by Brian Keene
He was just about to give up and start back to the truck when he came across the stone. It was gray and stood out sharply against the dark landscape. It reminded Rich of a tombstone: knee-high, curved, rounded edges, and covered with carvings. It had definitely been shaped and smoothed by human hands. Despite the fire that had obviously raged around it, the stone appeared untouched. There was no soot on its unmarred surface. No burn marks or heat-induced damage.
Curious, Rich approached the rock and knelt down beside it. The carvings looked weathered, which meant that the stone was probably old. Had it been here before the fire, or had someone brought it here after? And if it had been here before, then how had it escaped undamaged? He studied it closer. There was no moss or lichen clinging to its sides, and no cracks or crevices in its surface. The rock was totally featureless except for the weird carvings. They weren’t like anything he’d ever seen before. They looked like runes of some kind, or maybe Native American symbols, like the ones they showed on the History Channel documentaries. He remembered the cult that was supposed to have been based here before the fire. Could they have carved these? It didn’t seem likely. Rich couldn’t explain it, but the strange symbols felt much older than that.
Maybe it was worth some money. A stone like this, covered with what might possibly be Native American glyphs? That was a pretty big archeological find. Maybe he could sell it to the Indian Steps Museum near Wrightsville. They had all kinds of artifacts there—spears and arrowheads, stone clubs, bowls, and other things. If he remembered correctly, they had some rocks with markings on them, too: displayed in a showcase were several pieces of slate that somebody had pulled from the bottom of the Susquehanna River, each segment containing several ancient carvings. He’d seen it on the local news.
Rich nodded his head and spat again. Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more certain he was. This had to be worth some money; if not to the museum, then maybe to somebody at York College, or maybe even down at the Smithsonian in Washington. How much? He didn’t know. Surely enough to get him out of debt—allow him to pay off the house and credit cards, and stop all the phone calls and letters from the bill collectors once and for all.
He’d be free. Suddenly, Rich had options again. A way out that didn’t involve eating a bullet or drinking himself to death. There was a light at the end of the tunnel and it wasn’t an oncoming train. He could keep the house, or at least pay it off and then sell it to someone else. Get a fresh start. Be free of his family’s ghosts.
Faint hammering sounds drifted to him again. He wondered if any of the people working on the Ghost Walk had discovered this yet. Probably not. If so, he’d have seen their footprints in the ashes.
He sat his rifle down and pulled out his compass, trying to figure out where he was. He blinked, staring at it. The needle was slowly spinning around, not fixing on a location. Almost as if there were no true north.
“That’s weird. Cheap piece of shit.”
Rich glanced around and spotted three more stones jutting up from the ground. Each of them looked just like the other. They were spaced out about ten feet apart forming a half circle of sorts. Could there be others, hidden beneath the ash? An entire circle, perhaps? An American version of Stonehenge? If so, then his fortunes had just gotten even better. One of these markers had to be worth money, but a dozen of them? He’d be set for life.
“Payday!”
Grinning, Rich placed his hands on the stone. It was cool to the touch, and for a brief moment he thought he felt it vibrating beneath his fingertips. He paused, wondering if the ground was shaking. An earthquake? Although rare in this part of the country, they’d happened before. But it wasn’t. The soot and ash remained still, as did the burned hulks of timber. They didn’t shake. Only the stone moved—and only this one. He could definitely feel it. Its brethren, the ones he wasn’t touching, remained still, at least to the naked eye. The flat surface warmed slightly as he ran his palms across it. Then the vibrating sensation faded and the rock turned cool again. He noticed that the woods were quiet again, too. The hammering sounds had faded.
“Spooky shit.”
Even though he spoke softly, his voice boomed across the blasted landscape, sounding too loud in the silence. It occurred to Rich that he hadn’t felt watched—hadn’t felt those unseen eyes on him—since discovering the stones.
