Rich took a hesitant step into the circle. As he did, Tyler seemed to grow clearer.
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 He’d been replaced by something else.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.
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
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
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
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
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
