A skeptical pug sniffed Brent’s boots when they entered, then padded off toward the kitchen. Cheryl emerged as the men hung up their coats on hooks near the door.
“Brent Lawson! You’re a sight for sore eyes. I can’t believe how much you look like your daddy!” Cheryl threw her arms open, and Brent accepted an embrace that managed to be fierce and pillowy at the same time. If he blinked a few extra times at the mention of his late father, Cheryl couldn’t see.
“Go get cleaned up,” she ordered, after giving them both a once-over to assure neither had managed to get hurt on their outing. “I’m just taking dinner out of the oven. Be quick about it—you don’t want the roast to get cold.” Doug waved Brent toward the downstairs bathroom, while he went to wash in the laundry room.
When Brent returned, Cheryl was bringing out stoneware bowls of steaming mashed potatoes and corn to go with a delectable roast on a platter in the center. The furnishings were a combination of styles and periods, a mix of pieces acquired early in the Conroy’s marriage and those that came via inheritance or estate sales. The result was homey and comfortable, and so much like the house Brent had grown up in that he had to clear his throat to get rid of a sudden lump.
“I put water out for the meal, but there’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing to go with the pie I baked,” Cheryl said. She left her apron in the kitchen, revealing a t-shirt that read “too many books, too little time” over blue jeans and fancifully colored wool socks.
They took their seats, and Brent bowed his head while Doug gave thanks, although he had stopped praying that night, long ago, when everything had gone to hell. Chit-chat waited until they had passed all of the serving dishes. Brent ladled the gravy over his roast and potatoes and drew in a deep breath, savoring the aroma of a real, home-cooked meal.
Conversation started out light, with the weather, sports, and movie blockbusters, as well as Cheryl providing Brent with a quick update on people he might remember from back in Columbia. Doug turned the topic to the deaths out in Peale, and Cheryl shook her head.
“Funny you ask about ghosts.” She added another small piece of roast to her plate. “Sandy, down at the salon, was just saying that her friend who works over at the Happy Endings Tavern—the one in the old Moser Inn building? Anyhow, there’ve been stories for years about that place. Supposed to have been a duel there back in Revolutionary War times, then it was a stop on the Underground Railroad during the Civil War, and then back when it was a Prohibition speakeasy, there was a shoot-out between bootleggers and the Feds,” Cheryl told them with a grin that said she enjoyed telling the tales.
“Well, Sandy’s friend has had stories from time to time about weird things happening—cold spots, doors that open by themselves, bottles and things that move around by themselves or go missing and turn up somewhere strange. Apparently, that’s been happening a lot lately. But when I was down there getting my hair cut, Sandy was saying that her friend Ginny actually saw a couple of the ghosts. One of them was a woman in an apron in the pantry, and the other was a young man in a uniform with a bandaged shoulder. Almost scared her badly enough to quit, but I guess she decided she needed the money, so she stayed on.”
“About when did Ginny say things got more active?” Brent wiped his mouth on a napkin. He reached for a warm roll and butter, resolved to enjoy the feast.
Cheryl thought for a moment. “Sandy’s had something new to tell me each time I’ve gone in for the last three months or so,” she said. “And that got the other women talking. Now mind, some of this might just be people who don’t want to get left out of the conversation, making up nonsense, but it seemed like everyone’s had a story lately about seeing something strange at night on the road, or getting a glimpse of a weird creature out in the woods, or some such. I guess George down at the feed store scared a couple of truckers silly by popping up behind them and then disappearing.”
“Are the ghosts just making themselves visible more often, or are they acting out?” Brent took a sip of his water. “Throwing or breaking things, pushing people, playing pranks?”
Cheryl nodded. “Seems I might have heard that, although I didn’t pay a lot of attention. Sandy could tell you better, or Maryanne over at the diner. Not much gets by them.”
Brent was so busy thinking about how to approach the two women for their stories, he wasn’t prepared for Cheryl’s next question. “You been down to Columbia lately?”
