some invisible source, and he suddenly recognized the shiny objects at the far end of the tunnel.
Except that now the end of the tunnel was at hand, and the objects were almost within his reach.
Scalpels.
The blade of a saw.
A hacksaw.
They were on the ground in front of him, gleaming and glowing on the tunnel’s floor, tiny blue flames dancing along their glimmering surfaces.
The blades were whispering now, speaking to him, inviting him to touch them, to pick them up.
To become the vessel of their evil.
He tried to draw away, but his feet seemed sealed to the ground.
Panic gripped him like a powerful serpent, its coils threatening to crush not only his body, but his spirit as well. He lashed out, flailing his arms against the tunnel wall.
And all he touched was plastic.
The tunnel was nothing more than a long, black plastic trash bag.
He ripped his way through it, his fingers tearing the tunnel to shreds, and abruptly it all fell away, as if it had never been there at all.
He was on a path.
A path in the woods.
But the menace — the terror — was still with him, closer now than it had been before.
The sounds of the night were all around him, but amidst the keening of the crickets and the calling of owls in the starlight he could also hear the whispers and taunts of formless beings.
Beings that had pursued him out of the tunnel…
But here, at least, he could breathe.
Here, he knew the path.
Here, he knew where he was.
Suddenly, the unseen menace was closing in on him, surrounding him.
He tried to shout, tried to scream defiance into the night, but his mouth felt stuffed with cotton and no sound emerged.
Now he tried to run, but his feet were mired in something even thicker than before, and each step threatened to imprison his foot.
Mud?
He looked down.
Blood!
It wasn’t a path at all, but a roiling river of thick, sticky, coagulated blood.
Blood, with something floating on its surface.
He reached down, scooped it up.
Intestines.
The intestines of some kind of animal.
Then the face of a cat was hanging in the darkness, its dead eyes fixing on him, accusing him….
The cold of the cat’s own death dropped over him, and its intestines fell from his fingers back into the stream of blood whose babbling was the voices of the victims from whom the river’s scarlet waters had been drained.
The menace was closing on him now; the faceless terrors hiding behind every tree, the river of blood growing deeper with every step.
He dare not stumble lest he plunge into the river of gore from which there would be no escape at all.
Something struck him from behind.
Something heavy.
A rock?
He turned, and suddenly felt a glimmer of hope. Only a step or two away was solid ground. If he could reach the bank — if he could climb out of the river of blood — he could run.
Run for his life.
Run to save his soul.
Another rock hit him, this time in the leg.
He managed to slog a step toward the shore, then another.
The menace drew closer. He could smell it now, even more putrid than the river itself.
One foot was on solid ground. He put his knee down and his hands on the cool, piney earth to pull his other foot free of the muck.
His hand fell on something hard. Something long.
A table leg.
A table leg that transformed itself even as he touched it into a stick.
A heavy stick with a great burly knot at its end.
A surge of power flowed into him as his fingers closed on the stick, and as he rose to his feet he knew he was finally ready to face the menace surrounding him.
Face it, and destroy it.
He could see the menace now, see it as clearly as if the darkness had suddenly lifted, driven away by the morning sun.
But there was no sun.
The night was still around him, yet at last he could see the menace that had been hidden a moment ago.
A menace that was no longer drawing closer, creeping up on him in the darkness.
No, the menace was running.
Running away.
Running from him.
He went after it, his weapon held high.
And as he ran, a strange thought flitted through his mind.
What if it wasn’t a dream?
What if was real?
What if it was all real?
ELLIS LANGSTROM WAS barely aware of the thigh-high brush as he slogged through the woods. He was still pissed at Adam Mosler, and the whiskey he’d drunk was making him a little dizzy, but it didn’t matter — he’d been wandering around in the woods for as long as he could remember, and the path that would take him to his house on the far edge of town was only a little farther ahead, and there was plenty of moonlight.
Which was a good thing, since he didn’t have a flashlight.
A branch lashed across his face, and Ellis swore under his breath as he pushed it aside, then swore out loud as he tripped over a root.
Where was the damn path?
It had to be here somewhere!
Except now that he thought about it — and now that the pain of the branch slashing his face had cut through some of the fog in his mind — it seemed he should already have found it.
He stopped and peered around, searching the darkness.
Nothing looked familiar.
