Sepulchral Trails #2.2

Ghostlights(II)

Note: So, check it. After some advice from a friend, no longer a warning about quality on my stories— although I’m sorely tempted to do so. Just this: the title started out in singular, has now turned to multiples (Trails). Very strange, almost as if my subconscious already knew something I certainly didn’t writing this. You’ll see.

Anyway: tough write, very tough. Give me a pass on mistakes and I hope you enjoy it!

III.

He had no idea how he got home. 

Sitting at the kitchen counter in the murk, he watched as the sky above the trees began to lighten. It was the only clear indication of time. His watch had died at some point, and the clock on the oven hadn’t shown the right time since a power outage last winter. Eric, his son-in-law, kept promising to get it done but— you know.

The house was empty. Marge had gone over to Massilon for the weekend, would be back later. Or should she have been back already?Maybe—

That was really as far as he got. He was tired and the bucket of his mind was filled to the brim, every new thought spilling over without any serious consideration. Sleep, that was what he needed. The day had been… eventful. Couldn’t settle on anything in particular because all that was

—green—

too hard to remember but, yeah, it’d been a day.

The phone rang as he walked into the living room. It was Marge, wanting to know if everything was okay.

“I’ve been worried sick. I tried the store and your cellphone, and there was no connection. I called home eight times last night. Where were you?”

Francis pinched his nose, wading through the swirling murk of his mind.

“I was— I got in late, must’ve fallen asleep watching TV.” 

There was a pause. “You fell asleep?”

“Yes. It’s been a day. Yesterday, I mean.”

Another pause. “Is everything alright, Francy?” She only called him that if she was worried.

“I’m fine,” he said, wanting very much to put an end to the conversation; it was too taxing.

“Alright,” she said at length. “I called to say I’m gonna be here for another day, at least. Eric got called in, some emergency at the hospital. Can you believe that? Boy just worked a double shift. And of course Jen has the late shift this week, so—“

She went on talking but Francis couldn’t retain it, was too tired to focus. He just wanted to go to bed, put some sleep between him and whatever it was he’d been doing all night. His muscles were sore when he moved and that headache—

He became aware that she’d stopped talking. Trying to muster his attention, he said:

“What was that?”

“I said, what happened to the phones?”

Francis frowned, trying to remember. But his thoughts were all squirming over one another like

—tentacles—

snakes. He was beginning to get a headache.

“Power went out.”

“On your cellphone?”

“The battery died— Look, Margie, I need to—“

“I’m worried, Frank.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“No, about…“ she lowered her voice, “…about what they’re saying on the news. And now Eric being called in— I’m just— I’m scared, Frank.” She whispered this last, the sound sending rough fingers across his nerve endings.

“Don’t be,” he said. 

“How can you say that? Haven’t you seen what’s happening?”

“It’ll all work out,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“I don’t know, Frank. I’m afraid. And I’m worried about Finn, too. He just… keeps staring at his Ipad all day long. With everything that’s going on— Should I take it away from him?”

Questions, questions. They poked at the formless mass of his thoughts, brought it to vengeful life. He squeezed his eyes shut, strained to keep his voice level as he said:

“Let the boy have his distractions, Marge. now.” He had no idea if that was true or not, but it felt right.

“But—“

“Marge, I need to get going. There’s work to do.”

“I— Frank, do you think that’s a good idea, going out there all by yourself?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Before she had a chance to reply, he said: “Don’t worry about it. Everything is going to work out. You’ll see.”

It felt right to say. Everything was going to work out, he knew that much. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to his family. Not ever.

Marge sighed. “Okay, Frank. Just— call me as soon as the power’s back up out there. I need to know you’re okay.”

He promised he would. Then he hung up and went upstairs to catch a few hours’ sleep. He hadn’t been lying: there was work to be done. It’s just that he couldn’t recall what at this particular moment. He wasn’t worried; all good things came to those who waited. Clutching the black leather tome beneath his arm, he plodded up the stairs.

IV.

Brent Hollis was a student of history. His study was filled to bursting with books and magazines, and all manner of papers and maps, painstakingly gathered over the years. A few of his own essays on various topics had even been published. In another life, he might’ve become a history teacher or a writer. He often mused about that alternative life. Not with bitterness but with a mild curiosity, wondering what else he might’ve done different if he’d had that opportunity. 

A lot, he supposed. Trying to chase these hypotheticals was a futile exercise; life being nothing but a series of stones tossed, one after the other, ripples that interfered and collided until it all became chaos.

Unlike history. Looking at the world through its lens, there was always a logic behind the major events that had rocked the world, a causality that explained outcomes. And it didn’t only work for the past. Step back far enough from the random brushstrokes that made current events, and familiar patterns would emerge because there was no such thing as unprecedented on a global scale; no such thing as unique. Everything was cyclical, after a fashion. War, revolution, extinction. All had come and gone like storms across the plains, leaving behind signs for what would come, given time. It’s how he’d predicted Trump’s victory and the mess in the Ukraine. Like Santayana famously said: Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

And so they kept repeating and repeating.

