The train engine’s roaring power vibrated through Tim’s body when he passed in front of it—crossing the tracks—but paled in comparison to the jolt that shook his bones when the mechanical juggernaut clipped the bicycle’s rear wheel.
Time didn’t freeze for this encounter. Just the opposite. Everything seemed to happen with the swiftness of a camera flash.
The engine swiped the bicycle out from under him like a huge hand shooing away a bothersome insect. The bike’s handlebars tore out of his grasp; he flew off the seat. The world turned into a blur as he tumbled through the air. Through some miracle of high-tension awareness, his ears picked out the grotesque impact of the dead deer when it caught the full force of the train’s unstoppable energy, and the sound reminded him of the noise made when biting into a ripe apple: crunchy, but wet. Then the ground slammed into his back just when he thought he was flying skyward.
The blacktop bit into his skin on impact, scraping it raw in spots. His left arm ended up in front of his face during the fall, saving his head from hitting the ground. Consciousness blinked like an old light bulb but didn’t go out.
He rolled to a rest with the sharp squeal of the train’s brakes cutting into the night.
Tim flopped on his back and winced in pain. His right leg ached to the bone. The wounds on his palms, forearms, elbows, and knees burned with a fiery sting that grew worse with each passing second.
Striving to postpone the thought of discomfort, he lifted his head and looked around, assessing the scene. To one side of him sat the partially mangled mountain bike; to the other, lay the severed head of the deer.
Tim stiffened at his proximity to it, but relaxed again when his brain processed the extent of the damage. Dead or not, the train had finished the animal for sure.
The train continued to move past him, the deafening keen of its wheels like an incessant scream for attention. He knew it was only a matter of time before people from the surrounding houses came to investigate.
No one would believe what he’d been through tonight. How could they? No doubt the train’s operator was furious, probably thinking that he’d been attempting some kind of dumb stunt. In fact, now that he thought about it, Tim realized the man was probably already on a cell phone or radio, calling the police. With his luck, they’d assume Tim fabricated the whole chase story simply to draw focus off his failed train-dodge. Someone might even suggest he’d positioned the deer carcass on the tracks himself, like some morbid joke. It was certainly a more plausible explanation than the story Tim had to tell.
All this after being rejected by Mallory.
Talk about a crappy evening.
And what about tomorrow? He was pretty sure if he wasn’t in jail for what had happened with the train, someone would eventually find Brad—or one of his friends; or maybe all three of them—dead in the woods, and he’d be the main suspect in their murders. He’d left his coat at the scene, and his fingerprints covered the bottle that had slashed Brad. Tim wasn’t sure how bad he’d been cut, but there had been a lot of blood, some of which had splattered on Tim’s clothes. And don’t forget the kid who got nailed by the rock, he reminded himself. They’ll probably pin that on you, too.
When he finally raised himself from the pavement, he saw the last of the train’s cars approaching.
With great effort, he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the growing aches and pains now alive throughout his body. Thankfully, he hadn’t broken any bones. At least he wouldn’t go to prison in a wheelchair.
The train had slowed to a crawl, but the harsh shriek of its wheels remained strong enough to blot out all other sounds.
He stood up—and gasped without hearing it.
Through the gap between the last two freight cars, Tim saw someone standing on the opposite side of the train, staring straight back at him. He only caught a fleeting glimpse of a vague shape, registering nothing more than a silhouette against the blacker countryside beyond. In that brief instant, he witnessed the light from the shops behind him reflecting back in a pair of cold white eyes.
A chill worked its way up his spine, and his fear escalated with the imminent passage of the final car. What he’d glimpsed could have been nothing more than a concerned neighbor from one of the houses he’d already passed, someone who’d seen what had happened and rushed to out to check on him. On the other hand, the image that darkened his mind consisted of a single shadowy figure, its body black and featureless, with shimmering eyes that may have simply mirrored ambient light from the street lamps, or may have glowed with a fire of their own.
Tim whirled around and ran, almost crumpling under his own weight from the agony in his right thigh. He needed to get out of sight.
Instead of going up two streets and turning right onto Crestview, the way home, he made a sharp right onto Railway Street and sprinted east, around the post office. Half a block away the church loomed. The cross atop its steeple hovered over the town like a beacon of hope. Past the church, he could cut between yards all the way home.
He glanced over his shoulder before rounding the corner and saw the train had cleared County Road 19. Nothing waited behind it but more blacktop stretching into darkness.
He proceeded toward home at a slower, less painful pace.
That deer had to be diseased, he pondered in silence. Rabies or something, but it couldn’t have been dead.
Then he reminded himself about the alien voice in his head. Where did that come from?
The train had finally fallen silent behind him, and he picked out the first excited calls of those who’d been summoned by the commotion. He guessed by the buoyancy of several male shouts the onlookers had come from the Choo Choo Bar, but that seemed to be it for the moment.
