Restless Shades

All rights reserved (c) 2002 Paul Melniczek

ISBN: 1-894841-27-1

First Edition eBook Publishing January 9, 2002

Darkest Jungle

Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree,

Counting all the monkeys he can see,

Stop, kookaburra, stop, kookaburra,

That's not a monkey, that's me, ha, ha, ha!

- Excerpt from "Kookaburra," old children's song

A warm, dry breeze blew through the window, stirring the papers that sat on the desk. Jack looked up and yawned, stretching lean arms behind his head. It was a pleasant afternoon, and he was growing accustomed to the heat of the Australian summer. Gazing outside, he watched a group of young girls scamper across the street, laughing and jumping as they recited the words to a whimsical children's tune.

"The good old days, no deadlines or worries, if only I had known back then." A broad grin appeared on his good-natured face as he remembered his own childhood in Virginia. He was a long way from home.

The ringing of the telephone broke him out of his wistful reverie and he picked up the receiver.

"Good day, mate, Jack Rogers." There was a low chuckle from the caller.

"That's really funny, Jack. Down under for a few weeks and you think you can own all our habits, now. You can do better than that, I hope."

Laughing, Jack replied "Richard, you scoundrel, shattered all my false illusions that I can fit in. That hurts."

"Oh, you have no problem fitting in anywhere, my friend. I'm the last one to remind you of that. You journalists are an interesting breed."

Jack leaned back in his swivel chair. "And you're not much different. Can't call you quite a journalist, but being an historian and novelist doesn't put you too far off the map. So what's on your mind, got some leads for me?"

Talking with his long time colleague always put Jack in a good mood. The two had met at an archaeological convention in Nevada, and became fast friends. It was a coincidence that brought them both to the same continent now. Richard was researching material for his latest book, and Jack was on assignment from his employer, a magazine featuring travel destinations.

"You don't want to send people on vacation where I'm at, I'm afraid. It's the fringe of the outback. Actually, if you can spare the time to come and see me, some interesting, or should I say unusual, things have happened."

"Oh, like what?" Richard was normally very serious about his work, and Jack sense that something important was bothering his friend.

"Well, there's been some people missing in the surrounding towns."

"That is unusual, do they have any clues?"

"More than clues," Richard responded, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "A few bodies have turned up."

"Doesn't sound good," Jack answered. "What else?"

A pause.

"They were badly mutilated, torn apart."

"That's horrible, Richard. What did they find? Some wild animal? Croc? But what could do this to several people?"

"No, no. Definitely not a Croc. They were found in the jungle, not even near the water. There's a lot of activity here, and some really strange stories floating about."

"I guess it's understandable to be concerned, but you don't research murders."

Richard coughed. "Yes, but there's more to this. Can you get away for a bit?"

"Why not? I'm almost done with my article, and I have over a week left before I return. Maybe I can dig up something else for my own work." Jack had published several stories on tropical birds, and took advantage of every chance to find new information on his projects.

"Fine, I need your advice on something I've discovered. It's odd, but it might relate to these killings in some way."

It was a strange thing to say, and Jack felt a twinge of anxiety, although he didn't know why. "All right, do me a favor. Fax me directions, and I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Great, will do." Richard hung up and Jack stared out the window again, his earlier euphoria replaced with a twinge of unease.

"Hey, Linda! Check this out."

The lizard was perched on a rock, and Mark Reynolds couldn't ask for a better pose. He carefully snapped the lens off of his camera, getting ready to take the picture. His wife had wandered off in the brush to his left in search of some exotic parrots.

Linda failed to respond, and Mark looked up. The lizard disappeared. "Oh damn, missed a good one. Linda?"

Mark sighed, a frown appearing on his bearded face. It was unlike his wife to leave for any amount of time by herself. One could never be too confident in the outback. It dawned on the photographer then how peculiar the jungle had become. The normal sounds of the birds and forest life were gone. All noise had ceased.

Mark thought he could hear his own heartbeat.

"Linda, where are you?"

The words fell mute on the slumbering forest. Uneasiness crept over the man, the first indication that something was wrong. Turning in the direction where Linda went, he decided to go after his wife. If Linda got into trouble, Mark knew that she would call for him. His trepidation continued to grow. He cursed softly as he Pushed through the thick undergrowth and got scratched by sharp thorns. Soon he entered a clearing, and scanned the area for signs of his wife.

Nothing moved.

Walking forward, his footsteps sounded loud and penetrating. "Linda?" he called, his chest tight. The silence was maddening. Mark felt as though he had stumbled into a setting of tranquil surrealism where he was the invader. Without warning, a high-pitched sound broke through the quiet. Mark shivered at the noise - the otherness. At first,he thought it was hysterical laughing, diabolical and bizarre, but realized immediately that it couldn't possibly be human.

The bushes exploded directly behind him and Mark whirled in surprise.

His eyes grew wide in fear as a dark figure leapt from the concealing thickets, a brief scream of terror leaving his gaping mouth as he caught a glimpse of the attacker. Mark didn't have time for another thought.

The following afternoon found Jack driving down a dirt road that led to Richard's place, two miles from the town of Bayhare. The forest looked deep and ominous at the roadside. Tangled thickets and lush plants bordered the rough driveway. After three hours and one or two wrong turns, he was more than ready to be off the road but that wasn't too much of a problem. As he passed the last town there were a number of police vehicles scattered about, some eyeing his pickup with interest.

Jack feared that he may be stopped for questioning by the stares he received, but nothing occurred. There was no doubt that an extensive manhunt was being conducted. A single-story house appeared and Richard was, jumping up from his hammock as Jack pulled up. The home was modest, but Richard was short on time for physical comforts. A loner, and engulfed with his work, the forty-year old historian clung to his one burning passion in life, embracing it without any regrets.

"Found me. Good man." Richard called out as he walked to the truck.

Jack stopped his truck and shook hands with his friend, finding the grip callused and firm.

"You certainly have your privacy out here," Jack said as he eyed the short expanse of unkempt grass around the house that was edged by dark woods.

"Sure do. I can't be bothered by door-to-door salesmen, you know."

Jack laughed at the thought of anyone soliciting this far into the outback.

"You were right, there's police everywhere."

They found more bodies this morning. Heard it when I ran into town earlier. Only a couple miles away, in fact. A young couple doing some photography. Not much left of them."

There was an uncomfortable pause. "And also a minister."

Jack's throat felt dry. "That's horrendous. Thanks for inviting me."

He peered into the brush, half expecting to see a crazed lunatic leap out with a chain saw.

"No, they weren't that close before. This has me worried now. Very worried. Come on inside."

Tropical birds chattered away as Jack followed his friend into the house. He tried to picture the birds, listening to each unique call.

"Have a seat. I'll get us some drinks. This place has its own generator, so I don't lack for much."

The air was cool and Jack sat down on a wooden chair that accompanied a small sofa. There was a table in the middle of the room filled with manuscripts and notes. Piles of magazines and books were scattered all around. Moments later, Richard returned with two tall glasses of iced tea, and handed one to Jack. Both men drank deeply then Jack asked,

"You'll be staying here for a while yet, right?" Richard shook his head in response.

"That depends on several things."

"Oh. Well just make sure I get a discount on the hard cover." Jack smiled at his friend, but Richard looked grim as he stared out the front window.

"Of course you're wondering about our conversation, and why I wanted to see you."

"Actually, forgot all about it. Was it to bring me here and taste your sun brewed tea?" Jack raised his glass in mock salute.

"I wish it were just that."

Richard reached for a book from the table, an old text fraying at the edges. "What I have read in here has frightened me beyond anything else I can recall."

His eyes were shadowed, and for the first time Jack noticed the dark circles around his eyes.

"Dug this up at an old church, a few towns east of here. Names and people are unimportant, but needless to say I wanted it pretty badly after seeing what was inside."

Jack pursed his lips, listening to Richard and glancing down at the old tome.

"This was kept in the minister's house for a long time. Was there from the previous caretaker, and who knows how much longer. I happened to stop by his church, and explained to him my work and asked for hints to point me in the right direction. You know me, not afraid to ask questions."

"All too well," said Jack. "So what about this book?You've got me hanging on my seat." His attempt at humor fell short, for his friend grew increasingly more nervous.

"Contains a fantastic story, concerning an ancient folklore told by inhabitants in this neck of the woods. All new to me. I offered to buy it from him."

"That's not so bad," replied Jack. After seeing the grimace on Richard's face, his own look turned sour. "You didn't steal it, did you?"

"No, no, of course not. I did pressure him to sell it, though. Said that it would be of great interest to authorities, and they might come looking at some point in time." He shook his head. "The minister had a drinking problem, needed money. But he did mention something about the book being in his care, and something about "old fairy tales," and "what did it matter" to him."

"That is pretty bad, a priest yet," replied Jack. "Why don't you return the thing?"

