“Look at you,” Ben said. “Trying to win me over with food.”
“I’d like to think I still know you pretty well.”
When they reached the front gate that led to the sheriff’s house, Ben grappled with a response. Nicholas offered the same smile he had used earlier when he had asked Ben to join him for dinner, and Ben’s resolve buckled.
“Yeah, okay,” he said finally. So much for being careful. “I’ll stay. But only because I’m worried about your ear.”
Nicholas beamed, and his eyes shone with something that made Ben’s heart flutter. “I’ll take it,” he said, though they both knew Ben would have stayed anyway. “Come on, then.”
Once inside, Nicholas locked the door and rehung their coats. He headed into the living room and peered around for his phone before he picked it up from where Ben had tossed it on the sofa.
Ben felt a wary tug at the corner of his mind when Nicholas hesitated with the phone.
“I’m not really in the mood for pizza.”
“Same here, actually,” Nicholas replied. Silence flooded the short distance between them. “You wanna go to bed?”
Ben nodded.
Nicholas held out his right hand. Ben took it, registered the coarseness of Nicholas’ palm, and followed him upstairs.
“We haven’t had a sleepover in a million years,” Nicholas said.
“Oh, yeah,” Ben said. “This is just like old times.”
Nicholas grinned and led Ben into the bedroom. He flicked on the light as they entered. The room was large, and Ben smiled at the made bed. “Still a neat freak, I see.”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness, I’m told.”
“If you say so.”
Nicholas bit his lower lip, and Ben was transfixed. The sheriff stood at a proximity that was wholly intimate, but he did not make contact.
“I want to kiss you again,” Nicholas whispered, and Ben relished the other man’s warm breath against his cheek.
“Then kiss me, Sheriff.”
Nicholas’ eyes widened at the name, now spoken with fond affection, and he quickly closed the gap between them to press his lips to Ben’s in as firm a caress as before. He pulled Ben close, and Ben drank in Nicholas’ warmth as he returned the kiss.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Nicholas whispered when he pulled away.
“Me too,” Ben said with an earnestness that surprised him.
Nicholas started to undress, his movements casual as he unbuttoned his shirt. Nicholas’ tall build had always been more athletic than Ben’s, but seeing the boy of his every adolescent fantasy all grown up with his shirt open was almost too much for Ben to process.
This is going to be a long night.
Ben unknotted the tie around his neck, though his gaze lingered on Nicholas as he shrugged off his shirt. There was a small patch of scar tissue on Nicholas’ naked left shoulder. “What’s that?” Ben asked, nodding to what had obviously been a relatively serious wound.
Nicholas glanced down and let out a weak laugh. “Haven’t you heard how I was made sheriff?”
Ben unbuttoned his shirt, but he kept on the white undershirt and pretended not to notice that Nicholas eyed his every move. “No,” he replied. “Tell me.”
Nicholas reached down to unbuckle his belt before he unzipped his jeans. “Mayor Stewart was shot at a few years ago,” he said. “Remember old farmer Padgett?”
“That racist asshole?” Ben asked.
Dale Padgett had run the largest apple orchard in Mason County. Ben recalled an eventful Harvest Festival from his teenage years in which an especially inebriated Padgett used a term so offensive to refer to his daughter, Shirley—who he claimed had betrayed their family’s good name with her marriage to Tucker—that a chorus of gasps had erupted throughout the crowded square. The former Sheriff Nolan had intervened before Tucker could take a well-deserved swing at the other man’s wrinkled, sun-hardened face, and Padgett had spent the night in the drunk tank.
A grim expression settled over Nicholas’ face. “He didn’t take kindly to a black mayor and saw fit to try and shoot Silas during his swearing in ceremony.”
“Are you serious?”
Nicholas nodded in confirmation. He slipped out of his jeans so that he was clad only in his boxers. They were tight and black, and Ben felt guilty for admiring them.
Ben stepped out of his pants as Nicholas climbed up onto the mattress and kneeled there.