Aside from the occasional essay or reading at the local historical society, most of his knowledge was put to work at Lou’s on Sunday’s. You didn’t really need to go back a couple hundred years to figure out why someone got behind the wheel drunk off his ass or decided to tune up his girlfriend, or turned out to have a pound of meth tucked in the hollowed out spare tire when you pulled them over. A sheriff didn’t need to know. Hell, didn’t want to know, most of the time. You slept easier that way.

But now Hollis found his two selves merging. Looking at the news this past week, most only saw spreading chaos. For a while, so did he. Yet, as the days went on, he began to see the contours in the static, unbelievable as it was. And the news from the last few days… well, they only confirmed his suspicions.

So he left the station early, left strict instructions not to bother him unless there was an immediate threat of death involved. Then he began to make his rounds, hoping to catch most before they left for work. The first few conversations dragged and halted but as the day went on, his speech grew more confident and convincing. Until there was only the one left. 

Crushed stone scrunched underneath his tires as he turned onto the dooryard. Hollis parked the cruiser at the edge of the lot and shut off the engine. Listening to the sounds of the cooling engine, he stared at the empty space besides the barn, then up in the rearview at the abandoned car slumped off the highway at a drunken angle, thumb giving a distracted double tap on the steering wheel. 

His gaze drifted to the big wooden barn, painted a red that had dulled to rust. Above the long windows that flanked the entrance, the sign read “ADDY’S GUNS AND ANTIQUES”.

Hollis breathed out through his nose. He’d left Frank for last because he was a tough sell, even under the best of circumstances. This— he wasn’t looking forward to it, if he was being honest. But he had no choice. And there was another matter, as well… a peculiar report that had come in early this morning that needed to be cleared up. 

Throwing the door wide, he stepped out. Wiped his brow before he clapped the hat on his crown. Dark stains spread from his armpits, ran in a slit along his spine. He looked up at sky, the sun gleaming like a newly minted coin.

It was even hotter than yesterday, eighty at least. A moist, oppressive heat that clung to your skin, sapping your strength. Weather reports had been way off for days, but he thought there might be some rain coming. This kind of thing usually ended in thunderclouds before long.

Hollis hitched up his bell, moved to inspect the car. An old VW Golf with Jersey plates, red beneath its thick coat a dust and grime. Key was still in the ignition. Bending into the boiling exterior for the glovebox, it took him a few minutes to find the registration amidst the clutter, made out to a… Ashley Mills, also from New Jersey. 

Hollis jotted down the particulars, then tried the engine. Nothing. Checking the hand brake, he found it was off. Of course. With some effort, he pushed the car onto the lot, pulled the handbrake and slammed the door shut. 

Then he made for the store.

The bell above the door gave a pleasant chime as he pushed in. Another when he closed it. 

He noticed the chandeliers were shut off, the room filled with jumbled shadows. Bobby usually kept the radio on. Now there was only silence. 

Poor kid.

“Hello!” he called out, beginning to pick his way along the narrow aisle. “Frank, you around?”

There was a noise to the left.

“Frank?” He craned his head, but couldn’t make out the counter. “It’s me, Hollis.”

No answer.

Rounding another crooked stack of furniture, his heart gave a start as he saw a figure stepping into the aisle in front of him…

…then relaxed, realising it was his own reflection in one of the goddam mirrors. Rolling his shoulders, he walked towards it.

Hollis was already convinced Frank was in back but when he stepped into the aisle, he saw him standing behind the counter, his face a pale oval in the gloom. Frowning, he chuckled.

“Hey, Frank! You need a hearing aid, or something?” He strode past the mirrors, his own reflection bobbing and flitting with him in the frames.

There was a pause before he said: “I was in back. Working.” His voice was soft, little more than a whisper.

“Figured as much,” Hollis said. “So, how you been keeping?”

“Can’t complain.” Another pause. “What brings you out here?”

The words struck a dissonant note compared to their usual exchanges, making his smile falter. Nerves, probably, being out here on his own, now that Bobby— you know. The reason why he’d taken up position behind the counter, where he could reach for the… security he thought Hollis didn’t know about. Understandable, given the circumstances.

“Couple things, actually,” he said, reaching the counter. This close, his smile faltered again, now that his saw the burned-out, exhausted look in the man’s eyes. “You doing okay, Frank?”

“Fine. You?”

Another frown creased his brow. “Well,” Hollis said slowly, “it’s been a couple days, I’ll tell you that much.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you’re alright, Frank? You don’t look so hot.”

“Rough night,” he said, offering a weak smile. “Why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

“Okay…” Hollis said, uncertain. “Well, I was wondering: what’s with the car out front?”

“Car?”

“Yeah, the VW out there.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “It was half in the road, door open and everything.”

“Oh,” Frank said. “Yeah. It was already there when I came in.

“And you just left it there?”