"Believe me, I wish I could. But that's impossible now. I just found out that he was one of the victims. The first."

Spider-chills crept down Jack's spine as he listened in horror.

"I needed to talk to you, I have no one else. You might think I am mad, but the book speaks of an old evil."

Richard bowed his head.

"The legend has it that a great jungle demon used to prowl the countryside in ages past. When it was near, the forest would grow silent. Animals and birds alike would disappear."

"Sounds like a lot of other superstitious tales I've heard before," replied Jack.

"Well, there was a distinctive sound if the beast was near. A strange, hellish laughter, or that's what''s described, at least."

"Creepy. You're beginning to scare me." The remark was only partly in jest, as Jack's unease grew. .

"There's an odd connection to a jungle bird too, the laughing kookaburra. That's up your alley."

"Yeah, it's known for having a weird call, similar to someone laughing." Jack finished the tea, but his throat was still parched.

"This demon was called Koogabar, a close rendition to the bird's name. According to the book, the old children's song Kookaburra is actually a translation from a much older, and more sinister prose of warning. Listen to this."

Richard opened the book, searching for a particular page.

"Here it is, I'll read the phrase."

Koogabar waits under the old gum tree,

He lurks there in shadow, waiting for me,

Hide, run away and hide,

Koogabar is coming for you and me.

Jack felt chills as he listened to Richard whisper the words. "That is weird, unnerving really."

"And that's not the worst of it. Listen." Richard continued.

Koogabar sleeps under the old gum tree,

Pray he doesn't wake, pray he doesn't see,

Now we can be safe, our children will be safe,

Only the hidden charm can set him free.

Richard pulled a metal strap from behind the book. It had once secured the ancient binding, but Jack could see it was now broken.

"There was a small sculpture bolted onto the fastening. I broke it to open the text." His next words sent chills through Jack.

"I'm terrified that I unlocked something else too."

In his hand was a small object, the molding of some unspeakable creature.

The night breeze was cool and gentle on his skin as Jack looked out into the dark woods. After Richard had shown him the talisman that sealed the book, he then became unreachable, something totally out of character. He said a few words about attaching the charm, but it needed to be done in a precise way, according to the text.

Richard dismissed himself, going to the workshop in the small shed that sat behind the house. He gave Jack the run of the place if he stayed, but at the same time encouraged him to leave. Despite Jack's insistence on perusing the book in greater detail with him, Richard adamantly refused. "I don't want to involve you any more," he said. "Maybe I shouldn't even have asked you here. I pray that I haven't made a horrible mistake."

Jack had argued with him, stating that there were some strange coincidences, but they should think things out together. And now here he was, in the guest room, staring at the lighted workshop Richard had retreated into. The air conditioning system shut down after sunset, and Jack had opened the window to let the freshness inside. Night birds called in the distance, along with the drones and chirping of mating insects.

Jack was puzzled by his friend's odd behavior, but also disturbed. He didn't believe in any mythical beasts roaming the modern world, but feared only the human animals that walked the earth. The murders, by all description, were abominable. No wonder Richard felt guilty after hearing of the minister's demise. He was blaming himself because of the book. Jack turned around and poured a glass from the tea pitcher that had he filled earlier. The cold liquid quenched his thirst, but did nothing to sort out the mixture of emotions he felt.

He lay down on the single bed, closing his eyes and taking in the soothing sounds of the wilderness outside as he drifted off.

Jack woke from sleep, disorientation seizing his mind in those first waking moments. Confused, he leaned on his elbow and remembered where he was. He yawned, and sat up at the edge of the bed. The house was quiet, and he looked outside.

A pale, bloated moon cast its muted, silvery radiance on the sleeping jungle. High clouds encircled the celestial body, and a brisk wind whipped the shrouded trees bordering the property. Outside, everything was quiet. Jack felt tension in his chest, and chided himself for being foolish. But the night was void of the normal jungle sounds. His gaze swept the backyard of the home. Dim light still flickered out from the shed. Richard must be at work yet, Jack thought.

A growing dread crept over him as the solitude of the verging wilderness pressed in - mostly untamed, treacherous, harboring secrets unknown to man. Tales of unspeakable horrors that once roamed the world filled his mind. These were ideas that seemed like folly in the bright sun of the day, but now took shape in the primeval darkness, ever the source of mankind's hidden nightmares. At that moment, Jack felt more insignificant and alone than he could ever have imagined.

And then he heard it, reverberating from far away, deep in the jungle; a high-pitched cackling.

It sounded like insane laughter.

Jack's blood ran cold. Every fiber of his body tingled with fear. This wasn't happening. It was in his mind. The laughter pierced the night once more,closer.

He couldn't take his eyes off the fringe of the tree line. His hands gripped the bottom of the window as he squinted into the woods. Jack's mind screamed a silent warning, but the sound was mesmerizing. The laughter became clearer.

Watching in disbelief, he saw a darker shadow moving through the trees. His chest grew tighter as he held his breath. He couldn't make out any features, but that left everything to his imagination, and the tiny sculpture. Jack's head swam, his heart felt ready to burst.

Only the fantastic nightmares of a terrified child, wakened from dark visions, could have compared to the heinous phantoms that raged in his mind's eye. Slowly, the shape came forward, heading straight for the shed.

Jack's clothes were soaked in cold sweat, his cotton shirt heavy and wet. His blackest fears couldn't have formed a ghastlier shade than what he now saw. Standing on two legs, the beast walked like a man but that is where any likeness ended.

The creature had tufts of fur around its muscular body, a white crest on the horned head. Two horrible front limbs were held high, wielding talons of wicked claws. A gaping mouth revealed flashes of ivory fangs, opening wide as if to draw in a huge breath of air. It was a monster beyond words and understanding, spawned in another plane of existence. It couldn't possibly exist, except in fantasy.

The tormented sound broke from its maw; a hideous laughing that was pure evil. Jack was frozen in horror, helpless to save himself or his friend. Raising a curled foreleg, the creature crashed into the door of the shed and uttered its foul cry as Jack felt a grip over his mouth and a weight shoving him to the ground.

"Shh, shh, it'll hear us." Fighting instinctively against his attacker, he realized that it was Richard behind him and he stopped.

His friend's terrified eyes burned into his own. "Let's go, I left a piece of the charm in my truck. If I can get to it, we might be able to send this demon back to whatever pit it came from." Richard gripped the book tightly in a vise-like hold, his knuckles white from the strain. They hurried through the bedroom and entered the hall. The house was quiet.

"I think the beast is drawn to the book, and wants to destroy the text before I can banish it again."

The two men crept along the wall, and Jack couldn't erase the image of the demon that lurked outside. They paused at the front door, and Richard carefully opened it, sticking his head out.

"Not here yet, let's hope it stays in the shed and doesn't cut us off."

The words sent visions through Jack's mind of being torn apart by the demon. "There's a little bracelet that has to snap over the talisman. The book explained all. Help me find it when we reach the ..."

Around the front of the porch appeared a huge shadow, palpable evil emanating from the air itself. A diabolical cry from the hunting creature shattered the night air, devastating the moral fabric of the two men crouching in fear.

Richard slammed the door shut, locking the bolt, his eyes wide and hysterical. "Lord, save us from this demon," he babbled, lips quivering, hands moving in warding off gestures.

"Where's your rifle?" Jack whispered as he shoved his friend further into the house, pausing in the living room.

"It's no good, no good." Richard looked dazed, the terror shredding the man's sanity. Jack spotted a large mahogany cabinet and walked to it. He opened the cabinet, and pulled out a rifle fixed with a brown scope. Bullets were stashed next to the gun in a storage carton, and he didn't hesitate in loading the barrel.

"Come on, snap out of it, man!" Jack shouted at his friend, who was now sobbing like a child. "I need you. At least try to help me. Richard!" He finished loading the gun then hurried over to Richard. He slapped the man across the face hard, the stinging rebuke bringing him back to his senses.

"What now?" Jack asked as he stared at the front room, expecting to see the creature return at any moment.

"Our only hope is the bracelet," Richard mumbled, tears streaming down his face. "Banish the demon once more. It's in my truck. We need that piece to seal the book."

"I'd feel safer if we could see that monster. Let's go upstairs." Jack went toward the stairs, followed by Richard, who was shaking so hard he had to struggle to even move. They soon gained the stairs, and continued to the next level. The walls of the house were vice-like, suffocating, the tension unbearable. Where was the demon?

It probably waited for them outside, knowing their vulnerability, Jack thought. Was it flesh and blood, able to feel the pain of an injury?

Richard scurried behind him, his head darting back and forth, listening for the inevitable approach of the beast. They went into Jack's bedroom, throwing the lock and putting a brief barrier of safety between themselves and Koogabar.

