a seemingly endless convoy of coal trucks hauling to and from the various mines in the area, and you could easily end up with a three or four hour drive on your hands. Since the construction of the four-lane, the same drive could be accomplished in half the time, and you didn't have to pass through every shithole burg along the way.

The highway had come along after McCoy moved from The Springs. Fled, actually, would be more appropriate. He often thought of that midnight flight; he had escaped from the old family home with little more than the clothes on his back, and had been damned lucky to make it out at all. He had sworn never to return, and had since broken that vow on numerous occasions, but only when the situation was dire enough to warrant it. And he was extremely careful. The bloody fairies and their kin were not likely to forget him. Forgiveness was out of the question.

He had first noticed them as a child; faces in the trees and rocks, waterspouts in pools and lakes when there was no wind. He would often hear them outside his window at night, giggling and talking in hushed voices. Being only a child, and with a child's imagination, he did not fear them. Not then. They were objects of wonder and delight, fairy tale creatures come to life. But still he told no one, not even his mother, for even at that young age he'd sensed that he was somehow different. They were his secret, along with the spirits and other creatures he sensed or saw.

McCoy often wondered how, at that young age, he'd had the wisdom to remain silent about his "gift". Most children would have naturally assumed that everyone could see what they themselves saw, but this had never been the case with McCoy. He had known, or sensed, right from the start that others around him were oblivious to what he was seeing. He had also known from day one that the things he saw were real and not figments of his imagination. This knowledge had almost certainly salvaged his sanity as he grew older, and it had probably saved his life, as well.

His childhood had been surprisingly normal and happy, given the circumstances. He had not been an outcast or social misfit; he had actually been fairly popular and had excelled in sports. But he had, in a sense, lived a double life. There was the "normal" Finn McCoy who pitched for the high school baseball team and was an all-state receiver in football, then there was the Finn McCoy who stayed up long after bedtime, alone in his room, poring over arcane books and experimenting with the folklore magic known as Hoodoo. These late-night sessions had been fueled not by simple curiosity, but by the growing suspicion that he would need these skills to survive.

By his teenage years, McCoy no longer saw the Fey as benevolent creatures from children's stories; he had recognized them for what they were: cruel monsters which delighted in human torment and suffering. He avoided them as much as possible, and when he couldn't avoid them he made sure he was as protected as possible. This usually consisted of homemade charms or powders, sometimes simple spells. He'd kept his ability to see and sense the paranormal hidden until just after his nineteenth birthday. Then all hell had broken loose.

The traffic was light, and most of it was headed in the opposite direction. McCoy turned off the radio, content to listen to the whine of the tires. The sound must have lulled him, because the next thing he knew he was entering the town limits. He perked up and sat straighter in his seat. It had been almost two years since he'd last been in the Springs, but he saw that nothing had changed. This realization gave him both feelings of comfort and dismay. It was, after all, his hometown. He had many happy memories from this place, despite the horror it had visited upon him.

There were only four traffic signals in the town. McCoy drove to the third one and hooked a left. From here, it was only a twenty minute drive to Clairbourne Lake. He dreaded leaving the small town proper; though it housed many a spirit, the Fey rarely ventured into the town itself. He consoled himself by picturing Amanda Porter. There were worse ways to spend a day, even if he was in Shallow Springs.

With the town in his rearview mirror, McCoy guided the truck along the now two-lane road, the houses becoming sparser as he drove. The trees which lined either side of the lane were budded out but still retained their skeletal winter shapes. Beyond them, barbed wire fences formed the boundaries of cattle pastures and fallow tobacco fields. A few of the more industrious farmers were out on their tractors, preparing for the planting season. Not that it would do them much good. The soil in the Springs was weak and sour, always had been.

He could smell the lake well before it came into view. It was hard to miss—a mixture of dead fish and algae which seemed to cloy in his nostrils. It had never been one of his favorite places when he was growing up, and it sure as hell wasn't now. The lake had a bad aura about it, and it wasn't just from the kelpies that inhabited the waters. They were bad enough, even without throwing in the occasional elemental. But there was something more; McCoy had always felt a sense of foreboding whenever he was around that murky water. The feeling was unfocused, however. He could not pin down the cause of his uneasiness, and that worried him all the more.

That feeling returned now, in earnest, as he pulled up to Amanda's house. McCoy's hopes about finding coyotes or bears began to fade as he shifted the truck into park and cut off the ignition. Something was not right here...no, scratch that. Something was all to hell. The area around the lake had never felt right, but now it felt...bad. Worse than bad. Worse than a hundred kelpies having a beach party. And though he definitely sensed _something_ , he couldn't quite get a grasp on what it might be.

Despite his special gifts, McCoy was not prone to premonitions. He was, however, having one now. He was certain that if he didn't get to the bottom of this whole affair before the sun went down, all hell would break loose.

Or maybe worse.

Amanda had been napping in the recliner when the sound of McCoy's truck pulling up awoke her. She sprang up and ran to the nearest mirror to check her hair and makeup, then chided herself. She was acting like a teenager. Considering all that was happening, luring Finn McCoy into her bed should be pretty low on her list of priorities. She had to ignore her libido. Still, she checked her hair again before going to open the front door.

McCoy was still seated in the truck when she stepped out onto the porch. Their eyes met, and something in his told her to stay put. She glanced about, suddenly on edge, but she could see nothing but a beautiful spring day. She returned her gaze to McCoy and shrugged. He remained inside the vehicle for a moment longer, then shook his head and got out.

"Something wrong?' she asked.

It was McCoy's turn to shrug. "I don't know," he said. "Something...probably nothing," Then his smile was back, and Amanda felt as if a weight had been lifted from her.

"Would you like to come in?"

He shook his head. "Not just yet. I want to take a look around first." He reached into the truck and removed the shotgun and knapsack. Amanda drew a sharp breath when she saw the firearm.

"Don't like guns?" he asked.

'I've never been around them, really." She felt a little like a shrinking violet.

"Don't worry. I won't shoot you." His grin became playful. "Just in case of chupacabras, you know."

Amanda flipped him off and they both laughed. It all seemed surreal to her, especially in the light of day. She began to feel a little foolish, then stifled it by remembering her terror from the previous night.

"So what are you looking for?" she asked.

"Anything odd or out of place. Maybe tracks."

"Oh. Right. I asked Walter if he'd seen any. Tracks, I mean."

McCoy stopped and regarded her curiously. "Walter?"

She seemed puzzled for a moment. "Oh. I didn't mention that last night, did I? Walter Ketron. He's a local. He does a lot of fishing and trapping down by the lake. We've spoken a few times. Small talk, mostly."

"And you asked him if he'd seen anything?" McCoy asked.

"Yeah. After Buddy... you know."

"And what did he say?"

She shrugged. "That he hadn't noticed anything strange. But he said he'd keep an eye out. I think he lives a few miles back towards town."

"He does," McCoy said, smiling. "I grew up with that peckerhead. I wondered what he was up to nowadays."

"Oh, that's right. You're from Shallow Springs."

"Born and raised. Left about fifteen years ago."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Amanda asked. "To show you around the property?"

"Stay here, if you don't mind," he said. "Not that I wouldn't enjoy the company, but I can do this faster alone." He also didn't want to be distracted, and he damn well would be if she tagged along.

"Okay. I'll make some ice tea."

He smiled broadly. "That'd be great. I'll be back in a bit."

She went back inside and closed the door. McCoy slung the knapsack over his shoulder and headed around the side of the house, in the direction of the lake. He was relieved that Amanda hadn't resisted being asked to stay behind. His mere presence here might stir things up, and if that happened he didn't want to be responsible for someone else's safety. If things got really bad really fast, he might not even be _able_ to protect her, not out here in the open.

At the rear of the house, the lawn sloped down gently to the water's edge. A rickety pier, obviously having seen its better days, jutted out into the water. McCoy gave the area a quick scan, but this part of the property did not overly interest him. It was too open, and a dusk-to-dawn light mounted to the back of the house would keep it fairly well illuminated at night. On either side of the house, however, the lawn gave way to woods. That was where he wanted to look. He chose the woods to his left and entered the tree line.

The bad feeling he'd experienced earlier was still there but subdued. He moved slowly, though, eyes and ears alert to any possible danger. McCoy hated the woods with a passion; the trees and undergrowth afforded too many hiding places. At this time of year, at least, the undergrowth was light and the leaves were only beginning to bud out. As an added bonus, the sky was nearly cloudless and the early afternoon sun was bright overhead. For a jaunty walk in the woods in Shallow Springs, conditions were as good as he could ask for.

He spotted a few tracks as he walked: a fox, a few sets of deer tracks. Nothing out of the ordinary. No broken twigs. Just the occasional trail made by small animals travelling to and from the lake. He looked around for several more minutes, then walked back to the house. He crossed the lawn and entered the woods to the right.

McCoy walked no more than fifteen feet when a strong musky odor nearly took his breath. He resisted the impulse to gag and wondered how he hadn't caught a whiff of this back at the house. The air was rank with it. It made his eyes water, and he retreated a few steps to try to catch his breath.

The animal tracks on this side of the property were different from those on the other side in one glaring respect: there were none to be seen. Apparently, animals avoided this section of the woods like the plague. He saw no trails made by smaller animals, but there was a path leading down to the water which looked to be man-made. He decided to follow it to the lake and have a look-see.

McCoy had walked only a short distance down the trail when he saw that he had been wrong about something. Possibly _two_ somethings. First of all, there _were_ tracks here, though he had never seen anything like them before. They had definitely been made by some sort of animal, but whatever it was had been huge, larger than a deer. Studying them, the closest thing he could come up with was a river otter; he had seen plenty of those tracks before, and these were strikingly similar. The otter in question, however, would have to be the size of a small horse to have made such tracks. Which brought up the second thing he'd been wrong about. He had assumed this path had been made by humans. Now he wasn't so sure.

He was almost halfway down to the lake, and he stopped and surveyed the surrounding forest. Nothing moved. No squirrels scampered along the leaf-covered ground. High above him, in the trees, birds flitted about, but they were well out of reach of a land-based predator. Something had driven all the wildlife from this spot.

Or had eaten it.

That unwanted thought caused McCoy to tighten his grip on the shotgun. So far, all he'd been able to do was to come up with more questions than answers, and daylight was wasting. He started down the path again when something off to the side caught his eye—a glint of sunlight reflecting off metal. It could have been anything, most likely a discarded pop or beer can, but the bad feeling had returned with a vengeance. He eased off the trail and edged closer until he could make out what it was: a metal trap, complete with a dead muskrat. The unfortunate animal had stepped on and sprung the trap, which had closed on one of the muskrat's rear legs.

Two things about this sight vexed McCoy, the first being that the muskrat had obviously been dead for several days. This was worrisome because trappers generally checked their traps daily. The second thing was the condition of the dead animal. He was no veterinarian, but he was willing to bet the farm that every drop of blood had been extracted.

Somewhere in the back of McCoy's mind, parts of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. But he still couldn't make the necessary connections. This was not the work of a kelpie. Or a dryad. Nor was it any other species of fairykind that he had ever encountered. This seemed to rule out the Fey, but there were any number of nasty entities besides the fairies which might be responsible. All of which brought him right back to his original question: just what in the hell was he dealing with here?

He went back to the path and continued toward the lake. The large animal prints were clearly visible; whatever had made them obviously used this trail to travel between the lake and the house. There was a chance that there was nothing supernatural about the creature. Though he could think of nothing native to the area that might have made the tracks, it was possible that some exotic pet may have escaped its owner. It was also well within the realm of possibility that he was simply misidentifying the prints; he was, after all, no expert tracker. McCoy shook his head. There was a chance he might sprout feathers and lay an egg, but it damn well wasn't likely.

A sudden thought struck him and he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Amanda's number.

"What breed of dog was Buddy?' he asked when she picked up.

"Chocolate Labrador. Why?"

"Nothing, really," he lied. "I was looking at some tracks and wanted to rule his out."

"Oh. Are you coming back to the house?"

"In a few. I want to go down to the lake shore. I'll fill you in on where we're at when I get back."