Frank shrugged. “It isn’t mine, is it?”

Hollis frowned. “I suppose. You could’ve pushed it out the way.”

“At my age?”

Hollis couldn’t help but smile. “Fine. But look, part of the reason I’m here. Did something happen here yesterday. Something maybe having to do with that junker out there?”

“Yesterday?” Frank said, looking at him with that dead-eyed stare again. The corners of his mouth drooped. “Nope. Can’t say it did.”

“You sure now?”

“Yep. Sure I’m sure.”

“Huh.” Hollis crossed his arms. “Well, that’s weird. Because I had a call come in from Canton PD, saying an abandoned Chevy pickup was found on the side of the highway just outside of town. Apparently, somebody took a shot at the driver. And they didn’t miss, because the inside was covered in blood.” 

He watched Frank closely during this last but he didn’t even flinch, just kept staring at him.

“Funny thing is, they ran the plates and the registry came back as one Frank W. Addy, of Belfort Falls, Ohio. And you know, I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that if I take that Sigarms you got tucked away behind that counter, I’ll find that it’s been recently fired. What do you think?”

His silence said it all.

“Goddammit, Frank.” Hollis shook his head. “Goddammit. Please tell me you had a good reason.”

“He wanted my keys. Made me give ‘em to him.“

“He had a gun?”

Frank face screwed up in thought. “No… least, I don’t think so.”

“Jesus Christ. Well, why didn’t you call?”

“He… took the phone. Broke the other. Marge has the car and there was work to do.”

“Is that all he took? The car and the phone?”

“Yeah.”

Hollis nodded at the small arsenal behind the counter. “Weird he didn’t take any of those, isn’t it?”

Frank shrugged. “Maybe he was in a hurry.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He shook his head. “Anyhow, there’s a good chance Canton PD is gonna wanna talk to you. Hospital had a guy come in with a gunshot wound last night. Might be the guy that took your truck.”

“Okay.” His eyes slid to the side. Following his gaze, Hollis saw only the mirrors.

He studied Frank’s face. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Just tired, is all,” he said in a sigh.

Hollis watched him for another second or two, doubtful. “Just— know Canton’s gonna have questions. I won’t be able to help you out, Frank. Not with this one.”

Now he stirred. “I’ve got a right to defend myself, don’t I?”

“That’s not the point, Frank. You shot the guy, then you kept your mouth shut about it. What were you thinking? You better come up with some good explanations before the call comes in. And I’ll still need you to come down, make a statement.”

“Sure, if you want.” His eyes drifted back to the wall.

Hollis took another breath. His passive, disinterested tone was beginning to irritate.  He decided to push on, now that the message was relayed. 

“So, listen. There’s another reason I came up here. I’m not supposed to tell you this but there’s been some concerning reports coming in. Stuff the news hasn’t even picked up on yet. I don’t know what to make of it yet, but it could be trouble.”

Now he got Frank’s attention.

“I can’t talk about it… yet, but I think it’s not the worst idea to put some heads together, come up with a plan in case things go sideways.”

“Sideways?”

“Yeah. Not— I don’t mean like in Europe. What they’ve got going on over there is just… you know, unbelievable. But you know how these things go. People tend to panic. Some like to take advantage of uncertain situations. I think it’s already happening. There’s been some reports that are… disturbing, to say the least.”

“So, I’m proposing to hold a little meeting Wednesday evening, and I’d like you to come. Because—”

A sly smile had been spreading across Frank’s face as he talked. “Because you need guns.”

“Well… yeah. But—“

“Do you know about ghostlights, Hollis?” he said, walking to the side of the counter.

“Ghost lights?”

“My grandmother used to tell us stories about them,” he said, hand sliding across the wood as he rounded the counter. “She grew up in the old country, where she said these little lights could sometimes be seen at night. They had a lot of names but she called them “ghostlights”; tiny blue flames that tried to lure lonely travellers of the beaten path, to their doom.”

When Hollis took a step back to make room for him, Frank paused in front of the counter, one hand resting on its surface. His eyes went to the wall of mirrors again.

“It was said that they were all bad… but my grandmother said that wasn’t true. It all depended on the purpose of your journey.”

With this last, he returned his gaze to Hollis.

“So… you’re saying I’m making a mistake?”

“I don’t know, Hollis. I don’t know what your purpose is.”

Hollis let out a breath of laughter. “To protect the ones we care about.”

“Well, then… I guess we’re good.” He said, turning back to the mirrors.

“So you’ll be there?”

“Hm.”

“Okay, good. Then I guess I’ll see you. Wednesday evening, eight ‘o clock at the community center.”

He lingered for another beat or two but Frank didn’t look away from the wall. With a dismissive head shake, he started off, eager to get on with his day.

Outside, the heat pressed down like a weight. Still no sign of storm clouds. Walking over to the cruiser boots the crushed stone gritted underfoot, the only sound to stir the quiet. The highway was deserted, no signs of traffic whatsoever. It was a miracle, really, that it had taken this long for someone to try and stick up Frank’s. Well, the guy paid for it. He really hoped it wouldn’t end up costing Frank.