Jack peered outside through one of several windows in the room. His eyes scanned the front of the house. Nothing moved among the shadows. The vehicles were tantalizingly close, scant yards away from the building. If they could only reach them.

"Any ideas?" Jack asked but didn't take his eyes off the yard as he pressed his friend for answers.

"It's waiting out there, I'm sure," Richard replied. "Waiting to catch us in the open."

"But if it is drawn to the book, then why doesn't the creature come after us now?" Jack stood motionless at the window, craning his neck to check the corner of the home.

"Maybe you're right," said Richard. "If the monster fears what we can do, then it should have followed us in. Let's just pray that it doesn't realize that a piece of the bracelet is in my truck. If it can sense the charm, we're doomed."

The horror of his words sunk deep into Jack's heart. To unleash such a creature into the world was unthinkable. He fingered the rifle, looking at Richard. "We don't have too many options here. If that thing comes after us through the house, then we go out the window, and race for the truck like mad. It's a two story drop, but we can climb down this drain spout."

Richard appeared uncertain, beads of sweat streaking down his ashen face. "That spouting is old, it might collapse."

"Well, you've gotten me into this forsaken mess, and besides pointing out the fact that a killer demon is chasing us, haven't done a damn thing to help!"

Jack was frustrated and terrified, snapping at Richard, who stared at his trembling hands, unable to stop them from moving.

"I'm sorry, it's all my fault. The responsibility and guilt of unleashing that monster is something I have to live with."

"Well, let's worry about sending it back to whatever pit it came from, and then we'll discuss philosophy." Jack quietly opened the window all the way, poking his head out for a greater vantage.

"I'm going to test the spout, take the rifle in case you hear anything. I don't think it can scale the walls, wish I knew where it was, though."

Richard picked up the weapon, and set the book on a small wooden nightstand. He went over to the bedroom door, pressing an ear to the panel. Jack reached over to the spout, shaking it slightly. The fixture felt loose, and the metal supports were rusted. Still, what choice did they have, he thought.

"I hear something."

Jack froze at the sound of Richard's tense voice, low and hissing.

Both men were mute statues, all senses keyed on the outside hallway. Jack pointed past the doorway, and a look of confusion appeared on Richard's face.

The room felt like a coiled trap, ready to spring at any moment. Jack tried to gauge the creature's next move, but he couldn't bring himself to act until its location was revealed. Everything was surreal, and the seconds dragged by. Jack felt ready to scream.

All at once, the silence was shattered as the floorboards in the middle of the bedroom exploded in a rage of power.

Richard shouted a warning to Jack, shooting a round at the grotesque abomination that clawed its way upward through a gaping hole of twisted wood and drywall.

"Go! Take the book!"

Several more shots blasted the monster heaving its bulk into the room, but the bullets seemed to have no effect.

An overwhelming stench of sulfur gagged Jack and he grabbed the ancient text as he grasped the spouting, scrambling to control his balance. Koogabar extended its taloned forearms to either side, the opened mouth spewing the horrendous laughter and driving waves of despair into the minds of the two men.

Richard cowered down, pathetic and small against the mighty demon, the rifle clicking uselessly in his hands.

Jack lowered himself, catching a last glimpse of Richard as the monster hugged the man like a cloth puppet, squeezing him into its scaly chest in a crushing embrace. Hearing the scream from his friend nearly dislodged him, and he held onto the spouting, his terrified shaking threatening to drop him to the ground below. He scarcely was beneath the window ledge, and knew he needed to move quickly to escape Richard's fate.

Inching down, Jack willed himself to remain calm, and breathe deeply. Lowering a few feet, he heard the ghastly sound from above. The demon yapped its foul cry, and battered the side of the drain spout, knocking Jack off as the structure crumbled. He gasped, falling through the air, and turned on his side attempting to cushion the blow.

He landed with a thud, the air was pushed out from his lungs and he winced at the vise of pain in his rib cage, knowing instantly that several bones were broken. Tumbling forward, he staggered to his feet, stooping down to again pick up the book.

Jack refused to look back at the house, all his resolve focused on reaching the truck. Limping ahead, the night was quiet, and he hurried to act, the knowledge of the horrific creature in pursuit all the impetus necessary. He dared not consider the possibility of the truck being locked, and pulled on the door handle, breathing a sigh of relief at finding it open. Jack maneuvered his injured frame inside, his heart dropping as he looked at the empty ignition slot.

The hideous laughter bellowed into the night as the monster stormed through the house. He realized in horror that his own keys were back in the spare bedroom, tucked into his coat jacket.

There was no chance of sneaking past the monster, and the prospect of flight was unthinkable now when he was wounded.

Jack looked at the book, remembering Richard's words. He rummaged through the truck, searching for the small bracelet. Jack opened the glove compartment, finding nothing. The seats were empty, and Jack listened with dread to the approaching laughter. In desperation, he felt under the driver's seat, his hand coming to rest on a metal object.

It was the missing bracelet. Jack held the book, pulling the fastener tight and putting the charm into place. From the corner of his eye, a dark shape moved closer, filling the night with its tortured call.

"Come on," Jack whispered, struggling to fit the lock. He was out of time.

He ignored the huge figure drawing closer, focusing only on his perspiring hands. Jack's heart leapt as he snapped the bracelet tight, once again sealing the book. The night crackled outside the truck, and flashes of raw energy sliced through the fabric of air itself as a portal separating dimensions was ripped open.

The monster froze, the deadly claws hovering in the air, inches from the truck.

Fantastic colors blazed through the night, blue, orange, red, mixtures of every hue imaginable, combining in a dazzling frenzy that scorched the ground at the creature's clawed feet.

Koogabar shrieked in recognition at the spell being woven, uttering its hatred of life, and what was being lost to it once more.

The charm strengthened, churning inevitably to completion, banishing the relentless demon back to its netherworld prison. The hairs on Jack's arms stood in static attention, and his eyes squinted at the bright display before him. He finally breathed as the air settled, and darkness filled in the momentary gap of space like black ink. There was no sign of the monster.

The ancient spell of warding was finished, and the creature walked the world no longer.

Tears rolled down Jack's face at the harrowing escape, along with grief over the loss of his friend. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the steering wheel. There he sat for countless moments, reliving the nightmare, voicing a silent prayer of thanks. He gazed down at the incredibly dangerous book, vowing to make sure human hands never again could access the black secrets contained inside.

Jack left the truck, trudging painfully back to the empty house.

The normal sounds of night returned, but his mind replayed the horrific visage of the demon, scarring his memory, something he knew would linger there always, never to be erased.

Devil Man of the Hollow

Our expedition reached the top of a craggy hillside which had impeded progress for most of the day. Drenched with sweat, arms and hands bloodied from the brush, our trek had not been a pleasant one. The mostly British group consisted of twelve men, including myself and four hired locals to lead us through this relatively unfamiliar region of the jungle. We were skirting the edge of the present frontier, and now walked in areas that none of our race had ever seen before.

We were the first - the toughest breed among men, explorers of the vast jungle, and heirs to the fortunes that lay in wait beyond the horizon.

"All right. We break among those rocks near the top. Move out."

Exhausted and bruised, the men continued in the direction I had pointed. I was parched with thirst and my stomach groaned for a reprieve, but one learns to ignore such inconveniences if he wishes to survive long in the jungle, and I had been ignoring them for the past seven years.

As we gathered around an outcropping of a few boulders, I noticed a change in our guides. They had led us through numerous miles of some of the deepest undergrowth we had ever seen without so much as a hint of uncertainty. These natives knew the land and were in communion with its nature. To exist in such a harsh climate demanded respect and understanding - they possessed both. There could be no mistakes for an error in the jungle meant death. You needed to gain that knowledge of survival by watching the ones who had persevered and still continued to do so. But now I sensed a conflict of wills being waged between our guides and my man Robinson, so I walked into their midst.

"I say, is there some confusion here?"

"There does seem to be a problem, sir," Robinson answered. "The trail forks and goes off in different directions."

I followed his gaze and saw a fork in the trail several dozen yards ahead. The main path went in a southerly route and the smaller path branched to the left almost due east, which was the general vicinity of our destination.

The path edged about the ridge we had come over, then made its way down the other side into a hollow filled with lush vegetation. The hollow did not appear to be impassable by any means, and I needed to make some good time here.

Robinson was peering at the map with disdain, the long mustache on his weathered face drooping with disapproval. He shook his head and spoke to Chatra, the guide leader. Chatra was pointing at two of his men who were staring into the hollow. When I considered this later, the two had been shifting their fingers in very strange fashion, and I had overlooked it at the time. Queer, I had thought. If only I had taken heed. The movements had been warding-off gestures to whatever presence they feared in the hollow below.

"These two chaps refuse to go down this path, despite the fact that we will probably save over a day getting to the village, maybe more from the look of it. You can even see the lip of the next ridge. Can't be more than two days march from here, if that." Robinson gave me a hard look of confidence and waited for my agreement.