He flipped the phone shut, not waiting for a response. A Labrador was a good-sized dog, and no slouch in a fight. That meant that whatever he was tracking was bigger and meaner. He was beginning to feel insufficiently armed, despite the fact that he had three guns on him.

He arrived at the stony shore and surveyed the area. Clairbourne Lake was not large even by local standards, measuring little more than a hundred yards at its widest point and encompassing about 60 acres, but it was rumored to be deep and had taken its share of lives over the years. Gasoline-powered motors were not allowed, but on any given day several fishermen took to the water in jon boats or canoes, trying to catch smallmouth bass or crappie. There was a campground and picnic area at the western end of the lake which stayed packed in the summer months, but Amanda's house was located on the more isolated eastern side. This was fortunate, because even this early in the year there were almost certainly people at the campground, or at least a few families grilling out and enjoying the unseasonably warm weather.

As it was, McCoy was alone on the shoreline, though he could just make out the hum of an electric trolling motor somewhere in the distance. The water was dark and still; no fish broke its surface and there was no sign of the various waterfowl which frequented the lake. He checked the shore for tracks and found them almost immediately. This was definitely the access point which the creature used to enter and exit the lake. He knelt to examine the prints. In the soft clay mud of the lake's bank, the tracks were deeper and more well-defined. Looking at them, he was reminded more than ever of an otter's prints, and from somewhere deep within him alarm bells started to ring as his subconscious mind discovered the danger that his conscious self still stubbornly refused to see.

McCoy started to rise when something in the lake caught his eye. It was only a couple of feet from the shore, partially submerged in the murky water. He glanced about for a stick, found a suitable one within his reach, and used it to pluck the object from the water. It was a lug sole boot with a camouflage print, the type favored by hunters and other outdoorsmen. The boot was well-worn and far from new, but McCoy could tell that it hadn't been in the water long. A quick look around did not produce the boot's mate, but it did reveal a curiosity. There was no other trash or garbage to be seen, neither on the shore nor in the shallow water. No cans or bottles, no candy wrappers. Nothing.

How, then, did the boot get there? McCoy found it reasonable to assume that someone losing a shoe in six inches of cold water would tend to notice it, and could have retrieved it as easily as he had, probably with the same stick. Supposing that the boot was not simply discarded, either accidently or on purpose, that left only two scenarios; either the former owner had been physically unable to recover it, being unconscious or worse, or he had been in such a hurry that getting his boot back was the furthest thing from his mind. Either way, the sight of the waterlogged boot did not give McCoy a warm and cozy feeling.

The drone of the trolling motor was growing louder, and he supposed the boat would come into view soon. It could be someone he knew, in which case he might be forced into small talk. More than likely, it would be a stranger who might regard him with suspicion. He didn't want to be hampered by either possibility, but since finding the lone boot he was keen on checking the shoreline a bit in either direction, just to see if anything else turned up. He turned to his right and set off along the edge of the lake, away from the house.

After he'd gone about thirty yards, something _did_ turn up: the mate to the boot he'd found. Unfortunately, this boot was still attached to a foot, which was in turn attached to Walter Ketron, the trapper who had spoken to Amanda. Other than having a gash in his throat and being obviously dead, Walter looked remarkably good, though unnaturally pale. He had obviously encountered the same blood-sucker which had made short work of Buddy the Dog and the muskrat.

"Damn!" McCoy exclaimed, and looked up just in time to see the jon boat come into view. He was initially relieved to see that it was a Conservation Officer, once known as a Game Warden. His relief, however, dissipated as he realized he was holding a shotgun and standing over a dead body. About the same time, the officer in the boat drew close enough to make out the tableau on the shore. For several moments, the men stared at each other, neither daring to move or speak. Then the officer drew his weapon.

"Hey!" the man in the boat shouted. "Holy shit! Don't you move, Mister! Holy shit!" He was wobbling around, trying to keep his gun on McCoy, and in his excitement was coming dangerously close to tipping the boat over.

"Take it easy!" McCoy yelled. He dropped the shotgun and lifted his arms. "This isn't..."

"Shut up!" the officer squealed. He was shifting his weight back and forth in an effort to keep his balance, and it made him look as if he had to pee really badly. "I need you to step back and drop to your knees! Put your hands behind..."

The boat hit something that McCoy couldn't see, and suddenly the officer was tumbling ass-over-elbows into the water. He gave a startled shriek just before he went in, then he splashed below the surface. Dumbfounded, McCoy stood for several seconds, hands still over his head, looking like an idiot. Then the man in the water resurfaced violently, and McCoy saw sheer terror in the officer's eyes. At first he thought that the poor fellow couldn't swim, that he was panicking, but a movement to the man's left caught McCoy's eye. Something else was in the water. Something big. There was a flash of black—sleek and incredibly fast-- and the flailing man went under again with a loud gurgle.

McCoy lunged for his shotgun and scanned the lake. Except for the empty boat and a few ripples, it was hard to tell that anything had just happened. He felt helpless. Going into the water after the officer would be pure suicide; he still wasn't sure what type of creature he was dealing with. He paced back and forth on the shore, unsure of what to do. Then something broke the surface of the water, and McCoy found himself staring into the face of a nightmare.

The head was large and roughly shaped like an otter's, but that was pretty much where the resemblance ended. It had a flat face with dark, shark-like eyes and a horrible gash for a mouth; rows of sharp teeth were jammed between two large fangs on either side. Its skin was black and slimy and glistened in the afternoon sunlight. The thing regarded McCoy with a malevolent glare.

Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place and McCoy realized with a growing dread what he was seeing. It wasn't possible, but that didn't make it any less real.

"Dobhar-chú!" he gasped. A water hound! Ah, shit the bed, a bloody water hound!

He turned and began to sprint toward the house, not looking back to see if he was being pursued. He had to get Amanda out of there. Out of the house. Out of the county. Of all the things he had thought to encounter on this trip, a Dobhar-chú was probably dead last on the list. He was woefully unprepared to deal with this situation.

There was a splashing noise in the water behind him, and this time McCoy did turn his head. He saw no trace of the water hound; most likely the creature had made the sound when it submerged back into the lake. He was turning around when his foot hit something (Walter's other boot, which McCoy had carelessly left lying on the shore) and he went down hard, shotgun flying from his grasp. His head connected with a good-sized rock, and after a few moments of the most beautiful, vibrant fireworks display he'd ever seen, he faded off into the darkness.

McCoy came to and realized he was moving. Well, not exactly _came to_ , but definitely moving. He tried to open his eyes but the effort was just too much. He could feel rocks digging into his back and realized that he was being dragged. He was on his back and something was dragging him by his shirt collar. He thought that maybe this should worry him to some degree, but then his head started throbbing and he crawled back into the darkness.

A few minutes (or few hours) later, McCoy again resurfaced into consciousness. The rocks were gone, having been replaced by something much softer. Grass, perhaps? He could hear the labored breathing of whatever was dragging him. Buddy the Dog, maybe. Buddy the Dog with a giant, flat face and rows of evil-looking teeth. Where the hell was his gun? He'd been using it to play fetch with Buddy and the damn dog hadn't brought it back. Useless mutt. That's all water hounds were good for—nothing at all. He supposed he would have to get up and find the gun himself, but he was just too tired. Maybe if he took a little nap first, just a short one...

McCoy did not creep back into consciousness, he exploded into it. For a brief moment the Dobhar-chú loomed over him, triumphant and ready for the kill. Then the image faded, and he saw that he was lying on a couch in a small but cozy den. His forehead felt all wet and mushy. He reached up and discovered a cold washcloth had been placed there. His head hurt like the dickens.

He heard a noise and bolted upright, then instantly regretted it when his vision began to swim and blur. Amanda came into the room, a look of concern on her face. She saw that he was awake.

"Thank God!" she said. "I've been going crazy! The ambulance should have been here by now."

"Ambulance?" McCoy felt like his mouth was full of syrup.

"Yeah. I mean, I know I live a little off the beaten path, but this is ridiculous." She studied him closely. "Are you okay?"

"Feels like I got clocked with a baseball bat."

"What the hell happened out there? Were you attacked?"

"No, the proof of that being I'm still alive." He looked around and saw something that alarmed him. "Shit! How long was I out?"

"Couple of hours. Will you please tell me what happened?"

"It'll be dark soon."

"No shit, Sherlock." She was beginning to get frightened. "Am I going to have to beat it out of you? Because I will."

"We need to go. Now." He tried to stand, failed miserably, and sank back onto the couch.

"You're in no shape to drive."

"Then you drive. If you need to grab a few things, be quick about it."

Amanda made to effort to move. He looked at her, irritated.

"Look, I'll fill you in on the ride. I promise. But we need to go."

"The ambulance..." she began.

"May not be coming," he finished, "And it may already be too late for us to leave, but we need to try."

She hesitated for a moment longer, then rose and hurried up the stairs. McCoy steadied himself and slowly stood up. He was wobbly, but he thought he could make it to the vehicles without much trouble. He crossed the floor to the front window and glanced out. It would be dark in half an hour, tops. He must have been out for more than a couple of hours; there was no way of knowing how long he'd been under before Amanda found him. He fumbled through his pockets, looking for his cell phone, but came up empty. He must have lost it at the lake. He looked around and saw a clock. It was after six. He was pretty sure it hadn't been later than two when the incident at the lake occurred. That meant that he had been out of commission for four hours or more.

Amanda reappeared with a small overnight bag. She didn't look especially happy, but at least she was moving. McCoy grabbed his knapsack, which Amanda had place on the coffee table beside the couch. He looked around for his shotgun but didn't see it.

"Did you find my gun?" he asked. "Please tell me you found my gun."

"You didn't have it with you when I found you." Amanda replied.

"It must have been close," he said, annoyed. "I dropped it when I fell and hit the rock."

"What rock?"

"Down at the lake, where you found me. I tripped over a boot and smacked my head on a rock. Then gun had to have been right there."

Amanda looked at him, confused and more than a little scared. "Finn, I didn't find you at the lake. You were lying on the front lawn, not ten feet from the porch."

He felt suddenly cold. He had assumed Amanda had come looking for him, found him by the lake, and dragged him back to the house. Unless Officer Friendly had marched out of the lake, toted McCoy to the house, and then hauled ass for parts unknown—which wasn't likely—then there was only one way he'd ended up in the front yard. But if that were the case, why wasn't he about eight pints shy in the blood department?

The only answer was that the Dobhar-chú wanted him there. And that meant the monster considered this to be a game. It was confident that it would kill both of them before the night was over. McCoy's chill deepened. He was no expert on the water hound and had, in fact, considered it to be pure myth until several hours ago. He had not expected this level of intelligence. He was suddenly afraid that he knew why the ambulance had never arrived, and was just as certain that no help would come tonight.

"I think I already know the answer to this," he said, "But do you have a cell phone?"

Amanda shook her head. "No, just the landline. Like I said, things are a little tight right now."

"Check the phone."

"I thought you..."

"Just check it, please."

Amanda gave an overly dramatic sigh, sat her bag down, and walked to the kitchen. Then she was back, her expression unreadable.

"Dead?" he asked. She nodded. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. The situation had taken a nose dive. He was not in control and he didn't like it.

"I need to check something outside," He told Amanda.

"I'm coming with."

"It'd be safer if you stayed in here."

"Like hell," she said with enough authority that it put an end to the discussion. McCoy shrugged and started toward the front door, but his vision blurred again and his legs got wobbly. If Amanda hadn't been there to steady him, he probably would have fallen.

"Hold on a sec," Amanda said. There was a small closet between the den and the kitchen, and she opened the door and retrieved an item. She handed it to McCoy. It was a walking stick made out of what looked to be dark ebony. "This was my Dad's. Looks like you could use it right now."

McCoy took the cane hesitantly. He wasn't a cripple, and he didn't want to be seen as weak. On the other hand, if he fell down at a crucial moment, it might get them both killed. He put his weight on the stick, testing it. It seemed sturdy enough, though it emitted a strange, weak vibe that he couldn't quite get a handle on. Perhaps her father was dead, and he was feeling the memories.

"Okay," he said. "We're going to go out and check the vehicles. If they look all right, we're gonna try and start them. Make sure you have your keys. If we get one to start, we're gonna haul tail out of here. Understand?"