“So what happened?” Ben asked when he moved onto the bed to mimic Nicholas’ position.
“I saw the gun just before Padgett fired. Dove in front of the bullet, took it to the shoulder. My dad was there. Shot Padgett in the heart. He retired a few months later, and Stewart insisted I be made sheriff for my ‘outstanding act of heroism.’”
Nicholas shrugged as if it was not a big deal, but there was an edge of self-loathing to his recitation of the words. Ben recognized the tone instantly; he used it often enough himself.
“You could have been killed,” Ben said, digesting the recount.
“Then I would have died saving someone else. I’m okay with that.”
“Jesus,” Ben whispered. He reached out and brushed his fingertips along the scar. Nicholas closed his eyes at the touch, but he tensed uncomfortably at the attention. Ben cleared his throat and withdrew. “How’s your ear?”
“The painkillers just kicked in.”
Ben noticed the way Nicholas’ eyelids drooped as he spoke. “You should go to sleep.”
Nicholas kicked back the top cover. He slipped underneath it and kept it open for Ben to do the same. Ben waited until Nicholas had positioned his head comfortably before he slid down against the pillow on the other side of the bed.
“Ben,” Nicholas said, and his eyelashes fluttered.
“Yeah, Nic?”
Nicholas’ eyes drifted shut, and he sighed. Ben reached over and flicked the switch beside the bed to turn off the overhead light. He was careful not to disturb Nicholas when he settled down beside him.
“You should stay,” Nicholas mumbled. The steady intake of breath a moment later told Ben that Nicholas was asleep.
In the faint moonlight that shone from the window over the bed, Ben watched the other man’s form rise and fall with his every inhale and exhale. He wondered if Nicholas would be as candid the next morning.
Ben’s dream was dark and gray. There were sounds of swirling static and the image of Jack Freemont hanging from a broken beam. The dead farmer’s eyes shot open to reveal wide, red orbs just as a loud, repetitive squawking heaved Ben out of unconsciousness.
The digital din of Nicholas’ alarm clock startled Ben into full awareness. He sat straight up in the foreign bed, forgetting where he was.
“Ugh,” came a voice from beside him, and Ben blinked over at Nicholas as he swatted at the snooze button.
Nicholas’ other arm was sprawled out across Ben’s lap, and Ben shifted with care, slipping out from underneath its weight. Nicholas jerked upright in surprise.
“Oh. Hi,” Nicholas said, his voice groggy and laced with confusion. He winced as he moved and pushed the palm of his right hand to his ear.
“Good morning,” Ben replied, keeping his tone even. He felt sure that the previous night had been an alcohol-induced haze that Nicholas regretted. “How’s your ear?”
“I’ll live,” Nicholas said, sounding gruffer. “I think I need some Advil, though.”
Ben gave a slow, uncertain nod. He peered around the bedroom and took in its orderly perfection in the light of morning.
“Hey,” Nicholas said, leaning closer.
Ben turned and laughed as his nose brushed against the other man’s. “Hey.”
Nicholas pressed his lips to Ben’s in a caress that was so full of tenderness, Ben’s caution slipped away. Ben reveled in the contact, but he forced himself to retreat.
“You should get that Advil.”
Nicholas hummed in agreement and stood to stretch. Beams of sunlight danced an
Adagio across his strong shoulders as they flexed.
“I owe you a breakfast,” Nicholas said. “Bathroom’s across the hall. Stay in bed if you like, I don’t mind.”
Nicholas disappeared into the hallway, and Ben listened to the sound of the other man’s feet on the stairs. He stood, stretched, and pulled on his pants. As his fingers fastened the buttons of his shirt, he glanced around the room again. It felt entirely too intimate to be left alone in Nicholas’ bedroom.
Unlike the living room, the bedroom had a single framed photograph on the desk by the window. When Ben stepped closer to inspect it, he could only stare at the familiar image.
The photo was of the two of them standing on a dock holding up a fish they had caught together during a trip to the local lake when they were seven. No, eight, Ben thought as he regarded the younger version of himself, who happened to be missing a number of teeth; he had lost quite a few that year. Ben smiled and headed to the bathroom.