"Well then, what reason do these fellows give for such reluctance? Head hunters? Never any mention before of such. Why won't Chatra keep them in line now?"

Robinson shook his head. "They are not from his village, but a smaller one down south. They will take the main path or start home."

"What? Did you tell them they would forfeit their pay? What think they of that?"

But Robinson had threatened the two already. "They will not change their minds. They insist on going south, and say that we enter the hollow at great peril." As Robinson spoke, he snatched phrases from Chatra for the translation, a guttural dialogue, one that I only partially understood.

"Sir, it seems that this hollow is some sort of taboo land for them." He looked at me with a slight scowl, which indicated growing annoyance. Robinson had been with me for a long time and I trusted his instinct.

"Ah, some superstitious nonsense. These natives create the most horrific stories and scare the wits out of themselves. There is no end to the tales they weave. Tell Chatra to offer an additional days' wage, and let's end this rubbish."

Robinson beseeched the leader once again but the two held firm. I looked back at the others who were relaxing in the afternoon heat, sitting beneath a small grove of trees. All except for Crane, who had been kneeling on one leg, hand shading his eyes as he stared down to the valley floor.

Crane was a reserved and soft-spoken fellow. The man never once complained and would lend a hand wherever the need was. His family was well off, and he had more education than the rest of the group. His background made him more distinguished than the other men, but once they became acquainted, a strong friendship had been forged between them. I turned to see how Robinson had fared and the look on his face gave me the answer.

"Well now, if they are so afraid then let them leave," I said. "But what say our man Chatra? Will he go too?"

"No, sir. He says that the tribes around here believe in strange things. He scoffs at such talk. I believe Chatra has spent enough time with civilized men like us that he isn't frightened by jungle spirits anymore."

Chatra stood with his arms folded, his face impassive as usual. There was not an ounce of humor to be found in the tough native. A natural leader of his people, he made an imposing figure. Tall, broad of chest, rippling muscles - these features created an aspect of granite about the man. Immovable, unemotional. Wishing to quench my thirst, I opened my water flask and drank deeply. I peered over the rim and watched as Crane approached.

"Sir."

"What is it, Crane?" There was an odd look on the man's face. He appeared a bit unwell.

"May I have a word with you?" I walked over to him. "Certainly, man. Are you feeling all right?" Crane pulled at his shirtsleeve nervously. Something was bothering him.

"Well, I don't quite know how to answer that question. Maybe feel is the wrong word." The look on his face was puzzling. "Could be there is some truth in what those two fellows are saying." Crane met my gaze unflinchingly. Here was another that I could rely on, one who wasn't prone to spook at fairy tales.

"Come now, Crane." I replied. "Surely you're not going to say that there is truth in this tale? Too much heat, maybe? You look a shade pale."

He shook his head. Crane was the youngest of us but had knowledge beyond his twenty-five years. "No, not at all. This hollow has a strange taste to it. I was trying to put my finger on, but I don't know..."

"What do you think, then? Head hunters? Apes? We can take care of these. Have before. Is this your worry?" But my guesses were well off the mark.

"No. I would feel better actually if it were such things. Do you know how the jungle always is so full of activity, vibrant? There is a natural order here, and it pulsates with life. And now, this is hard to put into words, but the hollow seems dead. Yes, we can see the plants and trees, but nothing else. There are no birds or animals to be seen. And further yet, although you may think me odd, I have the feeling that we are being watched. By who or what, I don't know."

As I listened to his words, my gaze searched the hollow. There did seem to be a lack of game, but that would point to a large predator. A pride of lions, maybe. To be sure, we would take extra caution. That could be the rationale behind the reluctance of the two men. Probably some unfortunate natives had fallen prey to the beasts. It didn't take much in these parts for a new legend to find root.

Even so, scanning the jungle gave me the peculiar sensation that there was indeed something observing us. I attributed the cause to the anxiety of the others and brushed off the notion at once, deciding that we best move ahead by the quickest means possible, and that meant through the hollow. The last thing we needed was to second-guess ourselves after we had come so far.

I clapped the man on the back and told him my plan. He was to continue south with our two reluctant guides and stick to the main trail. Another of our group would accompany him and they would make sure those two earned their pay. That left seven men led by Chatra and myself to cut through the hollow and map out a better path for the next company. It was settled.

Robinson and Chatra conversed with the guides and the other men prepared to move on. "Sir, you won't reconsider?" Crane had a look of concern across his youthful features. "Perhaps we can gather a larger group from the village to better search this hollow."

For a brief second, I hesitated, but then my overconfidence came to light.

"My good fellow, I will see you safely on the other side of this bowl. If there is a lion, we will carry his head up to the village and stake it for all to see. The tables will be set and the meat hot, as the rest of us await your arrival. Stray not from the trail and we will meet before the new moon shines again."

With that, we wished all good fortune and once again were on the march.

It was a few hours later when we had descended into the hollow and reached the bottom. The way down was not too difficult, but the path was, at times, hard to follow. There were a number of fallen trees to climb over, and one needed to be ceaselessly vigilant against the presence of the many poisonous snakes that made the jungle their home.

In the lead were Chatra and Robinson. These men were born trackers. Next followed Edward and Landers, both seasoned hunters and skilled in the ways of the deep jungle. Landers was tall and thin, with several scars on his face from combat. Quick as a cat he was. Edward was a giant of a man, six and a half feet at least. The sight of him alone in several villages was enough to demand their instant respect as he walked among the natives, towering over them.

After this pair came Jamie and Woods, the two with the shortest amount of experience in the wild but still good men. I followed next and the other guide, Saric, followed me. We were in hunting formation, with our middle flanking out furthest. My position in the party enabled me to maximize action against any situation that arose.

Evening was drawing near and our group made decent time. Nothing untoward had occurred and all thoughts of the unusual were at rest. The air was becoming a bit cooler and this was a welcome change from the oppressive heat. The mood was light and some of the men started singing an old drinking song. This did not bother me, as long as they stayed alert for potential hazards.

They had been singing for a good while, when I slowly began to feel uneasy. I have always placed trust in my own senses, would that I had done so with someone else's.

I surveyed our formation; everything was satisfactory.

Shifting my gaze skyward, I could make out the dim glimmer of early evening stars as they began to dot the heavens. It was getting late. A suitable campsite would have to be picked shortly, but I was certain our lead men had already started to search for one. The foliage in this area was not too badly overgrown, so they would more than likely call for a halt soon. The men were still singing and in good spirits, and they remained observant.

Then it struck me.

It was the singing that bothered me, for there was no other sound to be heard. Since we had traveled deeper into the hollow, there hadn't been any of the normal jungle noises one grew accustomed to. No birds, insects, or wildlife. Maybe during the descent there had existed some activity, but now there was none.

Was I the only one of us to notice?

I peered over my shoulder to check on Saric. His face confirmed my own disquiet. He gave me a knowing look, and his eyes darted nervously left and right. The native looked back into the jungle we'd left behind, and then he stopped. Immediately I gave a quick whistle, and my men ceased their movement.

With the singing now ended, a deathly quiet fell on the surrounding jungle. There was no other sign of life besides our own to be heard. We were intruders in a hostile land - my apprehension grew.

"Men, hold guard." Robinson made his way back towards me as the group attained a defensive posture. I reached Saric's side as the native crouched down. His hunting knife was clenched in his hand and he looked like a cat ready to spring.

"Sir, what is..." My swift gesture silenced Robinson instantly. I pointed to Saric and he understood my caution. Slowly Robinson crept back to us and went to the native's side. In hushed tones he spoke in the tribal dialect for several moments. They both peered intently into the jungle behind us, and spoke some more. I turned to check on the others but all seemed to be in order. No one had dropped their vigilance.

By now it was almost fully dark, and a slight mist rose sluggishly amongst the undergrowth. It had an eerie effect on our minds coupled with the lack of any sounds reaching our ears.

Some of the men started to become restless, and what had been a strong and confident force only minutes ago was now experiencing pangs of self-doubt and trepidation. The atmosphere was laden with tension - it was palpable. Invisible tendrils of fear reached out of the encircling darkness, searching for a foothold to latch onto. A weakened spirit can lead to panic and despair in the great jungle. I had seen it before.

Robinson left Saric's side and approached. He seemed unnerved, and that worried me. "What is it, man?" I asked him. "What does he see?"

"He's not sure what it is, but Saric is convinced we are being followed. Even more so, we are being hunted by something. It is noiseless and out of sight, but there can be no doubt. He does not understand the nature of this creature or its purpose, but it tracks us. Ever since sundown."

His words sent a cold shiver through me. I had known the answer before it had been spoken.

"Did he see it? Maybe we can identify the beast, then perhaps ensnare it."

Robinson ran his hand absently over the rifle he shouldered and considered his reply.