Amanda nodded silently, her face solemn.

"Be alert," McCoy added. "If you hear me say run, run back into the house. Okay?"

"No problem."

McCoy opened the door and stepped cautiously out onto the porch. The sun had already settled behind the mountains, leaving the front of the house cast in a shadowy, dim glow. From somewhere out on the lake came the call of a loon, the eerie sound echoing off the surrounding hills. He motioned for Amanda to stay close and descended the steps to the front lawn. A few yards from the vehicles, he hesitated. Something could be hiding, crouched behind either Amanda's car or his truck; it was impossible to tell. He transferred the walking stick to his left hand and drew the 9mm with his right. Against the monster he'd glimpsed earlier, he might as well have a pea shooter, but still the gun felt good in his hand.

Taking care to keep an unobstructed path back toward the house, McCoy slowly circled around to the back side of the vehicles. Nothing waited there to pounce on him, but what he saw made his heart drop all the same. The passenger side tires of both the car and truck had been slashed to ribbons. Amanda was a few steps behind him, and when she saw the tires her eyes widened and she started to speak, but McCoy hushed her and motioned back toward the house. Visibly shaken, she complied without hesitation and literally bolted back to the porch with McCoy right on her heels. She started though the door but he stopped her and handed her the pistol.

"Anything moves, point and pull the trigger," he told her.

"What are you doing?" She hissed.

Instead of answering, McCoy pulled the knapsack off his shoulder and opened it. From out of the bag he pulled a small jar of powder and hurriedly unscrewed the lid. He motioned Amanda to step inside the house, then he knelt and poured a thin line of the powder under the doorway.

"What _is_ that?" she asked.

"Red brick dust," he replied, as if it ought to be self-evident.

"What?"

McCoy replaced the jar's lid and followed Amanda into the house. He shut and locked the door behind him. "How many more entrances are there?" he asked.

"A back door in the kitchen. Oh, and sliding glass doors upstairs. They lead out to a deck, but you can't reach it from the ground."

"This thing can. Make sure all the windows are closed and locked. I'll take care of the doors."

" _What_ thing?" She was on the verge of becoming hysterical. He needed her to hold it together for a few more minutes, at least.

"The windows Amanda. It won't take five minutes and then I'll tell you everything you want to know. _More_ than you want to know, I'm sure."

She looked into his eyes and found no lies there. Steeling herself, she hurried off to check the windows. McCoy dusted the back door, shut and locked it, then hurried upstairs and did the same with the glass doors. They met downstairs in the den.

"Will that keep it out?" she asked hopefully. "That stuff you sprinkled?"

He couldn't give her false hope. "I doubt it. But it _will_ keep most everything else out. Maybe we'll get lucky." He was trying to decide where to hole up, and finally decided on higher ground. "Let's go upstairs. I can keep a better watch from up there."

McCoy snatched up the knapsack and replaced the jar. He grabbed the walking stick without thinking about it and they hurried up the stairs. A small settee sat across from the sliding doors which opened to the upstairs deck, and Amanda plopped heavily into it. McCoy leaned against the wall where he could look out upon the deck and the lawn beyond. Outside, all was still.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Amanda asked.

"Pretty bad. Not hopeless, but bad."

"What the hell is it?"

"Well, remember last night when you told me you thought it was a chupacabra and I almost spit beer on you?"

"It was the highlight of my evening," she said.

"You weren't far off, actually. But imagine a chupacabra on steroids, about the size of a large deer, and smart as a human."

"What?"

"Yeah. Sucks to be us, doesn't it?"

Amanda shook her head. "How is that possible? I mean, how could something like that exist and no one know about it? And why is it after us?"

McCoy sighed. He really didn't want to lay the whole thing out for her. Some people didn't take it well, finding out that the things that go bump in the night are real, and most were never the same afterwards. But he owed it to her to come clean; there was a good possibility that neither of them would make it to see the sun rise. And if she were going to be any help to him at all, she needed to know what they were up against.

"It's called a Dobhar-chú," he said. "The more common name is water hound. There are accounts of the beast in Celtic lore, and for the most part it's considered a purely mythological creature. Even I thought so, until a few hours ago. It's kind of like some mutant cross between an otter and a dog, and some accounts say it drains the blood from its victims."

She stared at him, and he could tell that, despite everything that was happening, she was considering the possibility that he was pulling her leg.

"I found Walter Ketron down by the lake," McCoy said. Amanda gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

"Dead?" she asked.

"As a doornail. It was his boot that I tripped over when I hit my head. I also watched a Conservation Officer get dragged under by that thing."

"Oh my God!" Amanda said. "It's a miracle that you were able to crawl back to the house."

"That's the thing. I didn't. I came to a couple of times, and I could feel someone—something—dragging me. When I woke up on your couch, I assumed you had found me and dragged me back to the house. But since it wasn't you, it must have been the Dobhar-chú."

"But why? Why not just kill you on the shore?"

"Because it's playing a game," McCoy replied. "A stalking game. Somehow it knew I was here to help you, and maybe it figured it would be more sporting to let me live. I'm kind of glad it decided to do that, by the way."

She smiled. "I'm not complaining either. I just can't get my head wrapped around this. I mean, when I came to see you last night...the things I said...I guess that, deep down, I really didn't believe that it was something paranormal. I thought I did, or wanted to, but now it all seems so unreal."

"It takes a little getting used to." McCoy let his gaze drift into the falling night. No shadows moved in the world outside.

"It's a relief, in a way," Amanda said. "I was half-convinced I was going crazy." She looked down and studied her hands. "My life's been...different, lately. I told you last night I'm not from this area originally."

"Yeah, the accent kind of gave it away," he smiled.

"I'm from the Midwest. I last lived in Wisconsin. I was married, held a professional job."

"And you left all that for this little slice of heaven?"

"Actually, until this Dobershoo or whatever showed up, it was an improvement. My husband and I divorced, and he had me ostracized from friends and family. You can't imagine what that feels like."

"Wanna bet?" McCoy said.

She looked at him curiously, and he realized that it was his turn to share something.

"All my life, I've had certain...gifts," he said. "Some might call them a curse. Maybe they are. I can see things, sense things. Anyway, I kept my talents hidden when I was young, but when I was nineteen something happened. Something bad. The cat got out of the bag, so to speak, and people treated me differently. Not everyone, but most. They were afraid of me. They were still polite, for the most part, but I could see it in their eyes." He paused and looked into the darkness again, but this time he seemed to be looking at something far away.

"It must have been hard on you," Amanda said gently.

"Let's just say no one wanted me dating their daughter." He chuckled softly. "But you probably know most if this if you've talked to many of the locals."

She shook her head. "I don't socialize much. What I hear, I get from the beauty shop in town. That's where I work."

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"What, working there? It keeps the power on, buys a few groceries."

"There are better jobs over around the Tri-Cities."

"I know. I'm just not sure I'm ready for all that yet. I was really enjoying the simple life before...this."

"Well, if you work at Shelly's, that explains how you heard about me."

Amanda laughed. "You have quite a fan club there."

"I bet," he said, smiling. "Shelly and I go way back. I've helped her out from time to time."

"She says you're rich," Amanda said coyly.

McCoy's smile faded a bit, and she realized she must have hit a nerve.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"Naw. It's okay," he said. "It goes back to that thing I was talking about earlier, when I was nineteen. I saved a good friend of mine from something bad. Saved his whole family, I guess. Anyway, my friend died several years later. He was an only child, and when his father died in '95 he left me a chunk of change in his will. I'm not rich by any means, but it keeps me out of working for a living."

"Sometimes good deeds pay off," Amanda said.

"Rarely," McCoy said, his voice sad and distant.

They were silent for a while. McCoy studied the night through the glass doors, and Amanda studied him. He wasn't tall or dark, but he was kind of handsome and definitely mysterious. She found herself really hoping that they both made it through this alive.

There was a crash from downstairs. McCoy turned and looked at Amanda, his eyes telling her to be still and quiet. He tiptoed over to where she sat and hunkered beside her. Pulling up the leg of his jeans, he took the .380 out of its ankle holster. Amanda still had the 9mm.

"Trade," he whispered. They swapped guns.

"Can we kill it with these?" she asked softly.

He shrugged. In truth, he didn't know. The Dobhar-Chú's hide supposedly held protective properties, but to what extent he had no idea. One of the more famous stories, however, told of a man in Ireland who, having discovered that a water hound had slain his wife, killed the beast by stabbing it through the heart. If a spear would work, a bullet should, too. At least it gave him some hope.

The downside was that he had limited ammo: one clip apiece for each gun. He wished fervently that the shotgun hadn't been lost. He was pretty sure he would have been able to at least wound the beast with the twelve gauge.

McCoy crept to the head of the stairs and listened. Silence greeted him. Maybe it wasn't in the house after all; surely nothing that big could move so silently.

He had almost convinced himself of that when a shadow slid across the wall at the foot of the stairs.

McCoy looked at Amanda and pointed downstairs. The color drained from her face but she nodded, understanding. He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom, and she rose and began to move slowly in that direction. He jerked again, impatiently, and she picked up the pace. She stopped at the doorway and looked back at McCoy. He remained crouched at the head of the stairs, his head cocked, his attention focused on the lower level.

Then he was moving. He scuttled over to the glass door where he'd left his knapsack and the walking stick. He slung the knapsack over his shoulder in one fluid motion, then grabbed the stick. A look of pained surprise came over him, and he dropped the walking stick. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

Amanda froze in shock at the loud noise. She looked at McCoy, who also seemed to be frozen in place. He was staring stupidly at the cane, all thoughts of the monster downstairs seemingly forgotten. She glanced worriedly at the stairs, but nothing came charging up from the level below.

"Finn!" she hissed.

"Not ebony," he mumbled.

"Finn!"

He looked at her, his face blank. Then he seemed to come back to himself. He snatched up the cane and hurried into the bedroom. Downstairs, something hit the floor with a crash. McCoy eased the door shut and looked for a lock. There was a simple push- button mechanism on the knob, the type that wouldn't withstand a strong fart. He pushed it in anyway, then scanned the room for the heaviest piece of furniture that they could move. An armoire set against the nearest wall looked to be the ticket.

"Help me with this," he said, and Amanda grabbed the armoire and pushed as McCoy pulled. It was heavy, and it took everything they had to maneuver it in front of the bedroom door. It might slow the water hound enough for McCoy to get in a few well-placed shots, if that was what he had in mind. He was starting to think, however, that there might be a better way if he could buy just a little more time.

With the door as secured as it was likely to get, McCoy made a quick check of the window. Seeing that it was locked, he looked outside. It was a good eighteen or twenty feet down to the ground; there was nothing the creature could use as footholds to climb the wall. It would have to come at them through the door. Likewise, if they tried to jump from this height, one or both of them would probably injure themselves enough to make escape impossible.

"Will the armoire hold?" Amanda asked.

"No, but it might buy us a few minutes."

"For what?"

"With any luck," he replied, "a bit of magic."

The Dobhar-chú could smell their fear, especially on the woman. It had been with great insight that it had decided to let the man live. The woman, though terrified, harbored a chance of false hope. Now, when the killing moment was at hand, it would feed not only off her fear and blood, but also the disappointment and betrayal because the man was not able to save her. The two lusted for each other—it had smelled it on them when the man had arrived earlier. It had been hidden in the woods then, watching.

It would kill the man first and let the woman watch as it drank his blood. The water hound literally shivered with anticipation. This would be a glorious kill, unlike the hunter at the lake and the man in the boat. Those were merely feedings, and though the men had been terrified, that fear would certainly pale in comparison to what the woman would offer.

The men in the moving box with the red lights had not had time to be afraid. The Dobhar-chú had felled a tree on them as they passed under it, smashing the box and making the lights go out. Though the men inside were dead, it had not feasted on them, partly because it had already eaten and did not want to spoil its appetite for the woman, but mostly because it would have taken time and energy to dig the bodies out of the wreckage. Besides, the pathway was effectively blocked now. Even if more men came tonight, it would take time for them to clear the obstruction, and by then the water hound would be finished with both the man and the woman.