Thoughts of money helped him brush his fears aside. He pushed the stone, wiggling it back and forth, disturbing the scorched soil. Flakes of ash fluttered into his face, sticking to his sweaty forehead and cheeks. Brown tobacco juice dribbled down his chin as he pushed harder, grunting with the effort, trying to determine how much of the stone was buried beneath the ground. The rock was heavier than it appeared. His fingers found purchase in the carvings. Again he felt a warm sensation in his palms and fingertips. The hard surface throbbed. He was sure of it this time.
Bewildered, Rich gave it a final shove. The rock tore free of the dirt and tumbled over onto its side, sending more ash into the air. Rich coughed, his eyes tearing up as the cloud obscured his vision. He tasted soot in the back of his throat. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. It came away grimy and black. His skin itched.
When the dust settled, Rich peered down at a small, round hole where the stone had been. He couldn’t see the bottom, just a deep shadow. He leaned closer, peering down into the crevice. The air seemed colder at ground level. Rich’s eyes widened in surprise as the darkness inside the hole moved, swirling around just like the cloud of ash had done.
The darkness was a solid, shapeless thing.
Still on his knees, Rich shuffled backward, gasping as the darkness floated out of the hole and into the air, forming into a small funnel like a miniature tornado. It moved in silence and of its own volition, slowly spinning round and round. There were no breezes to twirl it. The black cone glided backward, away from Rich and the stones. Rich saw more rocks sticking up now. They did indeed form a circle. He was standing outside of it. The cloud hovered in the center of the circle. Its speed increased.
“Oh shit…”
Still coughing from the ash in his throat, Rich jumped to his feet. His knees popped and his head pounded. The darkness continued turning. His stomach lurched as he watched it. His feet and hands felt like lead. The darkness spun faster. His mouth was suddenly parched; the plug of tobacco felt like a dry sponge between his gums and lip. Forgetting about his discarded rifle, he stepped away from the hole, watching the funnel cloud with wide, fearful eyes.
“I believe,” Rich whispered. “Okay? I believe now. Everything they say about this place is true. You win. You proved your point. I believe. I believe in God and the Devil and the motherfucking boogeyman. I believe in it all. So just let me go. I won’t come back.”
The darkness spoke. It sounded far away.
Dad…
Rich sobbed. He knew that voice.
Dad…it’s me. The voice grew louder.
“T…Tyler?”
The darkness coalesced, its form shifting again, changing into something else.
Changing into his dead son.
“Tyler…is it…what is this?”
This couldn’t be happening, but it was. His dead son’s ghost stood before him, still dressed in his desert khakis, as if he’d just returned home. Just like that, Rich became a believer. He couldn’t deny his own eyes. This wasn’t a vision or hallucination. This was Tyler, solid yet ethereal, his feet hovering inches from the forest floor. His death had been horrific, but now Tyler appeared unharmed and complete, looking as perfect and proud and strong as he had the day he left for boot camp.
Dad. Tyler held out his arms and smiled. It’s good to see you. How’s Mom?
Rich tried to respond, but he couldn’t. His words died in his throat, strangled by his sobs. His eyes blurred with tears.
“Oh, Tyler…I miss you. I miss you so fucking bad.”
I miss you, too, Dad. You and Mom both.
Rich took a hesitant step into the circl
e. As he did, Tyler seemed to grow clearer.
It’s so cold here, Dad. Not like the desert. It’s really cold.
Wiping his tears away with the back of his hand, Rich stepped fully into the circle and reached for his son. Tyler drifted toward him, drawing closer. Weeping, Rich touched him. As he did, Tyler changed shape. The darkness returned. Rich’s fingers sank into the substance. It felt like frigid cotton candy. Black, smoke like tentacles erupted from its center and snaked across his hand and up his arm. Whimpering, Rich tried to pull away, but the darkness held fast. It slithered up his shoulders, wrapped around his neck and raced toward his mouth.
Rich screamed, frozen in place.