"Saric said that he caught a quick glimpse of it. About half an hour back he became aware of something, but whenever he looked there was nothing to be seen, so he tried an old hunter's trick and turned back around a tree to disguise his intentions."

He paused uncomfortably.

"Out with it, man." I growled. "Look around - it grows late."

"Well, what he says he saw wasn't an animal."

"Native, head hunter?" I queried. Robinson shook his head.

"Well then, confound it." My patience was eroding. "What did Saric think it was?" The jungle was darkening swiftly, and with the thickening mist, the men would be wondering what our intention was.

"Saric said the creature was man-shaped, but looked tall and lean. It was black as the night, without any color. A pair of yellow eyes stared straight at him. It had a tail, and on its head were horns..."

Chills crawled down my back as a sudden horror reached out to my heart. The next question was a terrible one, but I had to ask it.

"Robinson, when those two chaps refused to come with us, what exactly did they fear?" I dreaded his answer. Robinson's eyes grew wide.

"They said there was a devil man in the hollow..."

We both looked back at Saric who still had not moved. I told Robinson that camp must be made, but a light one. There would be little sleep tonight. He and Chatra had noticed a small clearing just ahead and were going to suggest this before our pause. I sent him forward and told the men to move slowly onward, on full alert. I was not convinced of what Saric had seen, but I knew he had seen something.

As the men resumed the march, I went back to Saric. He very carefully stood up, and pointed towards a thick clump of bushes about forty yards to our rear. I looked intensely but saw nothing. I strained my eyes for at least a minute and then suddenly I spotted a figure.

There was a deeper shadow within the shadows, and I caught a pair of yellow pinpricks - unflinching, gazing directly at us.

My breathing became heavier and I reached for my rifle, never taking my eyes off what we were seeing. As I slowly moved my weapon forward, the eyes vanished and the shadow was gone.

The temptation to fire off a shot into the brush was great, but discretion did not allow for it. The men would be alarmed, and I needed all their resources as intact as possible. In all my experience in the wild, I had never seen something move so quickly and quietly. What had we spotted?

I touched the guide on his shoulder and nodded ahead to where the rest had gone. I did not want to be left too far behind. The two of us headed out but Saric walked facing backwards. He was not going to let himself become exposed to the elusive creature stalking us, so we made our way slowly toward the clearing. When at last we neared it, Robinson and Edward had made sure that we did not get too far back and joined in our progress without speaking.

The trees opened up and there was a decent patch of low grass that was suitable for setting camp. The men had unpacked the bare essentials, and a good-sized fire was burning as we entered the area. This was not too far off the path, and we could regain it with ease the next day. The night sky was becoming increasingly difficult to see, as the mist did not let up. I wanted four men on watch at all times. There would be no surprises while the others slept, if rest could be found at all.

I wanted either Chatra or Saric awake through dawn at least. Their jungle skills were at levels that none of us outsiders could ever attain to. Neither questioned the order - they realized that we were dealing with an unknown creature here. They spoke for a while in their native tongue and seemed to agree on something. Saric went to one of the camp perimeters and held a rifle in his lap. Edward, Jamie, and Woods posted the other corners, while myself and Robinson held a conference. The other two now lay in repose.

"You saw it then." Robinson said.

I nodded grimly. "Never seen such a strange beast. Didn't get much of a look, just the outline and those penetrating eyes. If I wouldn't know any better, it seemed to be measuring us somehow. Brought my gun to sight, and it disappeared in a flash. Gone in an instant. Anything that can move with such speed is deadly, not to be underestimated."

Robinson could only nod his head in agreement. "Well then, until we know what manner of creature we are dealing with, there can be no lowering of caution while in this hollow. Could be a species undiscovered before. That explains the native's fear. Whether or not it is dangerous we don't know, and hopefully will never find out. Although, one beast against an armed company is at a great disadvantage."

His words made sense, but did little to ease my concerns. True, we did have firepower and a numbers advantage, as long as there did not exist others of the creature, but it was the nature of what we were dealing with that worried me. Probable intelligence, speed and agility, and foremost, we were trespassing in its domain. These were all equalizers in the field. I knew not to what side the odds favored. That bothered me.

I told Robinson to get some rest; we would both have a chance at watch later. He went off, and I surveyed the camp. The encircling trees were impenetrable in the darkness. My men remained on post, weapons ready.

The silence was chilling.

Not a single night bird to be heard. The jungle pressed in on us from all sides waiting to forever swallow up any who dared venture beyond the perimeter of our camp. The air felt heavy and thick with anticipation, the dampness seeping into our clothes. I observed all these things, and realized then that we should never have stepped foot into the hollow.

This valley was somehow unnatural. The world known to us had been left behind. We had been warned and chose to ignore the warning. What price would we have to pay?

Well, I had to at least try to get some sleep. A tired man makes mistakes, and there was no room for any down here in the hollow.

I began to make my way to the fire glancing over at Saric, and froze instantly. The native now stood and was staring up at the trees in front of himself, raising the sights of his gun. I followed his gaze and saw a pair of yellow, unblinking eyes in the branches. But before I could bring my own weapon around, they vanished. I walked over to Saric as he now was aiming to fire, but there was nothing visible.

Our movements had caught the attention of the others, and they were now looking our way. At that moment the silence was broken by a bloodcurdling howl from the trees, and everyone sprang to their feet.

A shadowy figure erupted without warning from the jungle opposite Saric and myself, and went directly at Edward. The creature moved with amazing speed as it grabbed the big man and leapt back into the trees carrying the large man as if he were weightless.

It happened so fast that no one had time to react.

There was a brief scream of anguish and we knew Edward was gone.

Jamie and Woods started firing rounds from their rifles in the general area but there was no more movement or noise.

"Wait, stop firing!" Robinson was bellowing to the men. They were shooting blindly and in near panic. "Hold on!" Chaos took hold for a few moments as the men continued shooting. Robinson ran up to them to restore some order.

As soon as this had taken place, Chatra had picked up a flaming brand and scanned the trees in all directions. Saric never took his eyes off the tree line for a second.

"No firing!" I yelled. "Keep alert for the beast! If we panic now, we are lost!"

Robinson came to my side. "What type of demon is this? I've never seen such speed! It carried Edward off like a sack of flour!"

Chatra yelled over to Robinson for a few seconds. "What does he say?" Robinson's face looked hideously pale in the flickering firelight.

"He thinks this is all a trap. The creature distracted us. It was no accident that it chose Edward. It went after the biggest and strongest of us first."

His words only added to my horror. If this creature had such cunning, there was no way of gauging its next move. The big hunter was taken out so quickly that the shock of it had not sunk in yet.

"Come on, man, pull yourself together." I looked over to see Jamie shaking with terror, and Landers was trying to snap him out of it. Jamie was mumbling incoherently and appeared to be in great distress. Meanwhile, Chatra had thrown numerous flaming branches all around the camp to increase our visibility.

The whole setting had an unreal quality to it. Such a creature should not exist. Could not exist. We were in a living nightmare without waking. There would be no help from the outside world.

A shot suddenly rang out in the night. I lifted my gun and saw Woods firing into the trees. Robinson was also firing, and now Landers was aiming. I wasn't sure what they saw, but hoped they had found a target.

Round after round went off and I scanned the clearing, seeing nothing. The two natives moved their rifles up but were looking elsewhere. At this point, Jamie had been forgotten and I saw him staggering apparently in a daze, dangerously close to the brush to the left of Robinson.

"Robinson!" I yelled out over the gunfire but wasn't heard. I started over towards them and now Jamie was only yards from the bushes.

Before my eyes I saw a long vine whip out from between two trees and lassoed around the man's head. He jerked forward like a puppet and flew into the air at least a dozen yards; his neck broken instantly.

I screamed in rage and fired into the jungle, emptying my rifle.

After several moments, all the firing stopped. Robinson yelled for everyone to hold their weapons and he slowly walked towards the body of Jamie. "Cover me, be alert!" Robinson moved forward in a half crouch, gun ready to fire. He hesitated as he reached Jamie, and pulled him back slowly with one arm.

There was no movement.

I had reloaded and was hoping to catch some glimpse of this monster, but it remained hidden. We all kept our eyes fixed on the jungle, but there was no hint of it anywhere. Our only choice was to wait and pray for sunrise.

One cannot imagine the incredible fear that we faced those dreadful hours until dawn. The cold terror, the shadows we thought we saw, noises we thought we heard. Several times there were shots fired by one of us, and we expected another attack, but none materialized. The creature was temporarily satisfied, but now our number was diminished to five. Who would be the next victim?

As the first ray of light streamed over the jungle canopy, we breathed a little easier. The horror of the night lingered - blanketing our minds, shrouding our spirits, but it was finally time for action. With three still guarding, the rest quickly packed up and we were ready to move. There was no hesitation as we cut straight into the jungle towards the path. Our only chance was to try and leave the hollow as soon as possible in the hope that the creature only came out at nightfall.