They were upstairs now, moving something by the sound of it. They were apparently trying to barricade themselves in one of the rooms. The Dobhar-chú smiled, its ugly mouth pulled back to reveal sharp and bloodstained teeth.

Once again, a shudder of delight passed through its body.

McCoy placed the walking stick on the bed and opened his knapsack. From it he withdrew a crude knife with a leather-wrapped handle. He picked up the stick and examined both ends, chose one, and began to whittle at it with the knife.

"Please tell me you're doing something constructive," Amanda said.

"Making a spear," he replied. "Or trying to." He was putting some muscle into it, but the wood seemed unwilling to yield to the knife's blade. He was scratching more than cutting.

"I've got a sharp knife in the nightstand drawer," Amanda offered. "I put it there when the noises started. You know, just in case. That thing you're using looks as dull as a butter knife."

"Maybe, but it's the one I have to use." He held the knife up briefly for her to inspect. "Pure iron. It's the only thing that will cut this wood."

Amanda looked unconvinced. "What's special about that wood?" she asked. "And why bother with a spear, for that matter. You have guns."

"Because I'm not sure a bullet will kill that thing, but I'm almost positive this will, if I can hit it just right. When I first saw this stick, I thought it was made from ebony. Lucky for us, I was wrong."

Amanda cast a nervous glance at the barricaded door. "Lucky how?"

"This is a species of _sorbus Americana_ , my dear. Known in these parts as mountain ash or rowan. But this isn't your garden variety. It's _black_ rowan. Fairy wood. Extremely rare."

"Fairy wood? Jesus, Finn! Giant otter monsters are one thing..."

"Fairies are real," he said, cutting her off. "They're just not the cute little winged pixies you think of when you hear the word. They're nature spirits, and they're mean as hell. They kill and torment humans every chance they get."

She stared at him, certain that he'd suffered a concussion during his fall.

"The species is known as the Fey," he continued as he worked the knife. "Dryads are tree spirits. Kelpies inhabit the water. I'm sure you've heard of banshees. Fir Darrig are shape shifters. The list goes on. The one thing they have in common is you don't want to fuck with them, pardon my French. They're evil creatures, not of this world."

He looked up at her, saw the expression on her face.

"I told you I'd tell you more than you wanted to know," he said.

"So," she said slowly, "if fairies are real, do I even want to know what else is out there?"

"No," he said simply. He redoubled his efforts with the knife. He was making progress, but he sensed that time was growing short. There had been no more sounds from downstairs, but that in itself was worrisome. The Dobhar-chú was toying with them, but that would not last for long. The final attack was imminent, and soon.

Amanda walked to the window and looked out. "We could jump if we had to, you know. It's not that far."

"It's high enough that one of us would probably turn an ankle, maybe break a leg. It may come down to it, though, and if it does, you jump. Try to roll when you land. I'll be behind you if I'm able. If not, run for the nearest house."

"That's a couple of miles away."

"Then pace yourself but keep moving," he said. "Don't try to hole up and hide. It'll find you. And don't go toward the lake. It's more at home near the water."

"You're talking like you don't think you'll make it out," Amanda said.

"I'm more interested in killing this thing than running. It's already killed at least two people, probably a lot more." He turned to Amanda. "This is my home, and I'm tired of people I know and care about dying. I'm tired of having to sneak in and out every time I come to visit. Most of all, I'm sick and tired of the Fey and everything associated with them."

"But how can they be stopped?" she asked. "If they're some sort of magical spirits, how do you stop them?"

"You find the portal," McCoy replied, turning his attention back to the stick. "I said earlier that the Fey are not of this world, and they're not. There are other worlds—dimensions, universes...whatever you want to call them. Creatures like the Fey use portals to enter our world. Demons do too, but that's a whole 'nother story. There's obviously a portal in Shallow Springs, but I've never been able to find it."

Amanda studied him. "Did the thing in my house come through that portal?"

"Most likely. That's why they've seldom been seen before."

She thought about this. Things were starting to make sense to her in a surreal sort of way. She supposed that sleep would be a hard thing to come by for quite a while, assuming that she made it out of this alive.

There was a soft scraping sound from outside in the hallway, and they both froze. McCoy looked down at his makeshift spear. It was a long way from being really sharp, but it was probably going to have to do. He would have to hit the creature hard, with everything he had, and hope to drive the point home. That, of course, led to a bigger problem: locating and targeting the water hound's heart. He supposed he could find the general area, though an exact strike would be extremely difficult to accomplish.

"Open that window," he said. "Just in case. And take this." He handed her the 9mm.

"Do you want the other one back?" Amanda asked.

"Can you carry both?"

"I think so. The little one will fit in my pocket." She gave him a nervous look. "I don't like the idea of leaving you without a gun."

"I'll have a better chance with this," he said, brandishing the walking stick. "Both guns are ready to fire, so be careful with them. And remember, run like hell to the nearest house. Don't stop."

Amanda nodded, and they both turned to the door. Silence weighed heavy in the night air, and each of them was acutely aware of their own breathing. The open window allowed a cold breeze to drift into the room, giving Amanda goose bumps on top of the ones she already had.

There was a sudden, sharp crack as the door splintered in its frame. The armoire, heavy as it was, scooted back several inches. McCoy crouched low, the walking stick turned spear held tightly in front of him. Amanda brought the gun up in a reflexive action and backed toward the open window.

The water hound snarled and clawed at the obstructed doorway. The initial impact had decimated the flimsy lock and shattered the door, but the armoire had moved back only enough to allow the beast to get its forelegs through the opening. It thrashed wildly as it attempted to force the heavy chest backwards. If McCoy had been lucky, the monster would have made it halfway through before becoming stuck, thus providing him a semi-stationary target to thrust at. As it was, he would only be able to hit the Dobhar-chú's legs, and that would be senseless. He held his breath and waited.

The creature backed out and prepared to ram the door again. McCoy shifted to the side so as to avoid being pinned under the armoire if it toppled over. Amanda kept the gun pointed at the doorway, but her eyes kept moving to the window. She wanted to jump, now, before she had to look upon the monster, because she was scared that if she gazed upon it she would be frozen with terror and unable to move.

The water hound rammed the door again. The armoire did not topple, though it did scoot back a good foot and a half, allowing the monster to get its head inside the room. It growled and stared at them with its dead, black eyes. Amanda fired, sending a slug into the armoire and showering McCoy with splinters. The sound of the gunshot in the confines of the small room was deafening, and the water hound retreated.

"Jesus!" McCoy shouted. His ears were ringing and splintered wood had cut his face, drawing blood. "Watch where you're aiming that thing!"

"Sorry!" Amanda yelled, and then the head came back through the ruined door and she squeezed off another shot. This one caught the beast just below its left ear. It howled in surprise and pain, but McCoy saw that there was no blood and the bullet did not seem to penetrate the creature's skin. It retreated once more, nonetheless.

"Save your ammo," he hissed. "It's not doing any real damage."

"But I hit it in the head!"

"But it didn't go in. You basically just slapped it."

"Well...good," she said, flustered.

McCoy was about to inform her that it almost certainly was _not_ good when the monster hit the door for the third time, sending the armoire crashing to the floor. The Dobhar-chú's momentum carried it into the room and it reared up on its hind legs, growling, its black eyes searching for McCoy. Its head nearly scraped the ceiling, and its long tail whipped back and forth like a snake caught in a trap.

"Get out!" McCoy shouted at Amanda. The water hound snapped around at McCoy's voice, and Amanda crawled onto the window sill and, with one last, terrified look at McCoy, she jumped out into the black night.

The water hound whirled and saw that its prize had escaped. It was not overly concerned about tracking the woman down, but it had wanted her to see the man die. No matter. She was already gripped by sheer terror; it could smell it on her even as she fled. It turned its attention back to the man, who was crouched in the corner holding a crude spear. It wanted to make the man suffer, but there was no time for that now. It would kill the man, chase down the woman, then return later to feed.

The water hound dropped to all fours and began to advance on McCoy. He was backed into a corner; retreat was not an option, but it was also the furthest thing from his mind. A quiet rage was building within him. He wanted retribution—not from the Dobhar-chú specifically, but from all the Fey that had made his life a living hell. He studied the beast with cold eyes, his attention drawn to the area where the heart should be. If this didn't work, he was a dead man. He could only hope Amanda would reach safety before the thing caught up with her.

The water hound, confident of an easy kill, lunged at him. McCoy saw death in the rows of wicked teeth and smelled it in the creature's foul breath. It went for his throat, just as he'd known it would. He rolled and brought the spear up with a mighty thrust, hoping to catch the monster in the center of the chest, but it twisted and he ended up skewering the beast through the shoulder. This time there was blood, and the water hound wailed in agony. It tried to jerk free, but McCoy held onto the spear with a death grip. If he lost the weapon, all would be lost.

The Dobhar-chú could not comprehend how the man had wounded it. All thoughts of the woman were forgotten; hatred and rage replaced surprise. It turned its head and snapped at the man, but the human ducked its attack and leapt away, tearing the cursed spear from the water hound's flesh. It howled in pain and swung its tail around in a deadly arc.

McCoy saw the tail coming, but his options were severely limited. He fell on his back and the thrashing tail passed six inches over his face. Unfortunately, he was now in an extremely vulnerable position, and the water hound knew it. The monster dropped into a crouch and prepared to strike. McCoy lurched into a sitting position and put his back to the wall. He gripped the spear with both hands and braced the butt against the wall, hoping that the creature's own momentum would impale it.

The beast leapt and McCoy saw, too late, that it had read his intention. It twisted its lithe body in midair and easily avoided the weapon. With its uninjured foreleg, it knocked the stick from McCoy's grasp, while the claws from the opposite foot carved into McCoy's side. He screamed in pain and rolled out of the creature's grasp.

He didn't need to look to know that he'd taken a good hit—the warm and wet sensation on his skin told him that much. On the plus side, the beast had clawed him with its injured leg. He didn't think any ribs had been broken, but it hurt like a mother.

He scanned the room franticly for the spear and saw it lying against the opposite wall. From behind him, he heard the Dobhar-chú as it recovered from its attack and prepared to strike again. Moving faster than he would have thought possible—considering his present condition—he got his feet under him and ran toward the door, slowing only enough to snatch the stick from the floor. He shot through the doorway and barely made the turn into the hallway when the water hound blasted through the door behind him. It skidded on the hardwood floor, unable to sustain traction, and collided heavily with the wall.

Gripping his wounded side, McCoy shot down the stairs as fast as he could go. Confronting the monster in close quarters had been a mistake; he needed to lure it outside where he would have better mobility. He raced to the front door and twisted the knob. It was locked. Of course it was—they had made sure of that before retreating upstairs. He fumbled the lock with a hand that was shaking and slick with blood. He was beginning to feel nauseous. Finally, the lock clicked open. He risked a glance behind him to see how much of a lead he had on the water hound.

The Dobhar-chú was already in mid-flight, having launched itself from the bottom of the staircase. It hit McCoy with tremendous force, shoving him violently into the door. There was a sharp crack as the door gave and then the door, McCoy and the water hound tumbled out onto the front porch. The creature snapped at his throat as they landed, missing it by mere inches. Using the last of his fading strength, McCoy pushed away and rolled clumsily down the porch steps. He came to rest on his back on the front lawn, dazed. The spear, knocked from his grasp during the collision, was lost to him.

On the porch, the monster raised and shook itself, flinging off splinters and debris from the ruined door. It advanced slowly, wary now but more confident than ever that the kill was finally at hand. It favored its wounded shoulder as it walked, and its eyes shone with a fierce hatred and cold bloodlust.

McCoy shook his head, trying desperately to clear the fog enshrouding his brain. If this was to be the bloody end he had long envisioned for himself, he'd be damned if was going to go down without some semblance of a fight. He searched for a weapon—a rock or a stick...hell, anything—but the well-manicured lawn held nothing for him.

The Dobhar-chú closed the distance between them and came to a stop. McCoy could see saliva dripping from the beast's malformed maw. He rose up into a sitting position, determined, at least, not to die on his back. It occurred to him that he should be terrified, but for some reason he felt strangely calm. At least he wouldn't die in fear. He wouldn't give the monster the satisfaction.