Looking ahead, Tim hesitated before the poorly lit section of street between him and the church. In an instant, he forgot all about the scrapes and cuts he’d received from his fall. Instead, he concentrated all his attention on scanning the overabundance of shadows that littered his path.
Two roadside lamps thinned the blackness here on the street, one directly to his left and another farther up on the right. In addition to those lights, multiple security lamps illuminated the Parish Center and the church’s main entry. They gave off a caramel glow that coated both buildings but did little to disperse the dark near the road.
None of the houses offered much light, either. He counted four on the left and three on the right, including the Parish Office. Some had lights over their front steps, but none of the bulbs helped to diminish the oppressive darkness in his path.
Gathering his courage, Tim started toward the church, limping like his right foot kept landing in potholes. The wind picked up around him, prompting the tree branches to claw at the light.
He hastened his step.
I’ll be home in two minutes tops, Tim thought. It’s just past the church and up the hill. Hey, think of it this way, the next time I see Mallory, I’ll have a hell of a story to tell her. I doubt Mr. Mercedes has ever jumped in front of a train.
He passed the junction of Loretto Street on his left, just before the turn-around cul-de-sac preceding the church.
A sound rose above the wind, petrifying him in mid-stride.
He reevaluated the gloomy street, holding his breath, but saw no one.
The noise came again, sounding like a hand clawing at a shower curtain. Tim looked to the right, finding nothing but a bundle of extra-large lawn bags at the end of an empty driveway.
He turned to move onward when one of the lawn bags moved.
Its polymer surface suddenly shifted, something pushing outward from inside it.
Like a person in a body-bag!
No sooner had the idea formed in his head when five points stretched the plastic membrane, creating that elusive shower curtain sound.
Before Tim had a chance to react, the sack split open, torn down the middle by bony digits made from gnarled sticks. Twin glowing white eyes peered out from the hole.
“You can’t escape.”
Tim spun away but not before seeing the bag’s grassy contents blast forward in the shape of a lunging man. He screamed and tried to dodge, but wooden fingers closed on his shoulders and seized his shirt. The plant-thing landed on his back, tackling him to the asphalt. Explosions of pain detonated at various points across his body, ignited from the cuts and scrapes on his arms and legs. The creature’s claws hooked in his skin, and it rolled him over to confront its moonlight gaze.
His bowels weakened when an up-close view of the monster corroborated what he’d glimpsed a second ago. It had the shape of a man, but the damn thing was made of grass. The botanical beast cracked a wide grin and hissed a foul breath into his face. Tim shrieked a cry of both panic and rage in reply, simultaneously swinging his fist. He hit the beast square in the face and felt a sudden rush of encouragement when he knocked its head clean off its shoulders.
Lawn clippings sprayed through the air.
Tim coughed up a burst of laughter at the ease of his triumph, reminding him of the noise a car might make before its engine died.
Real scary, his mind hooted. Your ass is grass and I’m the lawnmo—
The monster’s head reformed, taking shape before the bits of its obliterated counterpart hit the ground. Two new ivory eyes blazed to life.
Tim struggled backward, staring in renewed terror when a second, more hateful face emerged. He shuffled rearward, freeing his legs as the monster opened a gaping mouth and blasted him in the face with a stream of stagnant water that stunk of sun-baked grass and dog crap.
Tim howled and shot away, this time without notice of any discomfort in his limbs. Knowing he’d never make it all the way home now, he altered course and clambered up the church steps. He collapsed against the double doors, mentally pleading they’d be open.
Locked!
He flattened himself against the entry, still screaming for help. He pounded on the doors one last time, then sunk to the floor and wrapped his arms over his head.
A second passed.
And another.
No assault.
Uncoiling his arms, Tim relaxed enough to look behind him. He expected the compost-beast to have vanished, along with any signs it had ever existed. He predicted the bulky trash bags would still be sitting by the curb, inert and undamaged, and what had just happened only existed in the head of a boy who’d gone crazy.
Instead, he found his attacker stopped in its tracks only yards away. The creature stood in the middle of the street, cloaked in shadow, with only its eyes visible in the darkness. It hadn’t crossed even half the distance to where Tim stood, and it didn’t appear geared to move any closer. It simply stood statue-still, its glowing eyes oozing malevolence.
“You can’t escape me,” it declared.
Though the thing had made no sound of its own, its hate-filled voice—the voice of the deer—rasped inside Tim’s ears.
“W-what are you?” Tim stammered.
“The first of many that will begin the destruction of your world.”
Tim choked on the statement. “B-but why? What do you want?”
“Everything,” it hissed. “You don’t deserve this. None of you do. We once had form and feeling. Before you, this was our world, the First World. In the day of the Nephilim and Áłtsé hastiin, when the son of Lamech deserted us, before the Other washed us from the plains and condemned us to the nothingness, we ruled. As we shall again. You and your people are just as subject to judgment. Soon, with the help of Kale Kane and what I’ve done to him, that time will be upon you. The two of us will put in motion this world’s apocalypse. You wish to know what I am? Then, know it.”