Chatra believed that if we followed the trail, we would reach the opposite end of the valley within several hours, so we moved forward at a generous pace. The path led in the direction we felt would bring us out of there, so we continued.

The morning wore on as our group pressed forward through the trees, and as before there was not a sign of any living animal. Now the truth was known. There was no beast alive that would be a match for this deadly predator. It was gaining on midday when I started to wonder if the trail would lead us out. There still was no hint of any incline, and the valley seemed endless. The morning remained uneventful but I wanted to be well out of the hollow by afternoon.

We trudged onward without rest, tired and silent. Everyone shared the same thoughts. The events of the previous night had drained us emotionally and physically. Sheer force of will and fear drove us forward.

It was early afternoon when the company halted unexpectedly. I was still in the rear with Saric when the terrain became softer but seemed to have a slight incline. I believed we were nearing the other side at last. The vegetation was incredibly thick here and the path narrowed sharply. A mist started to form around us and the air grew damp. Our visibility decreased sharply when the trackers stopped and called for me to come forward. As I made my way to the front, the brush opened up and I let out a gasp.

The path abruptly ended into a vast bog with no end in sight, blocking our forward progress. There were several yells of dismay at our predicament, and an uneasy suspicion crept into my head.

"Fool, I am a bloody fool!" I yelled. "All this time we blindly trusted to this trail, never bothering to question the intent of it. Why was it here and who made it? The answer lies before us. That creature is the maker of the path for its own vile purpose, and now it has led us to this abysmal swamp!"

The choices, which lay before us, were grim. We could try and pick our way through it, skirt around the edge hoping to find an end, or go back through the hollow, knowing that we would face another night there.

None of us voted for the last choice so we decided to find a way through the swamp. Within only a few yards from the edge, the footing became treacherous. Knee deep in mud, the men tried to find a means of passage out of the murky waters.

The fog was thickening now that we were at the source, and it swirled lazily between the dead tree trunks that had fallen victim to the unquenchable thirst of the bog. Unseen insects droned in the distance, an occasional bullfrog croaked across the dismal fen, as if in mockery of our plight. I could just make out the back of Woods in front me when we came across an area of deep mud that reached our thighs. If this were to become any deeper, we would be forced to turn back.

I yelled up to Woods to check with the trackers and make sure the mud did not get deeper. After a minute he told me to bear to the right where the going was easier. The slime was now up to my midsection and I began to sink lower.

Quicksand!

"Woods!" I yelled. "Rope, now!" He yelled up to the others and they turned back to help. The soft mud did not allow for faster action and I knew better than to struggle, although I was immersed up past my waist now and still sinking. I had forgotten about Saric when I heard a short cry in back of me.

The guide was chest deep in the mire and looking frantically for something to grab onto. There was an old tree half submerged several yards from him but just out of reach. His situation looked desperate.

"Hurry! Saric is trapped!" The men took their rope out and Woods now retrieved it, but the deep mud hampered his progress. Saric was in a panic now, and this only made his situation worse.

"Hold, man! Don't move!" I tried to calm him down but he was overcome with fear. Woods threw out a length of rope to me but was off mark. My own predicament was worsening as I continued sinking. Again Woods tossed the rope and this time I grabbed the end.

He tugged and I didn't budge. Landers was almost at his side now, and looking back I could only see Saric's head. There was not much time left. Landers helped to pull and now Robinson was there as well. The men had to stay back unless they were to share our fate. They needed firmer footing for leverage. I yelled encouragement to Saric but his arms flailed wildly about, his head tilted to keep from swallowing the mud.

The three men slowly pulled me out and I was gasping for air as they dragged me through the sludge. When I was out far enough, Robinson came toward me and Woods threw the rope towards Saric, but it was too late.

We watched helplessly as his right arm hovered over the surface for an instant, then vanished into the depths of the swamp.

Chatra had not said a word, but his eyes betrayed the bitter loss of his kinsman. The rest of us were in great despair - exhausted, frightened, hungry, and unsure of when the swamp would end. We went ahead a bit where more solid ground was to be found and rested.

I felt an odd sensation on my leg and found a huge black leech beneath my pants, blood seeping from my skin. I cut the foul parasite out with my knife and Robinson said bitterly, "I guess there is life down here anyway." I spat in disgust.

"You know, that mud swallowed us up so quickly, we scarcely had time to react. The experience I have learned with quicksand is patience and do not struggle. That mire went against everything I know. Poor Saric didn't have a prayer."

"This hollow has its own laws," answered Landers. "What we have seen so far defies explanation. Does our guide have any idea of our whereabouts?" Robinson conversed with the taciturn native and replied. "He is unsure of the direction. The mist and swamp have distorted his tracking skills. His choice would be to go where the ground seems more solid, and he believes that will take us further north. I agree, and the sooner the better. The day grows old."

His statement brought back our earlier fears and off we went.

The footing began to improve and our spirits began to rise as we reached solid ground and left the swamp behind us. Our progress increased and the vegetation was less oppressive on this side. The mist was still with us but not quite as thick. We were in the same twilight since late that morning, and darkness would fall early unless we could reach some higher ground. I called for a short break and Chatra was convinced that the region was starting to level upwards. Finishing quickly, our group moved off once more and we could see that nightfall was nearly upon us.

We had changed formation now with Robinson walking behind me since the loss of Saric. He had insisted on it and we all stayed close, in single file and everyone within a few yards of each other. The ground had definitely begun to slope upward and we finally reached the bottom edge of the valley. The last reservoir of our strength was being tapped, as we knew the end was within sight.

The trees opened up and there before us was the cliff side, but much steeper than we had anticipated. Rocks and boulders were strewn all around and the footing looked treacherous.

I grimly told the men to spread out to reduce the risk of us all being caught in a fall, and up we went. The ascent called for extreme caution, as the ground was loose with numerous rocks and jagged edges all about. A cluster of large boulders lay about a hundred yards above us, and beyond that was a thick area of brambles and high brush before the cliff leveled off.

Darkness had fallen and we were nearing the rocks when Landers let out a curse. Looking up, we spotted a black figure standing among the rock pile, eyes glittering bright yellow.

The creature stood motionless for a moment and then sprang onto an outcropping of huge boulders several dozen yards above us. I knew what it had in mind and with an immense show of power it loosened two huge rocks tumbling down upon us.

We all tried to scatter but there was no time. One of the boulders headed straight at Robinson, barely missing myself. He was hit square on and toppled helplessly beneath it down the cliff.

Another one passed between Woods and Landers, and they narrowly avoided it. Landers flattened against the ground but Woods was not so fortunate. The movement to avoid being crushed made him lose his balance and he fell off the wall. I watched as he rolled sideways over and over again, battering against the sharp rocks.

He didn't stop until he was near the bottom and there he remained, unmoving.

In all the mayhem, Chatra was the only one to take action. He had continued up to the rock pile with his rifle in hand. I watched as he came within yards of the creature, which now made no attempt to seek cover. I yelled for him not to get too close, and I brought up my gun to aim.

The creature stood still, and I could see its unblinking gaze was fixed on the native. Chatra pointed his sights on the beast and in that second it chose to move.

With startling agility, it leapt to the right and crouched on top of a large rock formation. Chatra squeezed off several rounds but the monster was already in action. I could not shoot for fear of hitting the guide, so I watched what ensued in horror.

The creature leapt closer to the tough native, and Chatra whipped out his long knife. The beast feinted left, and then in a blur of lightning speed closed on the hapless man and gave him a crushing blow to the skull. It picked up the unconscious victim and dashed him onto the rocks below.

Enraged, I fired at the demon, and found a target at last. One of my shots struck it in the chest and it howled its hatred at me. It fell on one clawed limb, and I unloaded the rest of my stock, connecting several more times.

Down it fell, the eyes dimming. In its last breath, it screamed in such anguish that I nearly collapsed right there. I lay on the ground, still not believing that the beast was dead. I crawled forward and confirmed my hopes. It lay there lifeless, an unknown creature that leant substance to the native folklore, and with good reason.

I peered down to the bottom of the cliff trying to make out the body of Woods - but where was Landers? I had caught a glimpse of him trying to reach Woods, but now he was gone as well. Maybe he would appear at the top of the cliff, waiting for me.

Woods might yet be alive, although how badly injured I dared not think. I made my way carefully in the dark and found him lying there, and my worst fears were realized. The only thing left for me now was to get out of the hollow and reach the village, but without my men, although I still hoped to find Landers. I sobbed and cursed our ill fortune, but there was nothing I could do to ease my anguish.

As I started upwards, a noise broke the silence that froze every nerve in my body. A blood-curdling howl echoed through the night, coming down from the cliff.