With an ear-splitting screech, the water hound reared up on its hind legs, its soulless eyes targeting McCoy's throat, then there was a loud blast and the monster twitched and shrieked in agony. McCoy, still dazed, at first failed to understand what had happened. Then he turned and saw Amanda, smoke billowing from the barrel of McCoy's shotgun. As he watched, stunned, she pumped another round into the chamber and fired at the creature again, the recoil nearly sending her on her ass.

The Dobhar-chú howled at taking a second round from the twelve-gauge. One of the pellets had found an eye and dark, thick blood poured from the ruined orb. It turned its attention to Amanda, who was already chambering another round. The water hound, knowing that another blast from such short range would be devastating, leapt at her with a soul-shuddering roar. She tried to raise the gun to fire again, but in her panic she pulled the trigger too soon, sending the blast into the ground several feet in front of her. She stumbled back and fell to the ground with a scream. Looking up, she saw the monster loom over her, its horrible face a mask of fury.

The beast jerked and gave a loud, miserable wail. Amanda saw something dark and wet protruding from its chest. For the life of her, she couldn't understand what she was seeing, until the monster fell lifeless to the ground and there was McCoy, the spear gripped tightly in his hands. They stared at each other, neither of them able to speak, and then that crooked grin crept back onto his face.

"I was beginning to worry," he said.

Amanda fell back onto the cold, damp grass, laughing. A faint sound cut through the night air, the sound of approaching sirens, and she began to laugh even harder. The cavalry was coming, albeit a day late and a dollar short. McCoy joined her, though his laughter was tempered by the burning pain in his side.

"What will we tell them?" she asked when she was finally able to get herself under control.

"The truth," he replied. He looked down at the dead Dobhar-chú. "It's not like we don't have proof. Besides, Sheriff Lyle knows the score. He'll sweep this under the rug like he does everything else odd that happens in Shallow Springs. Tomorrow's headlines will tell all about the fatal bear attacks at Clairbourne Lake."

Amanda looked up at the stars, her laughter forgotten. "We'll know the truth," she said softly.

He looked down at her and saw her faraway expression. He was saddened by her loss of innocence, but the knowledge she had gained tonight might just save her life down the road. Maybe it was a fair trade, after all.

"If you're free next week, I know a killer seafood joint," he said.

She smiled. "Next week? You move kind of slow don't you, McCoy?"

He glanced down at his gashed side. "Might need a few days to recuperate."

"Okay, then. It's a date."

McCoy smiled.

Technically, she wasn't a client anymore.

They spoke no more, but waited together in silence as the flashing lights finally came into view.

#

# Excerpt from Homecoming: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller
Prologue

If Alvin ever found the damn dog, he was going to kill it.

Well, probably not, since the sorry excuse for a canine had set him back three-hundred dollars, but the thought was appealing, nonetheless. It was well past lunch time, and Alvin was not a man known for missing meals. He had never been able to understand how some people could become so involved in an activity that they would skip a feeding. He'd worked with guys like that, back before he'd gotten his disability, and he had never trusted them. When the clock struck twelve, you dropped whatever you were doing and you went and ate your lunch. You had to have your priorities straight, and Alvin Hobbs figured his priorities were as straight as an arrow.

Hunting came in right below eating on Alvin's list, particularly coon hunting. There was nothing finer than the sound of a hound braying as it treed its quarry. On the flip side, there was nothing more frustrating than losing a dog, which was the reason Alvin was trampling around on Drover Mountain instead of sitting down to a bowl of beans or a corned beef sandwich. Blue, his newest acquisition, had failed to return with the others when he'd called them in this morning, and so far he'd been unable to find the stupid mutt. But three-hundred dollars was a lot of money, and Alvin would be damned if he was going to lose the dog, especially after the grief Wanda had given him about spending that much money in the first place.

Alvin stopped and called for the dog. Silence answered him. He was dead tired; he'd been up most of the night hunting, and he had hoped to be home in bed by now. He had another hunt planned for tonight, but if he didn't get any sleep, that would go out the window. Damn dog. Pete Fergouson had warned Alvin about buying dogs from Ol' Walt, but he had gone and done it anyway. Now he was paying for it.

The noon sun was bright and warm, causing Alvin to consider shedding some of his clothing. He was dressed for a nighttime hunt, not for traipsing about in the middle of the day. But he didn't want to be lugging stuff around with him; the terrain was steep and rocky here, and he was constantly slipping on the freshly-fallen leaves as he went. He'd left his gun locked in the truck for that very reason. He'd seen more than a few hunting accidents caused by people slipping and falling while holding a loaded gun. He had his .22 revolver on him, just in case he ran into a snake, but they generally weren't much of a problem this time of year.

He began to walk again, wondering how far he should go before giving up. Further up the slope, a rabbit broke cover and made a mad, zigzagging dash across the next rise. Alvin watched it go, his hopes of finding Blue starting to diminish. Maybe it would be better to just turn back. There was a good chance that someone would find the dog and return him to Alvin. He knew most of the other hunters in the area, and they would all know whose dog Blue was if they happened upon him. Besides, it wouldn't be the first dog he'd ever lost—though arguably the most expensive—and he was awfully hungry and sleepy.

He'd just made up his mind to return to the truck when he heard the sound of a treeing dog in the distance. It had to be Blue. Coon hunting was a nocturnal sport, and seeing as how it was the middle of the day, he was probably the only fool in these woods. Alvin's heart lightened, and he even forgot his gnawing hunger for the moment. Wanda would never have to know how close he came to losing his investment, and that was a good thing, because she could really be a bitch when she set her mind to it.

He stood still and quiet as he tried to get a bearing on the direction of the dog's barking. It wasn't easy, because the sound echoed off the hills and seemed to come at him from all directions at once. But Alvin was an experienced hunter, and he was used to honing in on the sound of his dogs at night. He finally decided on east and set off at a brisk pace. There wasn't much danger of the dog moving now that he had something treed, but Alvin wanted to get home. If he could eat and get in the bed within the next hour or so, he might be able to salvage the planned hunt tonight.

He came to a small stream, crossed it, and began to climb up a steep incline. He could have circled around the ridge, where the going was much easier, but it would have taken more time. Despite the fact that his was receiving a disability check for his back, Alvin could get around as well as anyone else, provided no one was watching. He didn't feel guilty about it; he'd put in his time in the mines, nearly sixteen years, and he figured he'd paid enough dues to be able to sit back and enjoy life. There would be no black lung disease for Alvin Hobbs, no sitting around and coughing up his lungs like he'd seen a lot of the old-timers do. That was bullshit. If the government was willing to pay him eighteen-hundred dollars a month because he'd been able to get his doctor to say his back was shot, so be it. He'd paid his taxes when he was working. He was simply getting his own money back from Uncle Sam.

He topped the ridge, breathing heavily, and stopped again to listen. The barking was closer now, and he could pinpoint its direction with little difficulty. Five minutes, maybe ten, and he would have his dog and be on his way. Blue wasn't likely to be loving life once Alvin got his hands on the mutt, but the dog had to learn. Alvin would be dipped in shit before he'd go through this after every hunt.

Suddenly, the dog let out a startled, shrill cry, and then fell silent. Alvin stopped, listening, but only silence greeted his ears. He called the dog's name, but received no response. This couldn't be good. What if a bear had snuck up on Blue while the dog's attention had been fixed on whatever he had treed? And here Alvin was, a five-shot .22 revolver and nothing else. His rifle was in the truck, but it was also a .22, no match for a bear. He had larger caliber guns at home, but that didn't do him a heck of a lot of good right now.

He considered turning back, then dismissed the idea. It could have been a copperhead, in which case he needed to get to Blue as soon as possible. If it was a snakebite, he could probably get the dog out of the woods and to the vet in time to save it. He hurried in the direction he'd been going, wanting to cover ground quickly but also mindful of his surroundings, just in case it _had_ been a bear or some other predator.

The bright October sun created sharp, distinct shadows, and more than once Alvin thought he saw something pacing him from the corner of his eye, only to turn and see nothing but the shadows of the trees. He scolded himself. Now was not the time to get a full-blown case of the willies. True, he was alone in the woods, but it was the middle of the freaking day, for crying out loud. How many times had he been in these same woods at night? Hundreds, maybe more. Nothing had ever jumped out and grabbed him, and nothing was going to now.

Just the same, he took the revolver out of his pocket and carried it in his hand.

After five minutes of brisk walking, Alvin stopped to rest and get his bearings. Blue had to be close; he was sure he'd come in the right direction. He tried calling again, and again got no response. Alvin began to rethink the snakebite scenario. If Blue was simply hurt, and not dead, he would at least whimper, letting Alvin know where he was. The continued silence seemed to suggest that the dog was incapable of responding. Alvin had a sudden and powerful urge to make tracks back to his truck, but he brushed it aside. More than the simple fact of the money he'd be out if he lost Blue, he was curious—he couldn't just leave without finding out what had happened to the dog.

Something hit the ground near him. An acorn. Alvin looked up and saw movement in the trees above him. A squirrel, or possibly a bird. He gave another halfhearted call which garnered no response and started walking again. He was on edge. If Blue was dead, then something big must have gotten to him. He knew that most of the animals in the woods would not challenge a human, especially not in the broad daylight. A bear might, but only if was starving or had cubs nearby. Since it was fall instead of spring or early summer, there shouldn't be any young cubs around, and the abundance of food in the forest made starvation unlikely.

A thought hit him then, and he stopped. A mountain lion. He'd read somewhere that their numbers had been on the rise in recent years. A mountain lion would definitely attack a dog, and just might attack a human. But if a big cat had pounced on Blue, the dog would have fought back, even if he had been taken by surprise. Alvin had heard no sounds of a struggle, only a single, loud yelp, then nothing.

Something hit him on the shoulder and he nearly screamed. Another fucking acorn. Again, there was a rustling in the treetops, and Alvin, on impulse, aimed his gun into the tangled mass of branches and colorful, dying leaves, and squeezed off a shot. The squirrel, or whatever it was, did not come tumbling to the ground, but the ruckus in the treetops ceased.

Alvin sighed. He might as well head back home and face the music. At least he could tell Wanda that something had gotten Blue, instead of having to report that the dumb dog had simply run off. She would still be mad, sure, but she could hardly blame him for it, at least. As bad as he hated to, he would probably put off hunting tonight as well. He would be too tired. And, though he wouldn't admit it, the woods were still giving him the creeps, and he didn't think he wanted to return in the dark. Not tonight.

He turned and started back the way he'd come, and another acorn hit him, with force, this time in the back. He whirled around. The nut had not simply fallen from a tree—it had been thrown. An acorn falling straight down wouldn't have hit him where it did, and it wouldn't have stung like that, either. Someone was playing around with him.

"Who's there?" he called. No one answered. The thought occurred to him that one of his buddies might be screwing with him. Maybe someone had come across Blue and realized that Alvin would be close by. They might be hiding now, laughing at him, petting Blue to keep him quiet.

No, that wasn't right. Alvin had heard the pain in the dog's yelp. None of his buddies would have done that to another man's hunting dog. If someone was out there, they must have taken care of Blue, and now they were after him. Alvin couldn't even begin to imagine who might do such a thing, but if the nut had not fallen from a tree...

He was hit again, this time on the cheekbone, just under his left eye. He cried out in pain and surprise, and brought the gun up, waving it wildly. Despite the fact that the acorn had hit him head-on, he hadn't been able to tell where it had come from. His eye began to water, blurring his vision.

"Don't think I won't put a bullet in you!" he yelled, and someone laughed. It sounded like a small child, shrill and high-pitched. What in the hell was a kid doing out in the middle of the woods? Alvin lowered his gun, not wanting to accidently shoot some rugrat.

He was miles from anywhere. It was hard to conceive any set of circumstances which would have put a small child alone in the woods on Drover Mountain, but Alvin supposed anything was possible. Drug use was rampant in the area, especially oxycodone, which the media had labeled _hillbilly heroin._ The papers were full of stories about kids being taken away from their druggie parents. Alvin himself had never had any use for pills, preferring hard liquor when the mood hit him, but he knew what the drugs did to people. So he guessed that it was possible that a child had wandered off, unnoticed by strung-out parents, and ended up out here in the middle of nowhere. Not likely, but possible.