Opening the door, he leaned back from the hot breath wafting from the car. Then he took off the hat and ducked into the stifling heat. 

Settled in, his eyes found the VW. Frank had been off. All the way off. Tired, okay. But that didn’t explain everything. A touch of shock in the wake of the holdup, maybe? 

He decided to pay Marge a visit first chance, feel her out. But first—

Now that the most pressing work was done, it was time to get back to it. Opening the glove box, he took out the cellphone. Surprise turned to concern as he scrolled through the seemingly endless notifications on his lock screen. 

Hollis snapped on the radio; it sprang to life, voices switching and yelling in between crackles and beeps.

Listening, his heart dropped.

Mind racing, he didn’t spare another look for the windows as he turned off the lot and hit the lights. If he had looked, he might’ve seen the poisonous green glow that began to beat deep in the barn’s depths— weak at first, but growing stronger with every pulse.

V.

Late Monday afternoon, around the time a special news report rolled to a close, the phone in Frank and Marge’s living room started ringing. It would do so a total of twenty-three times over the course of the evening. Each time it cut off, it took a few minutes before the digital readout on the answering machine raised its count by one. 

It would be up to 17 by the time the day rolled to a close, but no one was around to keep track.

VI.

For the first time in days, traffic along the 534 picked up. All day Tuesday, cars raced up and down the stretch of highway, baking and shimmering underneath the burning sun. Most of these were emergency vehicles, barrelling by with screaming sirens, but even those that weren’t didn’t look twice at the big barn by the side of the road. Tuesday’s crowd was not in a buying mood.

All for the best, perhaps, because the store looked dark and abandoned. Had someone taken the time to inspect further, they would’ve discovered a CLOSED sign on the door. Regular customers would’ve been puzzled. The sign hadn’t been up during business hours once since 9/11. 

VII.

Hollis didn’t have time to think. As the nightmare of the day dragged on, the phone calls and messages coming in from all over the state flooding the office didn’t ease off; only grew more confusing— and alarming, to say the least. If he had had a moment, Frank would’ve been at the bottom of his list of concerns.

All that might’ve been different had Marge’s calls come through. But she kept getting bumped by the busy signal. The one time she did get through Lena, manning the desk, told her they didn’t have time to go checking on people. Then she hung up. Honestly, did some folks not watch the news?

VIII.

As the sun began to set, it dipped the barn in its dying light, restoring some of its former lustre. The big windows turned to twin glowing embers, staring out across the fields. Minutes passed before a lone black SUV rushed by, heading south towards the interstate. A blue-red flicker behind the windshield. FBI, maybe. Or ETF.

Hidden in the gloom of his store, Francis sat on one of the many chairs in front of the mirrors. The flames of the setting sun licked at the walls and floor but they didn’t touch the glass. Not anymore. Now they had other things to show him.

Francis stared up at them, fingers caressing the pages of the book that lay opened in his lap. Waiting. Waiting to be shown.

Time floated by unnoticed. The day’s fire guttered, withdrew further and further, yielding before the coming dark.

The bell jingled as the door opened.

IX. 

Marge sighed as she saw traffic ground to a halt in the distance. She’d taken the exit at Louisville, hoping they might move more quickly along the backroads. But the police had put up checkpoints here as well, turning a two hour drive into a day’s worth of heat and exhaust, and honks, staring at the taillights of the car in front of her.

As if things weren’t bad enough, already.

Silence filled the car like an almost physical pressure, made up out of fear and uncertainty. Each exhalation pulled it from the depths of them, poisoned the air further. 

Coming to a stop, Marge looked to her daughter, slumped in the passenger seat, staring out the window. She hadn’t said a word since they’d left four hours ago. She wanted to reach out, say something— anything— that might cut the tension pulling at her hollow places. But the words crumbled apart before she could form them.

Truth is, she was afraid to speak. Afraid of how she might react. Lying back against her seat, facing away, Jen felt like a coiled snake waiting to strike. The last thing she wanted was another moment like the one back home. Jen had scared her. And Finn—

Glancing up in the mirror, she saw the boy was bent over his iPad. Marge supposed she should be glad he had it at a time like this. But she wasn’t. All weekend he’d been glued to its screen, watching clip after clip about what was happening in Europe. Monday after school, she’d told him enough was enough. If she caught him looking at another one of those dreadful videos, she would take it away. An hour later, she’d come in from the kitchen and peered over his shoulder and it appeared he’d listened. The video was just a man against a dark background, talking directly into the camera. But as she lingered, she’d found it to be no less disturbing. With his dark, slicked back hair and his livid pallor, the man had looked like an extra in a bad horror movie. Lips moving his black eyes had stared into the camera without wavering— she hadn’t been able to understand what the man was saying, because Finn always wore his headphones but it hadn’t feel like something he ought to be watching. Would’ve put a stop to it, had Jen not called, telling her to turn on the news.