Downstairs, Ben found Nicholas inspecting the contents of his fridge. The smell of coffee filled the room.
A sheepish expression darted across the sheriff’s face. “I may have overstated my promise of breakfast.”
“I’m good with coffee.”
Nicholas shook his head. “No, we missed dinner. How about we head over to Duvall’s?”
“Aren’t you on duty today?”
“Not until eight o’clock.”
“Okay,” Ben said. “Duvall’s, then. Shouldn’t you get your ear checked out, though?”
“I just left a message. Gloria will give me a call and let me know when Cartwright is available,” Nicholas replied as he poured two cups of coffee and spooned an ungodly amount of sugar into one of the mugs.
Ben watched with fascination and could not help a smile when Nicholas offered him the sweetened coffee.
Nicholas raised an eyebrow at Ben’s attention. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ben said, but he thought Nicholas definitely got points for remembering how he liked his coffee.
Nicholas gave a bemused smile and sipped from his own mug, which was devoid of sugar and milk just as Ben had anticipated. “I’m just going to shower and get dressed,” he said after he checked the clock on the same wall that he had held Ben against several hours before. “Then we can go?”
“Sure.”
“Make yourself at home,” Nicholas said with a warm grin before he left the kitchen.
Ben sipped his bitter but perfectly sweetened coffee and was convinced he had stumbled into some glorious alternate reality.
Nicholas returned fifteen minutes later. He was freshly showered and wearing a cheerful smile with his well-pressed uniform when he walked back into the kitchen. His happiness was infectious.
“Can I say something?” Ben asked, and Nicholas’ smile faltered at Ben’s serious tone.
“Of course,” Nicholas said.
Ben maintained an intentionally grave demeanor while he peered up and down Nicholas’ tall frame. “You in a sheriff’s uniform is quite possibly the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. Ever. In my life.”
Nicholas laughed and seemed almost bashful as his hands came to a rest on his duty belt.
“See, that,” Ben said. “Right there.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. “And you complained about me arresting you,” he said and stepped closer to press his lips to Ben’s. Ben felt unburdened by his earlier caution and returned the kiss. He tangled his fingertips through Nicholas’ still-damp hair, though he was careful to avoid Nicholas’ injured ear. He could not stifle a sigh when Nicholas’ tongue breached his lips. The touch was tentative at first, then more insistent.
“Ben,” Nicholas murmured as his lips traced across Ben’s jaw.
A sudden burst of static rose from Nicholas’ radio and killed the moment.
“Sheriff, 10-33,” said the grainy voice of a dispatcher.
“Fuck,” Nicholas said. “Fuck all.”
Ben receded a few paces as Nicholas yanked the radio from his belt.
“It’s the station,” Nicholas said, and an apologetic grimace darkened his features.
Ben waved a hand as if to say he was not bothered. Truthfully, he was happy to regain his personal space. Kissing Nicholas felt like being swallowed by the sky.
The sheriff strode into the next room to answer the radio in private, but Ben heard the loud crackle of the frequency as the dispatcher recited a string of scanner codes that Ben could not decipher.
For a moment, Ben considered sticking his head into the freezer. He adjusted the front of his shirt and straightened his back when Nicholas reemerged.
“I have to go in now,” Nicholas said. “I’m sorry, Ben.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Let me make it up to you,” Nicholas offered. “Dinner tonight? Eight o’clock?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ben said. “That should be fine. I’ll call you if not.”
“Yeah, okay,” Nicholas said. He pulled a pen and a pad of yellow Post-it notes out of one of the kitchen drawers. He scrawled something onto the top sheet. “Here’s my number.”
“Do you want mine?” Ben asked, taking the note.
A slight smile crept across Nicholas’ face. “I got it already. From your paperwork.”
“I’m sure that’s an abuse of power,” Ben replied with a snort.