Before Tim could contemplate what the creature meant by those words, the world became a liquid image swirling down a drain. He slumped against the church doors for support, clinging to the handles while the view before him washed away and new sights poured into existence.
Sights, smells, sounds, textures, and emotions surged at him in a torrent of psychic information, mounting greater and greater until the deluge consumed him.
He watched thousands of men, women, and children appear impossibly before him, witnessed joyous celebrations of dancing and feasting, marveled at the sight of great palaces from a long-forgotten past. He tasted salty meats, heard jaunty drunken laughter, felt the fleshy press of soft kisses on his lips. The indistinguishable reality of it left him paralyzed.
Memories! This thing is pumping memories into my head.
And then the people changed to corpses.
The great palaces became crumbled tombs.
Death. Stench. Rot. Hopelessness. It hit him like an apocalyptic avalanche.
Tim’s stomach twisted and his legs buckled. His sight blurred. He pressed his hands to his head in a fruitless attempt to block out the assault.
Wars broke out. Cities fell. Crops withered. People died. He cringed at the sight of bloody fights between filthy-smelling men, trembled while he witnessed women being raped with animal savagery. Every wicked deed imaginable flashed into his mind. He saw cloaked figures raise children onto altars set before enormous solid gold idols—sculptures of alien beasts he couldn’t identify—then recoiled when the creatures’ worshippers rammed long knives through the children’s ribcages.
He shrieked against the inescapable torment—the only thing left he could do—screaming his throat raw while he watched the anarchistic society slake whatever transient primal lust demanded fulfillment.
In the next blink of his eyes, the images of death and destruction vanished.
Tim found himself staring at the empty church cul-de-sac, collapsed on his side at the top of the staircase. His whole body quivered in the aftermath of what he’d beheld, and his mind appraised the reality of everything he saw before allowing himself to believe the experience had ended.
His eyes flicked to the street.
The grass creature—or whatever force molded it—had departed and now only a pile of clippings littered the spot where it had stood.
Tim reached up for the staircase railing, missed it, and went down on his chin.
Groaning, he made another grab for the wood and pulled himself to a shaky stand.
No sooner had he gotten on his feet when he noticed that a single light had come on in the Parish Office to his left, transforming a second floor window from a block of coal to radiant gold. A downstairs light came on.
The rectory door opened and a silhouette filled the entry. “Who’s out there?” a voice asked.
Tim climbed over the staircase railing, jumped to the ground, and ran behind the building. He staggered at first, but the disorientation of his psychic experience dissipated with each new step. A dirt parking lot opened up behind the church, lit by two halogen security lamps that gave the far end of the building a sharper, bluish glare. Out of the parking lot, he ran between houses and across Hillview Lane, then between two more homes, not slowing his pace when he encountered the shadows this time. He ran at full speed, the wind at his back, certain if the nightmare tormentor had wanted him dead tonight, it easily could have done it.
The deer had been dead, its rotten body controlled by the same force that animated the bag of grass. Same with his jacket. He had no idea what manner of being lurked behind that hideous voice, or from what detestable realm it had come, but he wouldn’t question its existence again.
It was real. It was dangerous.
And it was still out there.
By the time Tim got home, his run had turned into a skip-like limp.
He rounded the corner of his house and mounted the front steps, door keys already in hand. Inside, he made straight for the kitchen wall phone, steadfast in his decision that he’d tell his tale to the police. He realized getting them to believe what he’d witnessed over the course of the evening would be a task bordering on impossible, but he had to do something to stop the supernatural horror that ran loose in his town.
Tim found the number for the State Patrol, intent on trying to reach his neighbor, Sam Hale, who was out on duty right now. If anyone would listen to him, Sam would.
The line was dead.
It couldn’t be a coincidence; the thing had gotten to the phones. But how? And was it just his house, or was the entire neighborhood without service?
With no time to dwell on the subject, no time to even tend to his own injuries, he hung up the receiver. He crossed the kitchen and exited into the garage, tapping the automatic door opener on the way to his bike. The segmented door growled open, and he took only a few seconds to scrutinize the cuts on his hands and arms in its overhead light. Crusted blood ran in rough tracks up and down each of his limbs, but nothing seemed to be bleeding freely. Confident he hadn’t suffered any serious damage, he got on the bike and rode into the night once more.
He had to get to the old barn.
The horrific psychic history lesson had been terrifying enough, but during their mental exchange, Tim had seen something that brought it all home: an image of Mallory, bloody and cold.
For some reason, the creature wanted her dead.
He now knew what had pushed her brother into the pool. He recalled the pile of wood chips near the Wiesses’ back gate when he’d jumped over the fence. The mulch had been heaped on the lawn in much the same way the pile of grass had been discarded in the street before the church.
Maybe it didn’t know where Mallory was yet. Maybe it did.
Either way, he had to get to her. He needed to warn her. He’d already been scraped, bruised, and run to exhaustion, but he vowed to reach her before that thing could.
No matter what.