What was he watching now? she wondered.

The car behind her honked. Traffic had moved. Putting the car in gear, she crept up the road. She could see the flashing lights of the checkpoints in the distance now. Please God, let this be the last one. I want to be home.

Her hands gripped the wheel tight. She’d been worried sick about Francis for days. With what happened at the hospital, her fear had turned to outright terror. The unanswered phone calls, the last conversation where he’d sounded so strange… and now she couldn’t even reach the sheriff’s station. Was it possible that something had happened in Belfort Falls as well? Another terrorist attack?

If it was a terrorist attack. The news reports were stingy with the details, officials preferring to wait until all the information was in. All they knew for sure is that something had happened Monday morning, and that now half the Aultman Hospital was a wreck, concrete crumbling and blackened with soot from a fire that had raged until the small hours of Tuesday morning.

As to what happened to Eric, nobody knew. Jen had called everybody she knew, pacing through the living room, growing more desperate with each passing minute, while on the screen, smoke roiled and bodies were hauled from the rubble. Those who’d made it out said Eric had been working in the ER on the ground floor when the fire started on the upper floors. So maybe—

Traffic moved again. Marge crept along. She could see the police now, checking the cars coming in the opposite direction. Looking at them, standing in the boiling heat, she couldn’t help but feel sorry—despite the frustrations of the day. She couldn’t imagine having to spend hours outside in this weather… which had turned upside-down along with everything else, it seemed. Rain had been forecast for four days straight, yet all they had was this humid heat that made you feel sluggish, turned simple chores into exhausting work.

Another gap opened up. Marge closed it, then glanced at the clock. Almost half past eight and they still had miles to go. At this pace, it’d be a miracle if they made to Belfort Falls before dark. Another wave of anxiety had her clutching the wheel tight enough to turn the knuckles white. 

I knew we should’ve left sooner.

Yes, but Jen hadn’t wanted to leave. She’d wanted to stay put in case there was news. But that could be days. The phones of the neighbouring hospitals and police stations were ringing off the hook with people calling to inquire about family members and friends. It took hours just to get through to someone, and even if you did, there were no answers. Only questions and fear. 

And even if she did get answers, there was no telling how Jen would take it. 

They’d been stuck indoors all they Tuesday, while the authorities sussed out the situation. Over the course of the day Jen had gotten more and more amped up, and when Marge had tried to console her, she’d exploded, screaming at her that he wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead, it was all just a crazy, horrible joke. 

Watching her daughter face, contorted in senseless rage, she’d been afraid. Not of her anger; that was just a thin skin stretched over the sickening fear that lay beneath. It burned in her eyes, like the fitful light in a carved Halloween pumpkin. It scared her, that light. It made her worried for her daughter. And Finn. 

She didn’t want to leave them. But she hadn’t been able to stay either. She didn’t want to risk getting stuck in place, now that the phones were down. And the police were still looking for a black Escalade, which had been seen at the site moments before the fire broke out, which gave a her the feeling that whatever had taken place at Aultman, could have been just the start. If anything else happened, the authorities would lock down the area for days, and nobody would be going anywhere.

She told Jen that. Pleaded with her to come back home with her, if only for a couple days, until the dust settled. Jen had resisted the notion for hours, wasting precious time, and testing Marge’s self-control to the point that she almost let slip what she knew to be true: that Eric was dead, and no amount of waiting around would change that fact.

In the end, she had relented, leaving most of the packing to Marge. Finn hadn’t even blinked at the sudden departure. All he was interested in was the screen of his iPad. That worried her, too. 

Everything worried her. 

This overpowering sense that things were sliding, upsetting some precarious balance—

The checkpoint was coming up. When the car ahead of her moved through, an officer waved her over.

Forty minutes later they passed the worst of it. Picking up speed, they travelled east along the 153 towards Yeagley Corners. From there, they’d turn north, for home.

X.

Around the time Marge’s KIA passed Westville, a handful of strange vehicles pulled out of the dooryard of Addy’s Guns & Antiques. They turned onto the highway with care, gleaming in the sunlight, before moving south towards Belfort Falls.

XI.

Hollis drank the last of his coffee, then locked his office. 

Lena was sitting at her desk, phone wedged between head and shoulder, while her fingers combed through the litter of post-it notes, accumulated over the past two days. 

Hollis felt bad, leaving her with the work. But tonight was important. If the events in Canton had told him anything, it’s that he had been right all along. The initial reports, winkled out of an old buddy at the BCI, were unsettling. He wasn’t even sure if he believed any of it, but it did make clear that they needed to get some kind of plan in place, just in case. With his two part-timer’s helping out at the checkpoints, they were spread thin— too thin.

He gestured. Lena told the caller to hang on, lowered the phone with one hand clamped over the mouthpiece.