There was another creature.

The final shred of my hope vanished as it was answered by another scream, this one coming from the jungle. There were several of these monsters, and they had come to avenge their fallen brethren.

And now I hear a howl much closer in the trees behind me, and I can sense its presence as it hunts me. My rifle is empty and all I have left is my hunting knife, which is useless against such a demon.

All I have time for is regret as I await the approach of my enemy.

Rift

Greg stared at Marc's deadly serious face. He peered into the dark eyes of emerald sea-ice trying to discern the clouded thoughts that lay buried within. Marc wore a painted countenance of stony indifference, the ex-marine unreadable.

"Bastard," said Greg.

"Will you two stop it? Geez!" Pete Wilson towered above the mahogany, octagon-shaped table, his fists curled into tight balls as he watched the men stare each other down. "This is absolutely insane."

The room was silent as the two adversaries sat in cushioned, high-backed chairs, the tension palpable in the cozy room which served as Greg's den, replete with bar, billiard table, wide-screen television, and shag-rug carpeting, like a tacky seventies bachelor pad.

"I don't believe this. I'm getting another drink." Pete walked away, tapping a draught from the beer meister.

Greg could take no more, and he slammed his hand down on the table. "You win! I'm out."

A mirthless grin creased Marc's tan face. He held up his palm for Greg to see as Pete returned, chugging from a frosted mug. Pete broke into a low chuckle at the misery pasted onto Greg's clean-shaven face, clapping him on the back with a meaty hand. "Suckered you again, my friend."

In Marc's hand was a pair of deuces and sixes.

Greg grabbed his hair and tugged at both sides. "You bluffed me again, you son -"

"Don't say it. Gambling is a bad enough vice, and now you want to curse me as well?" Marc spread his lean arms out like a bear, and slowly pulled the poker chips toward his sizable pile in a slow, deliberate motion, savoring every second, smacking his lips together.

"With a face like that, you should have been a lawyer, you know that? Bet you lie to your own priest," Greg said disgustedly.

"What a sore loser," answered Marc. "Do you hear this, Pete? In one fell swoop he assassinates my character and my good looks. What's next? Is he going to kick my dog?"

Pete and Marc both laughed as Greg lumbered over to the bar, his smaller, stocky frame turned away from them. "If it was here I would," he said, shaking his head, the wispy blond hair falling neatly back into place.

"I'm kind enough to invite you idiots over, and all I get is an empty wallet and cheap insults. Clowns."

Pete doubled over, laughing ferociously. Marc waved his hands in the air, pretending to play a violin. Pete followed his lead and started an old country song about broken hearts and lost dreams.

"Spare me." Greg picked up the remote from the Formica-topped bar, flicking through the channels, stopping as a red blip passed across the screen. "Hey, check this out."

"What is it, the sympathy channel?" answered Pete, joining Marc's ghostly serenade by prancing about in an exaggerated waltz.

"That's funny, remember who lost last month? You were crying the blues about your high payment on that gas-guzzling SUV you just bought, looking for mercy from both of us."

"That was then, this is now, we don't live in the past, do we, Marc?"

Marc nodded his shaved head, setting down his imaginary violin and making a sweeping bow. Pete looked at the screen, still grinning. His smile faded as he read the warning that scrolled across the picture. "Wow, that looks like one nasty storm coming."

"We're right in the middle, too." Greg pointed with his index finger. Sue and Lisa better stay off the roads until it passes."

"Why don't you call them, maybe they don't know how bad it's supposed to get." Marc sat down on a recliner, looking up at the single window in the room. Fat raindrops splattered against the square glass panel, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. The noise was like a freight train approaching at a furious pace, and they looked nervously at each other.

"Look," said Pete, rising up from his seat. "I've never such intensity." Greg had changed the channel to the local forecast, and their town was directly in the center projection of the storm's path, the radar image at the maximum level.

"I'll get out the oil lamps, wouldn't be surprised if we lost the electricity. Let's just hope we don't get hit with a tornado."

All humor in the room faded as they stared at the window. Greg opened the closet, grabbing a flashlight and supplies.

"It's almost on us." Pete tapped the bar with restive fingers, biting his lip. The storm raged outside, streaks blaring through the window like a macabre strobe light. The fluorescent bulbs overhead went out for a brief moment, then flickered back on. The wrath of the storm was mounting, the thunderclaps echoing into the room like cannon fire.

"Holy -" Marc jumped up, as a bolt struck nearby.

"No swearing here, remember?" yelled Greg sarcastically, lighting the wick on a tall oil lamp. "You're not afraid of a little rain, now are -" His sentence was cut off as a tremendous explosion ripped through the house, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Pete fell headlong into the bar, knocking his head against the top, while Marc tumbled over the recliner. The entire structure shook as the earth vibrated with staggering force, the liquor bottles behind the bar collapsing to the carpet, two paintings careening from the walls. The quake lasted for several seconds as the terrified men groped blindly in the dark as the lights went out.

The wind was knocked out of Greg as he landed hard on his ribs, feeling a sharp stab of pain on his left side from the impact. A high-pitched tone resonated from outside, thin and piercing, similar to a whistle, but much louder, wavering through the air and increasing to an ear-splitting crescendo before reaching unbearable levels.

Then everything stopped. The noise was gone, the shaking finished. Scarcely daring to breathe, Greg crawled forward on hands and knees, dazed and shaking. "You guys all right?"

Marc whispered from several feet away. "I think so. What happened? An earthquake?"

"Maybe." Greg searched for his flashlight in the pitch-black room. "Sounds like the storm is gone, at least. I hate to see the damage upstairs. Hey Pete?"

His friend failed to answer, and he called again.

"Pete, you all right?" Concern filled his quivering voice at the lack of response. "Marc, are you near him?"

"Don't know. Can't see a thing down here."

"Strange, there's not even a glimmer of light from outside. Man, that had to be a direct strike." Greg rested his hand on a rubber-tipped object, finding the flashlight.

"Maybe there's a volcano in your backyard, and it erupted," said Marc. "That was worse than artillery - believe me, I've been there, and I don't need to revisit that hell."

"I'll take your word on that one. Got the flashlight." Greg turned the switch, the pale beam illuminating the wood panels of the den. "Where's Pete?" He scanned the room, spotting his friend scant inches from where he stood, motionless on the floor.

"Marc, I think he's knocked out."

The other man followed the glare and approached. "Shine it on his head."

The beam revealed an ugly bruise on Pete's forehead, and Greg gasped.

"Looks pretty bad," said Marc.

"You know first aid. What do you need?" Greg felt his heart pounding, fearing the worst for his friend.

"Towel, water, get your cell phone, too, if the lines are out. He has a concussion, I'm sure. At least it wasn't on his temple." Marc examined Pete's injury, feeling his pulse and checking his breathing. "I'll try to bring him out - if it's real bad, he might slip into a coma."

Greg nodded, finding the oil lamp at the fringe of the light. Some of the liquid had spilled onto the carpet, but the container was over half full. The matches were next to the lamp, and he quickly lit the lantern, handing it to Marc.

"I'll call an ambulance. Be right back."

He hurried to the steps, glancing back at Marc crouched over the immobile figure of Pete.

It looked like a scene from an old black-and-white horror movie.

Standing in the wreckage of the kitchen with trembling hands, Greg could not wipe away the pathetic image of Pete, lying helplessly below in the den, under Marc's watchful eyesc. Please, let him be all right, he thought.

The phone lines were dead of course. He knew the truth before he even picked up the bone-white receiver. Greg felt like he was wading through the set of a disaster movie. Broken glass and silverware were strewn everywhere. The kitchen table was overturned; the refrigerator door hung wide open, nearly all the food had spilled onto the tiled floor.

He almost cried - his stomach churning like an angry sea.

Grabbing a pair of hand towels, he raced into the living room where he remembered seeing his cell phone. The furniture was shifted, now sitting in the center. The three lamps were completely shattered, and he saw a series of cracks in the wall. The mantel above the fireplace had loosened from its mountings, and now hung lop-sided over the hearth. Passing the beam across the floor, he found the phone next to an overturned stool. Greg dialed the emergency number with shaking hands, but no dial tone registered.

"Come on!" he yelled, frantically pressing the power button, but there was no service. Not even a message to indicate the system status.

He wondered if a direct lightning strike was the cause of the malfunction somehow, but it made no sense. He knew one thing - Pete needed medical assistance, and quickly. They lived in a suburban district, with friendly neighbors on both sides. That was his next option, and he went to the front door, which appeared to be intact. Greg yanked the handle, snapping his hand back in surprise.

The doorknob was ice-cold.

He stared down at his palm in confusion. Had lightning done this too? It was amazing, that a storm could be so extreme in nature as to cause such changes. He crinkled up part of his shirt to turn the handle, feeling the frigidness beneath even that protection. Greg jumped onto the front porch and stopped.