Brent caught his breath, then spoke when Doug frowned and looked like he might jump in. “No, not in a while. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I still think people look at me funny when I go back, so I guess the old rumors haven’t died yet.”
Cheryl grimaced. “I’m sorry, honey. People can be ignorant. And I guess now that your aunt and uncle moved to Florida, you don’t have any ties there.”
“Not really,” Brent admitted. “I was glad to get out of town after everything happened, so I left right after the funerals and stayed up at the hunting cabin the rest of that summer until I went to Basic Training. Aunt Mellie and Uncle Ted handled all the estate stuff since I was barely eighteen. By the time I came back from Basic, all that was left was a bank account.”
Senior year, Brent and his twin brother, Danny, had been the stars of the high school football team, with college scouts taking notice. That summer, the brothers were supposed to go to training camp together before going to play for the Georgia Bulldogs in the fall on football scholarships.
Then Danny got mono and had to drop out of camp. Brent wanted to skip because it didn’t feel right going without his brother, but Danny made Brent go anyhow. While Brent was at camp, someone brutally murdered his family, then set fire to the house. The news speculated about a serial killer, but local gossip turned darker, with rumors about some supernatural involvement, maybe even demons.
Doug had been on the Columbia police force back then and had done his best to shield Brent, but some of the other cops made it clear they wondered whether drugs, gambling, or some other criminal activity played a role. Even when Brent was cleared, and the tragedy declared the work of a possible serial killer, the gossip followed him, as did the odd glances from people around town. Even his aunt and uncle seemed to look at him differently.
That had been the first time demons had touched Brent’s life, but it wouldn’t be the last.
“I’m sorry,” Cheryl said, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to spoil the mood. I should stop to think before I talk sometimes.”
“That’s all right,” Brent assured her. “It’s been a long time.” Thirteen years, a couple of tours of duty and a new city wasn’t enough to rid him of the dreams or keep his chest from tightening every time he saw a fire engine streak past. And it certainly hadn’t stopped Danny’s ghost from visiting him over the years, waking or sleeping.
Doug steered the conversation back to Steeler and Nittany Lion football, and Cheryl went to redeem herself by serving the pie and ice cream. Brent hoped he faked recovering a good mood, and the excellent dessert meant the night ended on a pleasant note.
“I hope you don’t mind if I drop by for a shower in the morning,” Brent said as he got ready to leave. “With luck, it will be a very boring night, but I’d like to clean up before I get on the road.”
“Doug and I are up at six-thirty,” Cheryl assured him with a pat on his arm. “So any time after that is fine. Plan on breakfast. I’ll make waffles and bacon.” Her voice made it clear the invitation was really a summons, and Brent gave in gracefully. Cheryl also insisted on packing him a roast beef sandwich, a bag of chips, another piece of pie, and a Thermos of coffee for his vigil in case he got hungry during the night. Only after he assured her that he had several heavy blankets in the truck and he’d be warm enough on his stakeout did he manage to escape, much to Doug’s amusement.
Cheryl’s mothering made Brent feel cared for and sad at the same time. His own parents would have been about Doug and Cheryl’s age. It had been so long since Brent had been mothe
red that he forgot how much he still craved it, even at thirty-three.
His whole life had changed in one night. Football wasn’t the same without Danny to share it with, and the thought of going to college without him was unbearable. Brent had gone into the Army to get away, jumping from the frying pan into the proverbial fire. He’d eventually earned his degree online, in a program for veterans, and that and his combat and Special Ops experience got him the job at the FBI. But the demons kept showing up, first in Iraq, then on a job for the Bureau, and then with the Pittsburgh PD. That got the attention of other, less welcome organizations.
Which was how he ended up as an ex-cop private eye, staking out a ghost town with a shotgun full of rock salt and cold iron.
Brent drove his pickup carefully on the overgrown road that he and Doug had followed earlier that day. The sign “closed to traffic ” seemed redundant, since no one would mistake the barely visible trail for a viable thoroughfare. That didn’t stop him. He’d made some modifications to his vehicle and his arsenal over the years since he’d begun fighting monsters and demons, just for situations like this.
