The Farm

'Sure is peaceful without all those goats around,' Katy said

'Yeah. Almost makes me want to check out the barn, just to be sure none of them are lurking around. You know how in the cheesy horror movies, the end is never really the end.'

'We're staying out of the barn, little lady.' Katy swept Jett's bangs from her forehead and planted a kiss. 'Tell you what. You put on some music, and I'll make us a bite to eat.'

'No Smith family recipes?'

'Promise.'

As Katy prowled the fridge between the butter and the olives, the biting riff of a Replacements tune blasted from the shell of Jett's room: 'Merry-Go-Round.'

Maybe the crazy carnival ride still had a few turns on it after all.

Arvel Ward opened his cellar door. He'd spent a sleepless night downstairs, the bare bulb burning, the air ripe from the earthen floor's odor, jars of jelly and pickled okra lining the shelves. As morning's first light leaked through the narrow, high-set windows, the warmth of joy replaced the autumnal chill in his heart.

He'd survived

The Circuit Rider may have walked up the stairs and taken Betsy, just as the preacher had taken his brother Zeke all those years ago, but Arvel had made it. Arvel was safe until the next round of the circuit, and with any luck and by the grace of God he'd find a natural grave before then. There was comfort in the sleep of dirt and worms, but until then he would get along as best he could, living right and keeping his tools clean.

Arvel went into the living room. When he'd gone into hiding the night before, he'd forgotten his chewing tobacco, and the ache was on him strong. He opened the foil pouch with trembling fingers and stuffed a wad of shredded leaves inside his cheek. The nicotine bit sweet and hard

He almost swallowed the wad when he turned and saw the Circuit Rider sitting on the couch. Betsy had draped an oversize knitted doily over the back of it, and somehow the preacher seemed even more of an intrusion, sitting there among the tidy pillows.

'Not expecting company?' the Circuit Rider said, thumbing the wide brim of his black hat. The preacher smelled of spoiled meat and rotted cloth, and his fingernails were dark with dirt, as if he'd clawed his way up from the grave. Up close, Arvel could see the holes in the Circuit Rider's wool suit. There was no flesh behind them, only an emptiness that stretched as long as every nightmare road ever traveled.

Arvel spat out the tobacco, but his involuntary swallow sent a slug's length of bitter juice down his throat.

'It ain't my turn,' Arvel said. 'Take Betsy. She's upstairs, help less as a cut kitten, and she ain't going to put up much of a strug gle.'

'Neither will you.'

Arvel backed away, wondering if he could reach the fireplace poker and if the steel bar would do any good against a creature that seemed to be built of nothing. 'You can't take me,' Arvel said, nearly giggling in relief. 'The sun done come up.'

The Circuit Rider stood seven feet tall and gangly. 'I don't make the rules, Arvel,' he said

'But you've already claimed a soul for this trip around.'

'I've claimed nothing. Solom has.'

'It ain't my turn.' The tears were hot and wet on his cheeks, the living room blurred and Arvel took in the familiar surroundings of his house, a place that he knew he'd never see again. At least, not from this side of the border between dead and alive.

'Hush, now, or you'll wake Betsy. She needs her rest.' The Circuit Rider gave a tired benevolent smile and reached his long, waxy fingers toward Arvel.

Harmon Smith unhitched Old Saint from the lilac bush. Harmon considered letting the horse munch on the fading, frost-browned flower bed a little longer, but Betsy had suffered enough already. She'd need the busywork to distract her from the loss of her husband, whose body lay cooling on the kitchen floor, near where the goat had attacked Betsy. If the authorities were summoned they might rule it a heart attack, or they might say it was an accidental fall. Most likely, they'd say, 'That's Solom.'

Calling them 'authorities' was a silly, mortal concept anyway. Only one authority existed, andIts hand had set the wheel in motion. But such things didn't trouble the Circuit Rider. His duty was given, and he was a good servant. He hauled himself up into the fa miliar cup of Old Saint's saddle.

'Come on, Saint, we've got places to be,' he said, giving a gen tle lift to the reins. He didn't have to point toward a destination. The horse, fat on souls and shrubs, knew the route as intimately as Harmon did.

Narrow is the gate and hard the road that leads to life and light, truth and heaven, but all other roads are open and endless. And on these trails, the Circuit Rider travels alone.

Scott Nicholson is the author of The Home, The Manor, The Harvest, and The Red Church from Pinnacle Books. He is a jour nalist in the Southern Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina, where he is currently working on his next novel. Readers can contact him through his website at www.hauntedcomputer.com.

Scott Nicholson is a journalist in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. He studied creative writing at the University of North Carolina and Appalachian State University. He is author of The Harvest, The Manor, The Home, and the Stoker Award finalist The Red Church, all published by Pinnacle Books. Readers can visit. Scott Nicholson's website at www.hauntedcomputer.com.