“Okay, Lena, I’m hitting it for a few hours. Why don’t you leave that stuff for tomorrow? You don’t get paid enough to burn the midnight oil.”

“I don’t mind,” she said. “Nobody waiting for me anyways, since Dean’s on the road again.” 

“Okay… but still, you shouldn’t be doing this all by yourself.”

“I’ll quit when I get tired of ‘em, promise.”

Hollis gave up. “Fine. Just… keep track of the time you put in.”

“Sure—“ she hesitated. “Hollis? Do you think this is such a good idea?”

He took a moment. 

“Something is up, Lena. I can feel it. Hell, I can see it. We’re gonna need some people to help keep an eye on things.”

“Yeah, but… the guns—“

“Hey, I’m not gonna start doling ‘em out today. I’m not crazy.” His expression darkened. “But, who knows? It might come to that.”

“It can’t get that bad, can it?”

“We won’t let it,” he said. “Simple as that.” Then he knocked on the desk and began to move for the door. Turning back, he pointed at her. “Remember, keep track of those hours.”

Leaving the station, he started across the square, towards the community center. He pushed through its double doors without a sideways glance, attention already fixed on the coming meeting.

XII.

They’d passed the store first, so Marge had pulled into the dooryard to check if Francis was still there. Sometimes he stayed late to fix up furniture he’d bought. And now with Bobby gone, he had twice as much work on his hands. She’d spared a brief look for the unfamiliar car at the edge of the lot, then went for the door. The CLOSED sign was up and everything was locked up tight.

Must’ve been a busy weekend, she thought, turning back onto the highway towards Belfort Falls. There’d been tire tracks all over the lot, crushed stone swept onto the asphalt in fading curves. Peering in through the window, she’d noticed a lot of the bigger pieces were gone, giving a bare impression to a space that was usually filled to bursting. No wonder he’d been unable to reach all this time. The store hadn’t seen that kind of business in years. It was amazing, really. 

Although she was kind of sad to see the mirrors gone. 

Turning off the 534 towards Belfort Falls, she’d gone maybe a hundred yards when she slowed, seeing a cruiser from the Sheriff’s department parked across the road. 

What now?

As she neared, the door opened and the driver stepped out. Her fingers hovered above the window controls. Then they curled back. Because while the car and the uniform were alright, the man in possession of them wasn’t. Looking at him approaching through the windshield, Marge saw the face of a complete stranger.

She reached for the gearshift, just as the side window exploded inward. 

XIII.

Hollis tried to keep his patience. It wasn’t easy. 

“No, Rich. I’m not talking about a militia. Nobody ever said anything about a militia. I’m an officer of the law, for chrissakes. What do you take me for?”

“You’re talking about putting people out there, armed and dangerous. What else are you gonna call it.”

Voices went up again, all trying to leap over one another. Hollis passed a hand over his face, glad he only invited the influential townspeople. This would’ve been impossible otherwise. 

“Listen,” he said. “Listen. You’ve all seen the news. You’ve all seen what’s happening across the water.” He raised his voice to quell the rising protest. “And you know a little about what’s happening back east. But I can assure you all: you don’t know the half of it. Now I’m not saying that something like that France business is gonna happen here, but the same reports that are coming in from over there, having been coming in here as well. Weird people popping up all over the place. Crazy cultists type and I’m not sure we’re gonna be able to count on—“

He trailed off, watching people’s attention drawn to something behind him. Turning, Hollis found Frank standing in the doorway.

“Hey, Frank!” he said, rising up from his seat.

Frank smiled.

Still doesn’t look right, Hollis thought, watching the dull, unfocused expression on the man’s face. 

Another thought began to form, having to do with the men standing in the hall behind Frank. Before it had a chance to coalesce, he found himself staring into the dark, bottomless eyes of a sawed-off. 

“Situation’s changed.”

“Frank—“ he breathed out.

It’s as far as he got before Frank pulled the double triggers, and he knew no more.

XIV.

After it was done, Frank tossed the smoking Browning on what was left of Hollis, lying in a smear across the conference room table. Then he left the room, gunshots and screams following him down the stairs from above.

Outside, he watched the sun, hovering just above the rooftops. Almost time. He wasn’t worried, though. The men were efficient. Hammering and sawing, they barked instructions to each other in that foreign, guttural language, while others plucked them from their houses and drove them towards the square in long lines. Confused and frightened, they shuffled along. Some wore underwear. Some had been wearing nothing at all when they came for them. Crying, they tried to cover what they could, marching onto the square to join the throng. 

There was some resistance, but not a lot. After a few of the braver ones were shot in the head for their troubles, the rest fell in line. And they had the children, for leverage.

Francis watched from the sidewalk as they raised the first section in place. Then a second. 

He smiled.

XV.

“Oh, dear God,” Marge whispered as the square came into view and she saw the congregation gathered there. Wails and shouts went up from the crowd, held at gunpoint by a ring of strange dressed in the same dark clothing as the ones that walked behind them. 