Branches slapped against the windows and rear-view mirrors. The truck powered through tall weeds and scrub that scratched against the undercarriage. It might have been quieter to just hike in, but if any of the range of creatures he had considered were behind the spike in suicides, Brent didn’t want to face them without options.
By nine-thirty, Brent had his truck positioned so that the lights would catch both the mine entrance and much of the town ruins, if he turned them on. He got out and liberally scattered a mix made of salt and iron filings in a circle around the truck, and for good measure uncoiled a rope that had been soaked in holy water, aconite, and colloidal silver and laid it out at the edge of the salt circle. Then he climbed up into the bed of his truck with his weapons bag and waited.
An hour later, Brent heard rustling in the darkness. He adjusted his night vision goggles and readied his shotgun. He had a Glock with silver rounds tucked into his waistband at the small of his back, and a Beretta with steel hollow-point bullets in his shoulder holster. A variety of knives in sheaths all over his body gave him options. All he needed was a clear shot.
A man stumbled from the underbrush, with a whiskey bottle clutched in one hand and a revolver in the other.
Brent shifted to high alert. If the poor wretch with the empty bottle of hooch had been lured to this godforsaken spot, then whatever desired his death must also be nearby.
His left hand went out of habit to the silver medallion he wore with his dog tags, a St. Michael medal that he trusted more for the silver than the saint. The night goggles cast the ghost town in eerie shades of green. Brent didn’t rely on thermal imaging to alert him to anything lurking in the forest; many of the creatures he hunted lacked a heartbeat or warm blood. Then he saw it; a slight movement in the tall grass that didn’t match the wind, the signature of a predator closing in on its prey.
The man leaned back to take the last dregs from his bottle, then threw the empty container away with a curse. It shattered against a tree, breaking the silence. The drunk stopped and planted his feet, face upturned to the night sky. In the moonlight, Brent could just make out the man’s features: average height, slim build, light hair, no beard, probably early thirties. Grief and despair etched the man’s features, making him look haggard.
“After everything, you’ve got nothing to say to me?” he challenged the heavens. “Everything I did…followed the rules…tried to do it right…and for what?” he shouted. “What the fuck was all that for? Huh? Answer me, you goddamned cheat.” His voice hitched, and he sobbed openly.
“Buncha lies, that’s what it was. All of it. Sucker’s bet—and I’m the sucker. Just one…damned…thing after another, and I’m done.”
He turned in one direction and then another, as if unsure where the target of his ire might be. “You hear that? I’m fuckin’ done!” He waved a pistol at the night as if to make his point.
The man’s words tore at Brent, too similar to his own thoughts on many a night. He hadn’t counted on having a would-be suicide show up, and it complicated his mission. But Brent couldn’t let the man die.
“Shit,” he muttered, knowing he was about to do something stupid. Brent triangulated the distance between the truck, the suicidal man, and the unseen predator. He still had no idea whether the creature in the tall grass meant to attack, or had come to enjoy the show. Even if the cryptid did not intend to do the killing itself, Brent knew there was no assurance it wasn’t equipped to kill.
Brent eased down from the truck bed, weighing his options. He disliked all of his choices. He left the shotgun behind, pulled his Glock, and ripped off his night goggles, dropping them into the truck bed. Then he clicked his remote, and the truck’s high beams flared to life, blindingly bright, behind him.
Brent leaped over the protective barrier of salt and iron, running full out. He closed the distance between himself and the newcomer, landing a right cross before the man saw him coming, then caught the stranger as he sagged toward the ground. Glad that the man was not hefty, Brent slung him over his shoulder and ran back, jumping into the unbroken circle again and depositing his unconscious companion in the bed of the truck. In another minute, he cuffed the man’s wrists and ankles to keep him from getting away or getting in the way and wrapped a strip of cloth over his eyes to avoid future complications. Then Brent rested his hands on his hips and looked around the desolate area, wondering where the predator had gone.