"Hey," he called. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. Come on out where I can see you." He tried to keep his voice pleasant and non-threatening, but he ended up sounding like some creepy pedophile. He scanned the trees, looking for any sign of movement. From behind a large oak, a small head peeked out briefly, then disappeared.

"Gotcha," Alvin mumbled softly. He started toward the oak, walking slowly, not wanting to frighten the child. Maybe something good would come out of this messed-up day, after all. Surely someone was looking for the little monkey, and Alvin would be hailed as a hero when he came riding back into town with the kid in tow. Bob Lyle might be so impressed that he might look the other way the next time Alvin took a deer out of season or drove home from poker night with a bit of whiskey on his breath.

He reached the tree and stopped. There was an odor coming from somewhere; a foul, rotting smell that stung his nostrils. He looked around for the cause—a dead animal, maybe—but he didn't see anything.

"Don't be afraid," he said gently. "Nobody's gonna hurt you." There was no response from behind the tree, but Alvin heard a slight noise, like the kid had shifted around. The poor thing was probably scared shitless. Alvin supposed he would be, too, if their roles were reversed. He peeked around the trunk of the tree.

The kid was there, all right, cowering. It looked like a boy, but it had its back to Alvin, so he couldn't really tell. It was crouched on the ground in a kind of fetal position, with its head tucked down and its arms crossed over its knees. It was also buck naked, and its skin was caked with dirt and grime. Alvin realized that the awful smell was coming from the kid itself. He had a sudden, powerful burst of pity for the child, followed closely by utter contempt for the sorry excuse for parents who had let something like this happen to their kid.

"Hey there," he said softly. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get you out of..."

The child turned to look at him, and Alvin Hobbs screamed like a little baby. He dropped his gun and tried to back away, but his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, his body convulsing with spasms of pure terror. There was nothing child-like about the thing's features; in fact, there was little human about them at all. It stared at him with large, black, bulbous eyes. There was no nose, only two holes set into the face which might have been nostrils. Its mouth was large and lipless, and the skin around it was pulled back to expose teeth like shards of broken glass. It hissed at Alvin.

He stared back at the thing, horrified but scarcely able to comprehend what he was seeing. He tried to scream again, but found that he couldn't; his throat felt totally closed off. He sensed movement around him and knew that others were approaching, but he was incapable of taking his eyes off of the thing before him. He was only remotely aware that he had pissed himself.

Something stung the back of his shoulder, and he realized that one of them was on him, its hideous mouth tearing through his jacket and into his flesh. His paralysis broke and he was up instantly, reaching awkwardly behind him as he tried to dislodge the creature from his back He grabbed something—an arm, maybe. The flesh felt leathery and dry. Alvin took off at a sprint, and the thing on his back either fell or jumped off.

He ran, eyes wide, fists pumping in front of him. The day no longer seemed bright and sunny—shadows moved at his side as he ran, and the sunlight cast a wicked glare on the forest. From behind him came the guttural shrieks of his pursuers. He raced down the steep slope he'd ascended earlier and had almost made it to the stream when one of the creatures darted between his legs, became tangled there, and sent him sprawling to the forest floor. He jumped up, or tried to, but in an instant they were on him, weighing him down, ripping at his clothing. He felt teeth as sharp as razors ripping into his legs. For some reason, he thought of Wanda, and was sorry that he'd thought of her as being a bitch earlier. She was a good woman, really, and he loved her and knew that he would miss her.

He wondered if she would miss him.
Chapter One

"I'm not going back in there," Ron Seaver said, his expression stern. He was shaking his head for emphasis, and his lower lip jutted out defiantly. He looked like a little kid refusing to take a bath.

"Don't have much of a choice," Finn McCoy replied. "Not if you want to keep on breathing." He looked at Ron with no small amount of disdain. "If you shit in the devil's bed, he's likely to take notice of you."

"How was I supposed to know it was a demon?" Ron looked sick, his defiance beginning to melt away.

McCoy shook his head. Ron wasn't a bad guy, but he was a complete idiot. A self-proclaimed paranormal investigator, Ron spent his time hanging out in cemeteries and old, abandoned buildings, taking readings with his various instruments and snapping hundreds of photos of dust particles. He was harmless, for the most part, but this time he'd stepped in a pile of crap he couldn't scrape off his shoes. While performing a "cleansing" for a client, Ron had managed, through a series of mispronounced words in Latin, to royally piss off a major demon.

Now it was up to McCoy to minimize the damage. Getting the demon out of the client's house wouldn't be a problem, but ensuring that it wouldn't follow Ron home and fillet him like a rainbow trout might be a bit tricky. Demons were grudge-holders of the highest order, and once they got a whiff of your aura they could hunt you down anytime and anyplace they wished. To save Ron's mangy hide, McCoy would have to banish the demon, not just from the house, but from the physical world entirely.

"We went over this when I agreed to help," McCoy said. "I'll get rid of the entity, but the only way I can be sure that it works is if you're in there with me." In truth, Ron did not have to be there at all, but McCoy was intent on teaching the fool a lesson. For Ron's own good, of course.

"But it scratched me," Ron whimpered. He lifted his shirt to show McCoy, for the hundredth time, the small red welt on his side.

"It'll do a lot worse than that if we don't get rid of it."

"Couldn't you just do it by yourself? You know, one PI helping out another?"

"I'm not an investigator, Ron. I'm a handler."

"What's the difference?" Ron whined.

"Well, look at it this way. _You_ investigated. Now _I've_ got to handle it. And you're coming with me."

Ron looked miserable. He was scared to go back into the house, but he sure as hell didn't want the demon following him home. All of his electronic equipment and recorders would be of no help to him against the evil spirit. He had no choice but to do as McCoy said, like it or not.

"Okay," he said reluctantly.

"That's the spirit," McCoy said with a grin. "No pun intended."

They left the sidewalk where they'd been standing and walked up the front walkway to the house. It was a big colonial with a gambrel roof. McCoy thought that that the owner must be doing pretty well for himself, and wondered if Ron had charged for his services.

"The family isn't here?" McCoy asked.

"No. They ran out when the dining room chairs started flying around the room."

"Swell," McCoy said. He pushed the front door open and peered inside. Nothing seemed amiss, but McCoy was too seasoned to go waltzing in unprepared. He removed his canvas knapsack from his shoulder and set it on the front stoop. From within the bag he produced a small jar containing a powdery substance. He opened the jar, poured a small amount of the powder into his hand, and sprinkled it on himself. Then he turned and dusted Ron, who looked at him questioningly.

"Powdered lavender," McCoy said.

"Um, okay. Listen, Finn, I know you're really into this Voodoo stuff..."

"Hoodoo," McCoy corrected. "And I'm into whatever works, Ron. Now shut your trap and follow me."

McCoy stepped into the front foyer, Ron reluctantly on his heels. The air within the house was acrid—stale, with a bit of sulfur thrown in. The curtains had been drawn over each and every window, affording them limited visibility. The furnishings inside the home were modern, and in this room, at least, everything seemed meticulously neat and in order. McCoy flipped a light switch to no avail. He took a small flashlight from his knapsack and thumbed it on.

To their right, a doorway opened up into what appeared to be a den or sitting room. Directly opposite of that, to their left, was the dining room. McCoy headed in that direction, the beam of his flashlight sweeping the interior of the house in wide arcs. The house was silent except for a soft ticking noise, probably a large grandfather clock which McCoy had yet to see.

They stepped into the spacious dining area. Unlike the foyer, this room was a mess. The chairs that Ron had described as flying around the room now lay scattered on the floor, a few seemingly intact but most in pieces. The bulbs in the overhead lights had shattered, leaving shards of broken glass which crunched under their feet as they walked. The smell of sulfur was stronger here, and for the first time since entering the house, McCoy sensed a hint of the evil presence, but only for a split second, and then it was gone.

"We need to go upstairs," McCoy said, motioning at Ron to lead the way.

"But most of the activity happened here," Ron argued.

"I'm not debating that. The thing we're after, however, is upstairs."

"Why do I have to go first?"

"Because I've never been inside this house before, and you have," McCoy said impatiently. "Get me to the stairway, at least."

Ron backed out of the dining room and back into the foyer. He turned deeper into the house, past the sitting room. Just beyond that, to the right, was a staircase which led to the upper landing. McCoy went first, taking the steps slowly, one at a time. A cold draft drifted down the stairwell, causing their clothes to billow and turning their breath into a white mist. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees for each step they ascended. By the time they reached the upper landing, Ron was visibly shivering.

They came out into a hallway which led to the four bedrooms and one bath on the second floor. All of the doors were closed, but Ron pointed out which doors led to which rooms. The door at the very end of the hall led to the bathroom. McCoy was less interested in that one; he sensed the evil presence in one of the bedrooms on the left side of the hallway.

"Stay close," he whispered, and moved to the first door on the right. The vibes here were bad, but just to be sure he went to the second door and stood in front of it. Satisfied, he returned to the first door. He turned and gave Ron a serious look.

"Okay, this is it. It's liable to get nasty from here on out, so I want you to stay behind me and keep out of the way. Got it?"

Ron nodded solemnly, but he looked ready to bolt at any minute.

McCoy grasped the doorknob. It felt nasty in his hand. Stifling his revulsion, he twisted the knob and eased the door open.

It was even darker in this room than in the rest of the house, though that shouldn't have been physically possible unless the windows had been boarded up. When dealing with demonic entities, however, the laws of physics went out the window. The smell of sulfur was nearly overpowering. As far as McCoy could see, nothing moved within the room, and no sounds crept out of the darkness.

He shifted the knapsack so its contents would be within easy reach and eased into the room. The décor indicated that it was a child's bedroom; a boy, from the looks of it. The small bed was made to resemble a racing car, and the bed covers were decorated with cartoon images from a popular children's movie. The curtains on the window were pulled back, but no light entered the room form the outside. Evil dwelt within the room, and McCoy could feel it watching him with cold, hate-filled eyes.

"Ostendo vestri," he said softly. _Show yourself_.

He received a menacing, otherworldly growl in response.

"Ostendo vestri!" McCoy called loudly, and Ron jumped backwards with a pitiful gasp. Behind the bed, in the corner of the room, the darkness began to deepen and solidify. The room grew colder by half, causing goosebumps to form on the flesh of McCoy's arms. The growling resumed, rising in intensity, like a maddened pit bull approaching at breakneck speed. A toy car raced across the floor and into a wall, the impact shattering it into a thousand pieces.

The demon formed from the shadows and regarded McCoy with unbridled hate. It had taken on a canine-like appearance, something between a dog and a wolf. It was a favorite among demonic entities, meant to inspire terror and dread. Looking at the thing, McCoy was forced to admit that it worked pretty damn well.

"Tell me your name," he said, this time in plain English. Now that the demon had been forced to reveal itself, the rules of communication were much more lax. More so than human spirits, dealings involving demons tended to rely heavily on structure and ritual. It irritated McCoy to no end, and he just wanted to be finished with the whole affair.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" the demon purred. Demons were gender-neutral, but could take on the appearance and characteristics of either male or female as they pleased.

"I demand it," McCoy said flatly.

The demon made no reply. Instead, it began to move toward them, its powerful haunches swaying with each step. With a shriek of undiluted horror, Ron turned tail and sprinted across the hall and down the steps, his screams echoing in the downstairs rooms and out the front door. McCoy gave his departure only passing attention; his eyes were fixed on the evil entity in front of him.

"You know you can't harm me," he said. His tone was casual but steady.

The thing stopped and looked at him, its head cocked the way a dog's might. It appeared to smile, inasmuch as its twisted features would allow.

"Do you think I wish that?" it asked.

"Of course. It's what all of your kind desires—the torment and suffering of humanity."

The demon laughed, its voice changing from that of a sultry young siren to that of an old, rattle-breathed hag. "Yes," it croaked. "You're right. But sometimes the deed is more pleasurable to watch than it is to perform."