“You can make a citizen’s arrest tonight, I promise,” Nicholas said. “I’ll see you later. Stay as long as you want. Just lock the door on your way out.”
“You got it,” Ben said. “See you later.”
Nicholas darted out of the room. Ben heard the front door close, and he pocketed the Post-it. He turned to the sink and washed his and Nicholas’ cups before he headed to the front entry hall to put on his shoes and coat. It felt odd to be alone in someone else’s house, and he needed to shower and change anyway.
The sound of sirens greeted him when he left the house; they echoed from the south side of Main Street and seemed to be heading toward River Bend Road. Ben wondered what had happened to send the sheriff out so early.
He ensured the door was locked behind him before he walked up Dunmore and cut through the square to where he had parked the Camaro the day before.
The driveway was bereft of the Expedition when Ben reached Cardinal Lane. Andrew had probably already headed to work hours before and would have noticed Ben’s absence. Ben berated himself for having neglected to check in. The pleasant familiarity of the entry hall greeted him when he entered the empty house.
Before he showered, Ben stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and noted the slight smile that tugged at his lips.
And they say you can’t go home again.
Illustration, Chapter One. “Acherontia atropos.”
Illustration, Chapter Two. “Saturnia pavonia.”
Chapter Two
“Welcome to Small Town USA, where your neighbors are so trustworthy they won’t even steal your wireless,” Ben mumbled. He had showered, shaved, and dressed in a clean suit before he partook in a modest breakfast of toast covered in strawberry jam. He was on his second coffee of the morning as he sat with his laptop at the kitchen table. The Wi-Fi settings for his father’s connection were unlocked.
A quick scan of the Gazette’s website revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but there was a small story about the suicide of Jack Freemont.
Ben rifled through his messenger bag and pulled out one of Tucker’s journals before he flipped to the pages concerning the incident at Silver Bridge. Ben opened a new tab and searched for additional information on the bridge’s collapse, but he found nothing of relevance.
He took out the copy of Chapman’s photograph of the bridge, complete with the apparent Mothman perched atop a support tower, and stared at it for a long moment.
Ben propped the photograph against the laptop’s screen and returned to Google where he entered ‘death omen’ into the search box. Paranormal websites by the dozen came up in the results. Ben skimmed over the
first few entries, but he lingered over one in particular.
“Death omens exist throughout all cultures of the world.”
Ben thought that was perhaps overstating the facts, but he was captivated by a short list of popular omens. “A picture that inexplicably drops off the wall, a clock that ceases to tick, a bird that pecks at a window, the sounds of mournful howls and screams that seem to come from nowhere, and the appearance of animals with glowing eyes (sometimes reported as glowing red like blood, the worst possible omen of all).”
Jack Freemont had heard the creature’s screams and likened them to that of children’s. Ben knew from firsthand experience that these sounds came directly from the creature. He could also vouch for its glowing red eyes, as could Tucker’s depiction of the thing in his final journal entry.
Ben returned to the search results and followed a link to a page on Native American omens. He scanned through the list of animal-related portents, but he thought they all seemed pretty standard or sensible. A butterfly was representative of transformation and eternal life, while a bat was symbolic of the night and considered its guardian. The other animals were irrelevant as none of them matched the appearance of the Mothman closely enough.
The website featured a navigation bar that pointed to other pages of interest, and Ben raised an eyebrow at one of the links: cursed land. Half an hour—and a whole lotta crazy—later, Ben had read enough of the website to know that Native American ‘curses’ were a rather hairy area of research, and he was not sure they were relevant for his work, especially as the majority of the field seemed unnecessarily offensive to Native cultures and drawn straight out of scenes from Poltergeist.
Ben thought back to his history classes in high school; he had written a two-page paper on the Battle of Point Pleasant. He could remember that the battle lasted a day, was especially bloody, and prevented the British militia from forming an allegiance with the Native Americans; this was significant, but Ben could not remember why. He knew that the tribe of Native Americans involved had been the Shawnee, but he was sure that the Mingo tribe had something to do with Point Pleasant’s history as well.
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