Some of the other men were building something, a steel wall of some kind. Already she could see sections of it standing upright behind the crowd. 

Like a corral. 

“What— what is this?” Jen said, beside her. She’d been coming out of her stupor when the men pulled them from the car. But, once again, Marge had no words to offer her.

“Dar,” the men behind her said, giving her a painful poke her with the barrel of his rifle, indicating he wanted her to join the others in the square. Unable to do anything but obey, Marge started towards it, when a voice spoke up.

“No. Not them.”

Turning in the direction of the voice, her heart gave a painful squeeze. 

“Dad?” Jen said.

Yes. It was Francis. But he looked pale and there were dark hollows underneath his eyes. All this was accentuated by the peculiar garb he had on. A black mantle of some kind.

Are they doing a play of some kind?

“Francis,” she said when he crossed the street. “What’s happening?”

He reached out, caressed her cheek with cool livid fingers. She found herself shying away from his touch.

“It’s time,” he said. “Time for us to serve our true leaders.”

“True lea—“ she shook her head. “What are you talking about, Francy? What is happening?”

He smiled at her, sorrowful. “How blind you are. Just I used to be. Just like they are.” He tossed his head at the gathered crowd. 

“Dad, why are you acting so crazy?” Jen said, clutching his arm. “Who are these people? Why do they all have guns?”

“Some changes come about through force,” he said, turning his smile on her. “The question is: will you welcome them, or will you join the others, to pay tribute to the wanderer? Her time draws near and we need to start soon.”

“Wanderer?” Marge said, frightened of the feverish look in her husband’s eyes as he spoke these words. She wanted to say more but just then Finn spoke up. 

“Is it time, Grampa? Is it time for—“ he uttered a harsh-sounding word.

“Almost,” he said, raising a hand to the square. “They will help bring it about.” Marge watched as the boy looked up at his grandfather with something close to rapture. 

“Finn, honey,” Marge said through numb lips. “What are you talking about?”

The boy looked up at her, smiling. “Don’t be scared, gramma. It’s for the best, you’ll see.”

“What is going on?” Jen said. “What is he talking about?”

“Only the true servants may thrive,” the boy said.

“Yes, that’s right,” Francis said.

“What are you talking about?” Jen screamed. “What are you going to do to those people?”

“Show them their purpose,” he said, nodding.

At his command, the men rushed in and pulled them away towards the square. Jen kicked and screamed.

On the sidewalk, Finn watched as he mother was dragged back, his face calm and serene, a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

Pushed back against the writing mass of flesh, Marge kept yelling for her husband to come back, but he couldn’t hear her over the voices of the crowd. Every time she tried to move, one of the men shoved her back and she watched, helpless, as Francis glided down the sidewalk, one hand resting on his grandson’s back.

Jen was losing it, trying to break free. The third time the man pushed her back, he raised the rifle. Marge opened her mouth, but it was too late. Flame licked from the barrel, the shot loud enough to make her ears ring.

Turning her head, she saw Jen leaning back against the wall of people, like a boxer hanging in the ropes, about to go down. Her head was tipped to the side. Where her left eye used to be was now an empty red hole. Marge shrieked, was still shrieking as the crowd moved and her dead daughter was flung against her. 

Some time later, she became aware of the changing light. She looked up, just in time to see another section of the enclosure rising up in front of her. Frowning, she stared at the landscape of staring faces. At the wild-eyed woman sitting in front of her, cradling a lifeless body.

It took her a while to realise that the wall was comprised of pieces of reflective glass, pieced together in an almost seamless giant mirror, and that the crazy woman she was looking at, was her.

XVI.

From the rooftop of the community center, Francis watched as the last sections were moved into place, fastened to the trucks on makeshift boards made from broken-up furniture. His mirrors. The last truck lingered, waited for the children to be moved.

When they were driven in with the others, the truck pulled forward, and closed it off. 

The sun sank to the horizon as Francis opened the book.

XVII.

The crowd listened to Francis’ thin, plaintive voice drifting down from the rooftop. What words they could make out sounded strange and frightening. 

There was room enough inside the circle of glass. Some at the edge of the crowd started pushing and kicking at the mirrors, but they wouldn’t budge. Wouldn’t even shatter.

And then, all at once, they all went dark.

A second or two passed before a little girl said, to no one in particular: “Look, all the mirrors are stars.”

It was true. Glittering sparks began to light up in the smooth black surface of the mirrors. It was weird, but it was almost as if the seams had disappeared— like the entire enclosure consisted of one solid pane of glass.

And the stars. They didn’t look right, either. They kept changing places when you didn’t pay attention, arranging themselves in geometric shapes that hurt to look at. Growing brighter. Changing colors in ever more disturbing ways, pulsing with ravenous envy—

The screaming started.

XVIII.

“Come now!” Francis cried from his perch. “Wanderer! Uh’eom ot Syha’h n’ghftnah, mggoka ye’bthnk ehye ahog! This is your time, as it was and will be! Be our guide and show us the way! Ulnephaii mggoka n’ghftyar!