There . He spotted movement in the high grass. Was the creature nocturnal? Brent hadn’t thought to ask if the suicides shared a time of day. The bright lights had taken the stalker by surprise, perhaps even temporarily blinding it, but that advantage probably wouldn’t last for long.
Only then did analysis catch up with adrenaline. For the seconds Brent ventured beyond the salt-and-iron circle, his mood had plummeted as dread and hopelessness washed over him, threatening to pull him into the undertow. Training and experience forced all other thoughts aside, keeping him focused on saving the stranger. Now, the dark thoughts and self-loathing made him gasp for air and nearly doubled him over.
And yet…the painful thoughts felt muted, almost second hand as if Brent were somehow replaying someone else’s mental collapse. He forced his emotions down and retreated into the cold logic that so often had saved his life and the lives of his soldiers. Quick triage assured him he was not injured. Yet the assault on his thoughts and feelings had been sudden, overwhelming, and nearly incapacitating.
Maybe the men who killed themselves had help , he thought. Maybe something lured them here, preying on their vulnerability, exploiting their loss and grief, cranking up the pain. But why? The dead men weren’t ripped apart or gnawed on. It didn’t use the psychic attack to trap them. Then what was the point? He stilled as realization dawned.
It fed.
And with all his unresolved grief and the guilt and blame he could not shake loose, Brent had practically served himself up as a feast.
Brent walked the perimeter of his safe zone, Glock in one hand, silver-edged Ka-Bar in the other. “Come out, come out,” he called softly. “I know you’re there.”
Standing in the silence of the night, Brent realized that the utter stillness was unnatural. No owls hooted, no forest creatures scrabbled through the dry leaves and branches. He knew from night maneuvers that the only time nature fell silent was when apex predators hunted.
Instinct told Brent that the creature would not approach from the front and brave the blinding lights. He moved through the high beams, averting and closing his eyes for a few seconds to avoid compromising his night vision, using the glare as a way to force his quarry to lose track of him. Brent dropped to the ground and belly crawled beneath the truck from front to back, emerging at the rear.
The stranger lay bound in the truck bed, quiet and motionless. As Brent started to crawl beneath the tailgate, he saw movement beyond the protective b
arrier and drew back. Instead, he rolled out from under the right side, hunched beside the wheel well and eased forward, peering into the darkness, where the headlights did not dispel the shadows.
The night had grown cold, and Brent wondered if the ghosts of Peale roused at the intrusion. Before he could think much about it, a pallid creature with a nightmare face hurled itself at the bed of the truck—and bounced back, repelled by the protective barrier.
Brent took the shot as the being stumbled, firing a silver round and striking the predator where its heart should have been. Black blood gushed from the wound, and the thing gave an ear-splitting howl that nearly deafened Brent even as it raised a primal dread deep within.
“Fuck that shit,” Brent muttered, firing two more rounds. The force of the shots staggered the creature, but it stared at Brent with silver eyes set in a corpse-pale, elongated face, still standing after close-range hits that would have killed any mortal. Brent shot again, this time a kneecap, and the monster fell, screaming, then pushed off with its good leg and landed just short of the salt line, scrabbling with its clawed hands in the dirt.
Trying to break the warded circle.
This time, Brent fired down on the monster’s skull, a shot that entered at the crown of the head and took off the back of the skull, spattering gobbets of black ichor and goo. The body shuddered, then went still. Brent didn’t intend to take any chances. He emptied the rest of his clip into the creature, then dropped his gun and drew a machete from the sheath on his belt.
The monster lay just a step beyond the barrier. Gory exit wounds from skull to pelvis showed where Brent’s shots had hit true. Still, he had no idea whether the thing could regenerate, or whether it could actually die, no matter how badly wounded. Only two ways to be certain: lop off the head and burn the son of a bitch to ash.
Swallowing fear, Brent took a two-handed grip on the machete and stepped across the protective line.
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