McCoy paused. Demons often spoke in vague terms or riddles, and seldom answered any question with a direct response. Obviously, the entity was inferring that it need not harm McCoy because someone or something else was going to, thus saving it the trouble. Since demons, like ghosts, could see future events to a certain extent, he thought it might be prudent to pursue the conversation a little further.

"You can only watch it if it actually happens."

As if in response, the demon changed forms, no longer a mutated wolf-dog, but a young girl in a white sundress. The child had blonde hair and appeared to be about three or four years old.

"Do you recognize me, McCoy?" the demon-child asked in a little girl's singsong voice.

"No," McCoy answered, but he was suddenly on guard. He didn't know who the little girl was supposed to be, but he thought that he _had_ seen her before, somewhere. It could have been a child he'd passed on the street or had glanced at in a park. She could have been anyone.

"Then mark my face," the child said with a giggle. "I am your doom. I am your destruction. All who stand in my way shall perish."

"Are you trying to kill me with riddles?" McCoy asked. He was no longer in such a hurry to banish this particular demon. Though they were notorious for being deceivers, it was possible that this one might have information that could be helpful, if not downright critical. But it was like trying to trace a phone call in an old movie—you had to keep the demon engaged long enough to find out what you wanted to know.

The child-thing giggled again, then its face mutated into a terrifying visage. The eyes were black as night and bulged from their sockets. The mouth stretched out and became a thin slash along the lower part of its face. The nose all but disappeared, leaving two gaping wound-like holes in its place.

McCoy had to force himself not to shrink away from this sight, for he knew the creature standing before him all too well. A Sluagh, one of the Unforgiven Dead. He suddenly felt very cold. Outside of Europe, he knew of only one place where the Sluagh could be found.

Shallow Springs.

"Ah, but you recognize me now!" the demon cackled, seeing McCoy's revulsion. "Your end is coming, Finn McCoy, and I will be there to bear witness!" With a deranged laugh, the demon spun and leapt back into the shadows in the corner of the bedroom. McCoy, too slow on the uptake, fished a bottle of holy water out of his knapsack, already knowing that it was too late. The demon was already fading, its laughter receding like the horn of a speeding train. By the time McCoy uncorked the bottle, it was gone. Sunlight poured into the room, and the temperature shot up a good thirty degrees in seconds.

"Shit," he said to the empty room. The cartoon characters on the bedspread grinned at him.

Ron was waiting safely across the street when McCoy came out of the house. He gave McCoy an apologetic look.

"Is it gone?" he asked.

"From the house."

"What?" Ron was suddenly alarmed, his embarrassment forgotten. "What about me?"

McCoy reached into his knapsack and retrieved the lavender powder. He tossed it to Ron.

"Your new bath powders," he said.

"But..."

"Relax, Ron. It wasn't there for you. It wanted to give me a message."

Ron looked unhappily at the jar, but remained silent. McCoy left him standing there and went to his truck. It was a beat-up relic with fading camouflage paint. It would never win a race, and simply making it to his destination was sometimes questionable, but he couldn't bring himself to part with it.

"Time to go home, Boo," he said, referring to the nickname he'd given the truck long ago. He patted it on the side of the bed. A few flakes of rust drifted to the ground.

McCoy removed his straw cowboy hat and ran a hand through his long, graying hair. He was tired—he tired a lot easier than he used to. He also suffered from insomnia, and his knees hurt like a bitch when it rained.

Aging really needed a better PR guy.

As he was pulling himself up into the seat, his cell phone rang. He looked to see who was calling and immediately had a bad feeling. Considering the events that had just taken place in the house, this couldn't be good. He hit the answer key and put the phone to his ear.

"We've got a problem, Finn," the voice said from the phone's speaker.

"We? You got a mouse in your pocket, Lyle?"

"Always the comedian. And after I've covered your ass so many times."

"Your ass more than mine, if I remember right."

Bob Lyle laughed. It was a nervous laugh. McCoy didn't like the sound of it.

"I've got seven people missing," Lyle said finally. "Two this week alone."

McCoy winced. "From the same area?"

"No. That's the problem. They're scattered. One from the Mill Dam, two from Drover Mountain. One near Miller's Ridge. The rest are even closer to town."

"Closer than usual?"

"Closer than ever before."

McCoy was silent. People were always disappearing in Shallow Springs. Usually, however, they vanished at a rate of one a year, maybe two. Sometimes they disappeared in groups, like the loggers and that environmentalist fellow a few years back, but that was rare. The Fey were hungry, but they were also sly and not prone to draw unwanted attention to themselves. Something was happening, something bad.

"You still there?" Lyle asked.

"Yeah. I suppose you want me to come up there."

"Who you gonna call?" Lyle meant it as a joke, but it failed miserably.

"When?"

"Today, if you can."

"Let's make it tomorrow," McCoy said. "Early, say nine or ten."

"I'll be at the station," Lyle said. Then he was gone.

McCoy stared at the phone, but it wasn't about to give him any answers. He sighed wearily. That town was going to be the death of him yet. He should have burned it to the ground fifteen years ago, when he'd left for the supposedly last time. The place was like a black hole, constantly drawing him back in.

Well, he wasn't going to worry about it until tomorrow. He'd messed things up enough for one day. Shallow Springs would wait.

The Fey would wait. Just as they had, for centuries now.

# Excerpt from Shadows in the Sand: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller

# 
Prologue

The moon was just rising above the outer rim of the sea when Stef Albright started her walk. The wind coming off the ocean was cool, and she shivered in spite of the fact she'd worn her sweater. Gulls and terns competed with pigeons for scraps of food left by beachgoers earlier in the day. The tourist season wouldn't start for another month or so, but there was a good share of locals who visited the beach on a daily basis, not to mention the odd vacationer who'd gotten a good deal on a beach house during the off season.

It wasn't like White Pine Island was a hub for the tourist crowd even during the peak of summer. It was more of a retirement community; the houses were older, the residents were older, and there were none of the gift shops and restaurants which littered every square inch of real estate up in Myrtle Beach. White Pine Island sat further off the beaten path, and the full-time residents liked it that way. A few of the houses were rental properties, but not many. Stef could remember a time when none of the houses were rentals, but times changed, and seldom for the better.

A gull circled her briefly as she walked, casing her for food, then went off in search of better prospects. In the distance, the fading light gleamed off a jet which was making its way to the airport in Myrtle. Stef's sandals splatted on the damp sand as she walked. Bob called them Jerusalem cruisers, and it never failed to make her laugh when he did so. This particular pair was looking kind of ragged. She made a mental note to pick up another pair the next time she went shopping.

She often wished that Bob would come with her on her evening walks, but her husband would rather sit on the balcony and watch the sun set with a glass of wine in his hand. True, it was sometimes nice to be alone with her thoughts, but Bob had been putting on weight in the past year or so, and a little bit of exercise wouldn't hurt him a single bit. Still, trying to get him to tag along was like trying to pull a sore tooth, and she had pretty much given up for the time being.

Steph's walk usually took her down to the pier and back unless she was really tired, in which case she only walked about half that distance before turning back. The total distance for a full trip was slightly less than two miles, and she never walked at a brisk pace, preferring instead to take her time and enjoy the sights and sounds of the ocean at sunset. This evening, she intended to go all the way to the pier before turning back toward home, unless the evening wind chilled her too much.

Her presence startled a group of terns, and they cajoled her for the intrusion. The sun was almost gone, a mere cuticle peeking above the western horizon. The sound of the waves breaking against the beach was hypnotizing. Other than the ocean and the occasional cackling of the birds, the world was silent. The salty, sweet smell of the ocean filled her lungs as she walked. The wind began to pick up slightly, and it stung her bare legs with grains of sand and other debris.

She stopped as the sound of a radio drifted across the ocean breeze. She looked around for the source of the music but could not pinpoint it. As far as she could tell, she was alone on the beach. There were no houses nearby, and the pier was still half a mile in the distance. She listened more closely and decided that it wasn't a radio, after all. It sounded like someone singing. The voice was high, like a woman's voice, and the tune reminded her of a lullaby, or maybe an old blues tune by Billie Holiday. Stef couldn't make out the words, but they definitely had a sultry feel to them.

Puzzled, but not overly concerned, she continued her walk. Sounds had a way of behaving strangely on the beach. Likely, she was simply hearing the sound of someone singing from a distance.

She began to hum as she walked.

Near the water's edge, she could see several large shells glistening in the light of the rising moon. Slipping off her sandals, she walked across the wet sand and bent to examine them. One of them was broken and useless, but the other two appeared to be intact. She picked them up and slipped them into the pocket of her sweater.

She could still hear the singing, and she noticed that she was humming the exact same tune.

That was strange. The tune wasn't familiar to her; she was positive she hadn't heard it before. But here she was, humming along in perfect time and pitch. The singing seemed to be growing louder, as well. Or was that only a trick of the wind?

She gazed out over the dark ocean and saw someone in the water.

That was ridiculous. The water temperature was too cold this time of year for all but the hardiest of swimmers, and even then only in the daylight hours. Her eyes had to be deceiving her. She strained harder to make out the object. Surely it was nothing but a buoy or a large piece of debris. Whatever it was, it wasn't splashing around or making any motions that would indicate swimming. It looked, for all in the world, like someone treading water, their head and shoulders visible as they bobbed along with the ocean's current.

Though Steph could not make out any features, she could feel eyes upon her. Suddenly spooked, she stood and began retracing her steps back to her house. She was not in the mood to walk anymore. She simply wanted to return home and join Bob on the balcony, maybe even have a glass of wine herself. The night was getting too chilly, anyway.

She expected the singing to recede as she walked away, but if anything, it was getting louder. Slowing, she turned and looked back at the sea. The object she had seen was gone. Perhaps the tide had carried it further out. Or perhaps she hadn't really seen anything at all. The caps of the incoming waves could play tricks on the eyes.

She caught herself humming again and forced herself to stop. She didn't want to go back home with a case of the heebie-jeebies; Bob would never let her live it down. The moon was on the rise and it cast a soft illumination upon the beach. The waves danced and twinkled in its light.

Stef began to feel foolish. At fifty, she should have been well past the age of jumping at shadows. Here she was, in one of the most relaxing places in the world, and her nerves were wound up tighter than Dick's hatband.

The wine was sounding like a better idea all the time.

She was nearly home. The lights from the nearest houses were maybe a hundred yards away. The singing was growing louder, and she supposed it could be coming from this direction. Either someone in one of the houses was singing or they were listening to a radio or CD player. She could make out some of the words, but the song was being sung in a foreign language. It sounded like German, but since Steph didn't speak German, she couldn't be completely sure.

She looked back out at the ocean, saw nothing, and continued walking. There were more shells scattered along the beach here, and she scanned the sand under her feet for some more take-home treasures. Bob would fuss—there were shells piled up everywhere already—but he would get over it. She glanced at her shadow, looked back at her feet, and then froze in her tracks. She looked at her shadow again, and her breath caught in her throat.

Directly behind her shadow was another shadow. It was longer than her own, indicating a much taller person. When she had stopped, the other shadow had stopped as well.

Stef turned slowly and deliberately. She was not a large woman, but she had taken a few self-defense classes, and she had always thought that she could handle herself in a situation such as this. _The eyes and the groin_ , she thought. _Always go for the eyes and the groin_. She remembered one of her instructors drilling that into her. _If they can't see and they can't walk, they can't chase you_.

There was a man standing behind her. He was smiling, he was naked, and he looked like the image of a Greek god carved into flesh-colored stone. His beauty was so stunning that Stef was taken aback. All vestiges of fear left her and she stood frozen, entranced by the man's mere presence. She felt as if she were suffocating, and she suddenly realized she was still holding her breath. She exhaled the stale air and took in a deep lungful of brine-tinged night.

The man said nothing, but the smile remained. He was tall, maybe six-two or six-three. His hair was dark and tousled, and his skin was a golden bronze. Stef had never before gazed upon anyone so perfect, male or female. She began to feel aroused, and was instantly ashamed. She tried to picture Bob, her husband of thirty years, and was inwardly horrified to find that she couldn't.

The man held out his hand as if inviting her to dance. She had no intention of taking this stranger's hand, and was amazed as she saw her own hand raise and slip delicately into his. The strange singing grew even louder, and her head started to spin. She felt drunk, euphoric. She hadn't felt this way since she'd tried marijuana back in college, and that had been many moons ago.