More of the darkness flowed over him. It poured through his mouth and ears and the corners of his eyes, slipped beneath his clothes and snaked into his anus and urethra. Anywhere there was an opening, the darkness found it. The black cloud grew smaller and smaller as more of it pulsed into his body. Rich screamed throughout it all.
When the cloud disappeared, Rich’s screams turned to laughter, echoing through the dead trees. The voice wasn’t his. Nor were the thoughts inside his head. There were no more worries about his financial situation or unemployment. Gone was his depression and anger. Gone were his memories of Carol and Tyler and everything else. Those memories, just like their own er, didn’t exist anymore. They were just ghosts.
Richard Henry was no more. He’d been replaced by something else.
He would not be missed because there was no one to miss him.
As night fell on the hollow, the laughter ceased. The moon shone down through the burned trees, but the light did not penetrate the desolate spot. The figure that had once been Rich retrieved the .30-06 rifle and went hunting. There was much to do and only a short time to do it. Halloween was coming and the barriers between worlds grew thin.
CHAPTER TWO
Maria Nasr held her breath and counted to ten.
I will not snap. I will not snap. I will not snap.
She repeated the mantra over and over in her head. It didn’t help. Her anger swelled. This was ridiculous. Her hands curled into fists and her long fingernails dug into her palms, the French manicure from the day before all but forgotten. Her legs twitched in annoyance, rocking the tablet, pen, and digital voice recorder precariously balanced in her lap. The clock on the wall refused to move, the hands seemingly frozen in time. Maria’s temples throbbed.
At the front of the room, the fat man, Orvil Hale, one of the town commissioners, droned on and on about his kid’s private Christian academy and how marvelous it was and how all of the other board members should consider enrolling their children at the school, too. His bald head shined under the fluorescent lighting. Hale’s pudgy, red-splotched cheeks jiggled as he talked. Long hairs dangled from his nose, swaying with each breath. Maria could see them even from where she sat. And he wheezed between words, as if the very act of talking left him breathless. So why didn’t he just shut up? Weren’t they on taxpayers’ time? Yes, of course they were. But rather than getting down to business, Hale kept talking.
It pissed her off. She had better things to do on a Wednesday night than sit here and listen to an elected official proselytize on township time. Okay, maybe laundry, cleaning her apartment, and grocery shopping weren’t exciting, and sure, these meetings were about as thrilling as watching flies have sex, but enough already! Get to the matter at hand, address the taxpayers’ concerns: the new sewage system and who was going to pay for it. That’s what she was here to cover for the newspaper, not this personal fucking nonsense. They could save that for after the meeting.
Occasionally, Maria would skim through Writer’s Digest and other magazines and websites directed toward writers. They always made freelancing sound glamorous and fun.
This was neither.
Maria exhaled, took another deep breath, and forced herself to relax. She stretched her fingers and toes and twisted her head from side to side, cracking the cartilage in her neck. The guy in front of her, a writer for the York Daily Record, turned around and smiled. Maria smiled back.
Don’t get the wrong idea, buddy, she thought. You’re like twice my age and still working as a freelancer. No career drive or higher financial aspirations there, obviously. And besides that, you pick your nose and wipe it on your pants.
It was true. She’d seen him do it at dozens of these township meetings, as well as other municipal government meetings, car wrecks, ribbon cuttings, Jaycee bean suppers, Lions Club pancake breakfasts, and everything else they covered.
The reporter—Mark was his name, she remembered now—turned back around and focused on the front of the room. His index finger crept toward his nose again. The township supervisors were discussing last week’s episode of American Idol. Maria glanced at the clock and sighed. The hands had barely moved.
Somebody kill me now…
She hated this. Hated her job as a freelancer and everything it entailed. This wasn’t how she’d pictured things would be after graduating from college three years ago. She’d imagined moving to New York City or Los Angeles and getting a job for a major newspaper, or maybe writing for Time or Newsweek or Vanity Fair. Instead, she was stuck freelancing here in York County, Pennsylvania, scrambling to sell articles for anyone who would send her a check, and barely making a living at it.