Finishing, he looked down.

It started.

XIV.

Marge didn’t feel right. Struggling up from the ground, she pressed her fingers at her temples. What thoughts the had became a gibbering, mindless babble. As she stumbled, she felt two hearts beating in perfect synchronicity, then four, then—

All around her people scurried about, crying and screaming. Her eyes wouldn’t focus, became a kaleidoscopic nightmare. Like she was seeing everything through a cluster of overlapping eyes. Even then all the faces seemed a blur; shuddering formless shapes that couldn’t seem to make up their mind about what they wanted to show to her. 

She could feel it. Her entire being was being pulled in different directions all at once. Not just two, but hundreds— millions. Thoughts and sensations multiplied and overlapped, became a blazing mental fire, as she was pulled apart along infinite axes. 

XV.

From the rooftop, Finn watched in awe as the crowd inside the enclosure trembled and roiled while the mirrors sucked at their outlines. Already he could see reluctant flames wicking. Screams of terror blended into a single inhuman cry, a toneless and undulating sound that reminded him of synthesised voices.

Before long the corona surrounding the seething mass sent out funnels, long tapered fingers reaching out towards the curve of glass. As more touched, the gathering began to shrink. Slow at first, but as grampa continue his recitations it sped up, shrivelling the crowd like a piece of fruit left out in the sun. 

The scream went on, weakening as the mirrors winded down the nucleus in long ropey strings that disappeared in the eldritch glow. Only when the last tendril snaked its way into the colored curve, did the last weak wail wink out, and did Finn become aware grampa litany had stopped. 

After all the noise, the silence was deafening.

Finn looked from the empty circle to the rooftops, where the last colors of the day painted the sky a deep orange. And sighed. 

Disappointing.

That’s when a tremor worked its way through the building, throwing him flat on his face.

XVI.

Francis watched as the mirrors disgorged their contents, started moulding its meagre offerings into a new and glorious configuration. Higher and higher it rose. Craning his head, Francis knuckled away his tears of gratitude, not wanting to miss a second. His mouth opened in hopeless wonder.

At last he was offered a brief view of Her divinity as She stood on mottled legs, welded fast along gleaming pink seams. Moving, She kicked the circle apart in a spray of shattered glass as she made her way south across the square. 

Her hair flowed after, each strand made up out of orbs that shone with a spectral blue light. Ghostlight. 

He tittered, fell to fits of lunatic laughter as She faded from view in the dying light. In Her wake, the strings of flowing orbs began to break apart, drifting away across the rooftops in all directions. 

“Is it gone?” Finn asked, breathless.

His grandfather didn’t answer, kept shrieking with hopeless laughter, hands hooked to the darkening sky.

“No,” a voice from behind said. Turning, Finn saw one of the men standing by the rooftop access. “The Wanderer awaits the Night. Until then, the Ghostlights will show lost minds the way.”

There was a bit of silence before the boy asked: “Are mom and grandma with Her?”

“They serve Her now,” the man said, in his thick accent. “Bound to Her form in eternal torment.”

Finn thought this over. Then he smiled. “Good.”

The boy looked to his howling grandfather, back to the man. “So, what happens now?”

“You will come with us.”

“What about my grandfather?”

“His mind his veg. He didn’t listen to us. Now it floats with them.” He tossed a hand at the shrinking blue flames in the sky. 

  When they left, Finn stooped by the gibbering old man and reached for the book lying open by his feet. 

“Jur. Leave it,” the stranger said. “The Necronomicon is meant to stay here… for now.” 

With one last looking at his raving grandfather, the boy left the rooftop.

Downstairs, Finn crossed the square with the man, moving towards the row of cars waiting across the lawn with their headlights on. The circle of mirrors had been kicked apart, half its construction spread across the grass in splintered wood and glittering shards. Here and there pieces of tarp were stuck beneath the wreckage. But as he looked closer, he saw that they weren’t tarps at all.

“Where are we going?” Finn said, hurrying to catch up.

“To free our master from his slumber,” the man said, opening the back door of one of the black SUVs

“Cthulhu,” the boy whispered with tears in his eyes. Then he slid onto the back seat.

One by one, the car pulled away into the night, sent on their way by the maniacal laughter coming from the rooftop of the community center. On the highway, they would drift apart, not unlike the Ghostlights— each to his own task, yet united by a single, burning purpose.

XVII.

Thirty minutes after the last of the cars had gone, silence reigned. Even the madman’s merriment had ceased. A sharp sliver of moon had clawed its way above the rooftops of the now deserted village.

Well, almost deserted. 

Aside from the local dealer in guns and antiques, who was lying on the rooftop, gasping and gibbering, there was one other still drawing breath in Belfort Falls. In the stillness, she slipped from the shadows, her badge glinting silver in the moon’s light. Standing in the middle of Main street, she stopped. 

Okay, Lena thought. What do I do now?