The man began to walk toward the ocean. He kept his head turned toward her, his eyes locked on hers, his smile hinting of things she had only dreamed about in her wildest schoolgirl fantasies. A part of her struggled to resist, but her mutinous body followed him anyway.

Hand in hand they walked into the ocean. She was vaguely aware of the chill of the water as the waves rushed against her bare feet and legs. Where were her sandals? She must have dropped them; she wasn't carrying them anymore. His hand felt much too cold, but whenever she tried to think about what that might imply, the singing grew louder still and her head swam even more.

They waded in up to their knees, then their waists. Stef was shivering so badly her teeth were chattering, but she could not take her eyes off his, and she could not stop walking. Soon the incoming waves were washing over her head, and still she walked, until her feet could no longer touch the sandy bottom. She swallowed a mouthful of saltwater and gagged violently. Their eyes never left each other's.

They began to move swiftly away from the beach. A small part of her, a part that was aware and screaming for the rest of her to wake up, realized that they were caught in a rip current. Her sweater and denim shorts were soaked, and she was having a hard time keeping her head above water. He was still grasping her hand, but he made no attempt to aid her. He simply stared into her eyes and smiled.

She swallowed more brine. She could no longer keep her head above the water. They were both under now, and as she stared at him through the dark and churning water, she couldn't decide if his eyes were blue or green.

_Green_ , she thought. _I do believe they're green_.

And then the darkness came and carried her away.
Chapter One

"I don't see the problem," Finn McCoy said as he followed Amanda Porter from her car to the front door of his house. "You said you wanted to go to the beach. You made me promise, in fact."

"I said I wanted a vacation," Amanda replied smartly. "Not another ghost hunting trip dressed up to look like a vacation. For Pete's sake, Finn! Your leg's barely had time to heal."

McCoy glanced down and saw his limping gait; there was no denying the fact that he still wasn't moving at one-hundred percent, but there was a good chance that he never again would be. The break he'd suffered the previous October had been a bad one. Normally, a broken leg would heal in about three months. It had been over four months since he'd been injured while battling a demon in his hometown of Shallow Springs, and the leg still wasn't right.

"Don't worry about me," he said as he unlocked the front door. "I'm as right as the rain." Out of habit, he bent to check the line of red brick dust under the door's threshold. It had not been disturbed. He pushed the door open and Amanda went in carrying two armfuls of groceries.

"Yeah, right," she said. "You can't even drive across town without your leg going numb. How are you going to handle a trip to South Carolina? That's a seven hour trip, at least."

"I guess you could drive," McCoy said. "Boo probably couldn't handle the trip, anyway." He looked forlornly at his beloved pickup which sat at the curb behind Amanda's car.

"Like I would ride in that hunk of junk for seven hours."

"I'll have you know that truck is a classic."

"Yeah. A classic example of junk. What was the name of the woman who called you?"

"Nan Roberts. She was a grade or two ahead in me in school. I haven't seen her in years."

"Lucky for us she remembered you."

McCoy ignored the sarcasm in her voice. "We've kept up with each other. She and her husband moved to White Pine Island several years ago. Her husband passed away last year, I think. Maybe it was the year before."

"And now she's seeing ghosts?"

"Not exactly. There have been two accidental drownings in the last three weeks, and it's not exactly swimming season yet. But the residents have been seeing something. Nan thinks it's the Gray Man."

"The Gray Man?" Amanda asked as she sat the bags on the kitchen counter. "What's that?"

"An old coastal legend in South Carolina. The Gray Man is said to appear before a hurricane to warn the residents of impending danger."

"I'm no meteorologist, but I don't think the hurricane season's started yet."

"No, but maybe the Gray Man's there to warn them of something else."

"High gas prices?"

"Who knows? That's why we need to go down there. To find out for ourselves."

She turned to him, perplexed but aware that she was fighting a losing battle. "Finn, I wanted a _vacation_."

"And that's exactly what we'll have. I'll admit, it's a little early in the year for a beach trip, but we'll be staying with Nan, so we'll save on lodging. There're plenty of great seafood restaurants just up the road a bit, and we can drive up to Myrtle to do some shopping."

"Call it what you want, it's still a ghost hunt," Amanda pouted.

"Well, maybe just a tad of ghost hunting," he replied. "But after the deal with the Fey in Shallow Springs, dealing with a poor little ghost will be a walk in the park."

"Don't say that," she warned. "Every time you start going on about how simple and easy something is going to be, someone almost dies. And that someone is usually you."

McCoy gave her one of his best grins. "Trust me," he said. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"That's it," Amanda said, shaking her head. "You've jinxed it, for sure."

***

Nan Roberts sat on her deck and watched the waves rolling gently onto the beach. On a table by her side sat a half-full bottle of beer, but she'd let it get warm and it held no further interest for her.

When she and Pete had moved to White Pine Island four years ago, she had been on top of the world. It had always been her dream to retire to the Carolina coast, and the fact that they had been able to do it while still in their late forties was simply the icing that topped the magical, fairy tale cake that had been their marriage. Pete had started his own business right out of college, and by the time he sold it twenty years later there had been no need for either of them to ever work again.

The house on White Pine had been his anniversary present to her, and the following three years had been the best of her life. Then Pete had fallen ill, and within months the cancer had taken him from her.

Nan sometimes wondered if this were the penance she had to pay for being happy for so long, for having to endure no real hardships in her life until Pete's death. If this was her comeuppance, then it was damn sure an overly harsh one. When Pete had died, she had almost lost her will to go on, as well. Only her love for her home and the island itself had carried her through the dark waters of despair and allowed her to make it through the storm and into relatively calmer waters.

Now something dark had come to her beloved island, something that cast a sinister shadow over the only thing left in her life which was dear to her. She and Pete had never had children; in fact, Nan had precious few family members still living, and fewer still that she had any desire to communicate with. There were a few close friends, but most of them lived in Tennessee or Virginia. And while she and Pete had made several acquaintances here on the island, none of them were really close.

The Albrights had been the closest thing to real friends she and Pete had enjoyed on the island. Steph and Bob were around the same age, came from similar backgrounds, and enjoyed many of the same activities as the Roberts. Steph's untimely death, coming as unexpectedly as it had, had almost pushed Nan back into the depression she'd fought so hard to free herself from. She might have relapsed entirely, had she not seen the ghosts.

The first time had been several weeks before Steph's death and, at the time, Nan had chalked it up to an overactive imagination and perhaps one beer too many. She had been sitting in the same chair which she now occupied. It had been later in the day, maybe five or six, and the overcast day had begun to fade into twilight. The beach and ocean were beautiful, but they could be lonely places in the winter months, unless one happened to live further south where the cold weather could not get a grip.

Nan had been engaged in a particularly vicious battle with self-pity that day. She wasn't sure if the underlying cause had more to do with the time of year and weather or simply the latent emptiness which seemed to be her constant companion. In the end, it really didn't matter. The depression was the same, whatever the cause.

She had never been one to believe in ghosts and goblins. Even growing up in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, where there was never a shortage of ghost stories or spooky folklore, she had seldom given the supernatural any credibility. Nan came from a long line of skeptics, and she had carried on that tradition quite admirably until now.

She had been staring out at the deserted beach, thinking of Pete and fighting back the tears. With her vision blurred, she had almost missed the person in the ocean, thinking the shape to be merely the dark underbelly of a wave. She had wiped her eyes and looked again, and this time there was no mistaking the form for anything other than human.

She had jumped up, alarmed, for the person was out further than a swimmer should have been, especially since it was getting dark and the water was so cold. She hadn't seen anyone enter the water, but that didn't mean anything. The person might have been out on a kayak or sailboat before falling into the water, or it might even be a surfer who had lost his board. There were any number of possibilities. The most important thing, right now, was to ascertain if the person needed help or not.

She called out, but even as she did so, she doubted that the person would be able to hear her over the crashing waves. She needed to get down to the beach. She had run back into the house, grabbed her cell off the nightstand beside the bed, and headed down the stairs and out of the house.

It had taken her a few moments to get her bearings. From the ground level, it was harder to see anything in the churning water. She'd scanned the horizon repeatedly, to no avail. She had begun to panic, thinking that the person had gone under, that they were drowning as she stood there. She was not a strong swimmer, and she knew that going into the water would be foolhardy, if not downright dangerous.

She had almost dialed 911, then decided to go back up to the deck for one last look before she called. She had turned back toward the house, and that's when she'd seen the second ghost, if that's what it had been.

The figure was about fifty yards away, and it was waving its arms over its head, as if in warning. Nan was pretty sure it had been a man, but the figure had been so far away that she hadn't been able to make out any features. He had been dressed in what looked like a gray jacket and matching trousers.

She had turned back to the ocean, thinking that the man had also spotted the person in the water and was trying to raise an alarm. She had seen nothing in the dark water, and when she'd turned back around the man, or whatever it had been, was gone.

She'd stood there for several minutes, confused. There was no way the man could have crossed the expanse of beach and ducked behind the dunes in the few moments Nan had been looking out to sea, yet he was nowhere to be seen. Finally, she had given up and gone back into the house. She had locked the doors behind her.

Three weeks later, Steph was gone. The authorities had ruled it an accidental drowning. Nan didn't believe that for a second. She had known Steph well enough to ascertain that the woman hadn't been crazy, nor had she been a druggie or a drunk. There had been absolutely no logical reason for Steph to go into the water that night.

Of course, Steph _might_ have gone into the water if she'd thought she'd seen someone out there. Nan thought back to the person she'd seen in the ocean. Had there really been someone there? She had kept up with the local news for the past several weeks, and there had been no mention of anyone missing.

Had the 'ghost' in the water and the man in gray been one and the same? It was possible, but she didn't think so, though she really couldn't give a reason why. The man on the beach had been waving his arms, either trying to get her attention or—and she thought this more likely—trying to warn her. He did not seem to be threatening her in any way. But whoever or whatever had been in the water definitely gave off a feeling of malevolence. The shape in the water had been watching her, she was sure of it. And she sensed that it harbored no good intentions.

Nan had seen no more of the Gray Man, but she had glimpsed the other one on several occasions recently. Most often, it was in the water, silently watching her from the waves. A few times, however, she had seen shadows in the sand as the last rays of the sun streamed across the empty beach. Shadows with no person around to cast them. Twisted, malformed shadows.

Two days ago, out of the blue, she had thought about Finn McCoy. She had been hesitant to contact him at first, fearing that he might think her simply unbalanced due to her husband's recent death. But McCoy believed in the paranormal, had supposedly dealt with it on numerous occasions, and was reportedly in possession of certain 'gifts' which enabled him to see and communicate with spirits. Nan had finally decided to take a chance and send him a message, and been surprised and relieved when he had replied a short time later.

McCoy had listened to her story and had seemed to accept it without question. To Nan's further relief, he had agreed to come to the island and investigate. He and his lady friend would be arriving near the end of the week. Nan had insisted that they stay with her, partly out of hospitality and partly because she was becoming increasingly nervous about being in the house alone. The whole island, in fact, had taken on a different feel in the past several weeks. Nan was certain that something had to be done before the summer tourists started pouring in.

She yawned and looked at her watch. Almost ten, nearly time for bed. She needed to be up early in the morning to start cleaning. If her mother had taught her nothing else, she had drilled into Nan that one did not invite company to a messy house.

She rose, took the warm bottle of beer, and went into the house.

She was careful to lock the door and close the shades behind her.

***

They watched her go into the house from the darkness of the sea. The water was cold, but it brought no shivers to their bodies nor goosebumps to their skin. A small shark swam near, sensed something, and turned and fled for the safety of deeper water.

"Soon," the female said in a German dialect, her voice alluring yet devoid of any emotion. "Soon, I shall sing for her."

"Soon," her male companion agreed. He turned to the female and smiled, the moonlight sparkling in his green eyes.

### Other Books by Scott Langrel

### Homecoming: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #1

### Shadows in the Sand: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #2

### Skewed: A Collection of Uneasy Tales

### PriorEarth Book One

Contact the author on his Facebook page at: http://on.fb.me/SNfxl7