Maria had grown up in Paramus, New Jersey. Her father was a Jordanian Muslim and her mother was a Brazilian nonpracticing Catholic. Both had immigrated to the United States to go to college, and both had ended up living here afterward. They’d gotten married, after her mother converted to Islam. Maria’s father was an engineer. Her mother was a doctor. Both had wanted the best for their daughter, especially since she was an only child. But they also insisted that she earn things on her own. Her father was especially adamant about this. They could have sent Maria to the finest journalism schools in the country and paid her tuition in full, but instead, they’d declined to help her financially. “You must do it on your own,” her father had said. “If you do not work hard now, you will never appreciate the opportunities you are given. You may hate us for it now, but you will thank us one day.”
Maria had ended up picking York College. It was highly accredited, yet still affordable on her college loan. Moving from Paramus to the small Pennsylvania town was a bit of an adjustment, but she managed. She got a job working part-time at a video store, shared an apartment off campus with five other girls, and stayed focused. No boyfriends during her four years in school—there was no time. Becoming a journalist was what mattered. Serious relationships could come later, after she’d graduated and went to work for the New York Times.
Except that it never happened. Maria received her degree, but the job offers weren’t forthcoming. She applied in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, New York, Washington, D.C., and all the other nearby cities. When she had no luck there, she tried the smaller cities like Allentown, Scranton, Trenton, and Richmond, but they weren’t hiring either. Some of them offered her other positions or freelance work, but nothing that was financially feasible. She needed full-time employment—a staff gig. Maria had her student loan to pay off, as well as the cost of living, and moving expenses to wherever she took the job. She couldn’t move back home. Her father remained adamant that she do things on her own, so living with her parents again wasn’t an option. She could have asked them for a loan, but that would have been admitting defeat—and besides, she was already far enough in debt.
In the end, Maria opted just to stay in York. She got a small apartment in York City, bought a Hyundai Accent, and added even more to her debt. Then, still working at the video store—full-time now, rather than part-time—Maria started supplementing her income with freelance assignments. After all, what good was her degree if she didn’t put it to use? So in the evenings, after she got off work, Maria began writing for various markets. It was slow going at first. She had to build up a list of editors and markets that she could submit regularly for. Webzines, travel guides,
magazines, newspapers—all of them were looking for freelancers, even the papers who had refused to hire her as a full-time employee. After a year and a half, she had an impressive amount of clippings and could afford to quit her job at the video store—even though she was really only earning the same amount she’d made working there. She continued working hard and stayed prolific, and so far, she wasn’t behind on her bills and could buy groceries and hadn’t crawled back to Paramus to tell her parents she was a failure. The key to being a successful freelancer was the ability to write quickly for a variety of clients.
Like now. Maria focused again on Orvil Hale. She hadn’t missed anything. The officials were just now calling the meeting to order.
Finally, she thought. It’s about fucking time. Maybe we’ll be out of here before Halloween.
Maria crossed her legs. She needed to pee.
Tonight, Maria was freelancing for the York Dispatch. Unlike their rival, the York Daily Record, they used freelancers to cover most local government meetings. Maria earned sixty dollars per story, and while it didn’t seem like a lot of money, every check counted—that was the freelancer’s mantra. On any given week, she could get paid for several magazine articles, half a dozen reviews online, and two or three freelance stories for the newspaper. It all added up. And besides, the local government stories only took her a few hours to write. They weren’t exactly hard work. The only drawback was sitting through the tedious meetings themselves. Maria had yet to discover a way to make sewer lines, street repair, or refuse collection interesting and exciting. No matter how you dressed it up, it was still the most boring shit in the world. Still, she wasn’t getting paid to make it thrilling. She was simply supposed to report the facts, no matter how uninspiring they might be.