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.
Rich sobbed. He knew that voice.
“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.
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.”