Not a single light was visible anywhere.

A sluggish mist surged in front of the house and behind the swirling vapors was only a cold, empty blackness; deep and forbidding.

Taking cautious steps forward, his eyes stared in disbelief. The surrounding atmosphere was alien - soundless and lightless. Greg reached the end of the porch and felt a prickling sensation crawling across his skin, stinging him like the bite of a thousand tiny insects. Not painful in itself, but terribly irritating. He put one foot down on the top step, and tumbled forward as he missed the concrete.

Greg found himself falling, and flailed blindly with both arms to brace himself. His chest pounded onto the soft turf as he tripped off the porch. A small hole in the mist broke open like a window into a dream - beyond the house was a fathomless void, empty of substance and proportion. Greg's arms grasped onto nothingness as an abyss appeared beneath his chin, only a thin patch of ground preventing his fall into oblivion.

Terrified beyond thought or words he lay there, bruised and frozen, staring at a depth so vast it defied the imagination. It loomed dreadfully before him, an ocean of achromatic space, and Greg was unable to determine whether his vision comprehended merely yards or infinity itself. The revelation crushed down upon his intellect, threatening to stifle his very reasoning, and preconceptions of reality and fantasy. Motionless, choking on fractured gulps of air, he hovered between madness and sanity, his mind desperately searching for a thread of memory to return him from the brink of lunacy.

Time was meaningless, but he managed to find a speck of rationalization that screamed for survival, and he clawed his way backwards onto the porch, the flashlight wedged between his palms in a taloned death-grip.

Every part of his body tingled with an unpleasant sensation, and he looked at his hands, where patches of marrow-colored crystal were forming. He suddenly felt incredibly cold, and staggered back through the front door, collapsing onto the familiar carpet of his home.

But where was his home?

Greg's throat constricted in parched fear, swallowing involuntarily. He chafed his hands together, and the strange coating vanished in a few moments, dissipating into the air like steam rising from a warming asphalt street. He noticed that a dull glow filled the house, without a visible source. The eerie light illuminated the walls, and a shadow appeared on the far wall, originating from within the kitchen.

Greg was overcome by pure, unrelenting horror. Something lurked in the kitchen - something incomprehensible, deadly.

Alien.

There was no justification for his terror, but he was convinced of the danger, as a hidden sense wailed against his instinct. Whimpering like a child, he crawled behind the sofa, hands shaking and teeth chattering, flicking off the flashlight.

Go away, please. Go away.

The seconds were tortuous, but shortly the glow dissipated, and was quenched. He actually passed out for a while, opening his eyes and staring at blackness. He was not wakened from a horrible nightmare, and that terrible verdict squeezed his heart like a fiery tong. Darkness surrounded him, and he felt around for the flashlight, remembering the unseen presence from the kitchen. He seemed to be alone, and he cautiously made his way through the opposite chamber, a small office that led into the dining room.

Both rooms were scenes of wreckage; all the furnishings were strewn about in broken upheaval. In all this time, there was no noise. He passed through the dining area, stopping before the kitchen. There was no other way to the den - the stairs were in the kitchen. And in the den were his friends. If he didn't see them soon, he would be lost. Greg needed the companionship of Marc and Pete. And Pete needed help, but there was none to be found.

The cellar door was open, and he pointed the beam downstairs, fearing to go on, afraid to wait. The den was quiet. It was as if Greg were the only living being in the universe. Holding onto the railing, he descended with uncertain footsteps. His mind shrieked in warning, but onwards he continued, not daring to breathe. He was only a few feet from the bottom, and he paused.

"Marc?"

No answer.

"Pete?"

His voice was a harsh whisper, the words grating forth, penetrating the ominous silence. Greg reached the floor, shining the flashlight through the den.

"Marc? Please answer me."

He walked across the room, avoiding the broken glass reflected in the light, and headed for the bar. Pete was lying in front of the bar when Greg left, but now he was gone. Whipping the flashlight around, Greg felt ready to scream. Here! Pete was right here! Had Marc moved him? Scanning every part of the den now, Greg jumped in fright as the light revealed a huddled figure in the far corner, beneath the stairs.

It was Marc.

Greg hurried over to his friend, nearly falling as he reached him.

"Marc! Where did you move Pete? Marc?"

The beam focused on Marc's face.

His stare was vacant and glazed, seemingly oblivious to Greg's presence, and his mouth hung open, chest rising rapidly as he inhaled ragged bursts of air. Greg knelt down, examining the dilated pupils of Marc's eyes.

Touching Marc's cheek, he recoiled his hand in surprise - the skin felt like frost. Tears of anguish rolled down Greg's face at his friend's plight. Grabbing a throw-blanket from the couch, he draped it over Marc's body, rubbing him vigorously. He continued for several minutes, until Marc's eyes blinked, and his breathing steadied. Shuddering several times, he possessed the look of a feverish man, quivering uncontrollably.

"You'll be okay," said Greg. "Hang in there, buddy."

Satisfied that his friend was coming around, he went over to the small refrigerator, now on its side, and brought out a bottle of water. He poured the liquid into Marc's throat until the reflex muscles took over, and he drank deeply.

"Are you all right? Here, drink some more."

Marc appeared to be regaining his senses, his eyes darting about wildly. "It's okay, calm down. Where did you move Pete?"

At Greg's words, he began shaking his head, mumbling incoherently.

"Snap out of it, Marc, it's me. Greg. What happened?"

Marc put his hands on Greg's shirt, his grip tight enough to tear the fabric. "He's gone!"

"What?"

"Some-something took him, horrible -"

Greg's blood flowed with ice.

"Marc, what took him?" He dreaded to know the answer, but the look in Marc's eyes told him everything.

"A nightmare. Monster."

Every concept of Greg's reality was shattered, as he realized that an incredible phenomenon had occurred. The truth twisted like an invisible serpent around his throat, suffocating him with harsh facts - they were no longer in their familiar neighborhood. Maybe not even in their own world.

"Tell me exactly what you saw. Maybe he regained consciousness, and walked away." He tried to reassure his friend, unable to stop trembling himself.

"No, the room grew colder, and a shadow came down the stairs." Marc pointed at the steps, and they both looked uneasily in the direction. "It wasn't a man, or an animal. It was indescribable."

Greg realized there was no use in denial - he wouldn't be waking up to find his cozy blankets wrapped around him, or his precious Sue and her lemony smile greeting him in the morning.

"I know. I didn't really see it, more like I felt it, when I was coming back. In the kitchen, a shadow. But you saw it." A twinge of pain rippled across Greg's knotted chest, his stomach churning in revulsion.

"The thing had no definable shape, or curves. It was geometric, shifting somehow, without fixed proportions. This sounds insane, but Greg, it's from another planet, or something, I don't know."

Marc bowed his head, the terror deeply etched into his mind. Greg waited for him to recover, and couldn't stop glancing at the steps.

"It glowed, lighting up the room. And came right at Pete."

Greg felt chills crawling down his spine, his shirt soaked in sticky, cold sweat.

"When it touched him, Pete's skin changed color, he looked like a block of ice. I could see through him."

Stunned by Marc's words, Greg became dizzy, sitting down on the floor. It was too unbelievable. "And then what happened," he croaked. "To Pete."

"The thing left with Pete attached somehow to its body. Back upstairs. We've got to get out of here, Greg. Before it comes back!" He hissed the words out, making an attempt to stand.

"Marc. There's no where to go."

"What do you mean?"

"I was outside, but we've moved away from our world. I don't understand how, but it had to be the storm. Past the house -"

Marc's eyes raged with horror. "What? Greg, tell me."

"Nothing. Emptiness, as if we're drifting along in the middle of a great void. Either our world is destroyed, or we've been taken away. It's horrible, but I think we entered into some doorway, a rift between worlds."

The next words crawled out from his mouth in tortured syllables, and he had never felt so helpless in his life.

"I think we're in another dimension."

The bedroom was gloomy, with smoky beeswax candles sitting on top of the dresser and television set. The upstairs showed signs of the quake, but had fared better than below. Taking food from Greg's pantry and kitchen, the men decided to remain far away from the den, where the thing had already once entered, leaving with Pete.

The bedroom was fitted with only two small windows, and both were now nailed shut. Tiny cracks between the boards served as peepholes, but there was nothing to be seen, except for the swirling mist and empty blackness outside. A trunk filled with clothes blocked the doorway, and they sat in whispered conversation, trying to rationalize a hope that everything could be reversed, that it was inconceivable to think they would stay trapped in this other dimension.

"Why would the creature take Pete with it?" Marc sat with hands folded, his eyes staring at the makeshift panels of their protective barriers.

"I don't know. And I'm not sure we can prevent it from doing the same thing to us, I'm afraid. You can throw away all the laws of physics and rationality here, we have no clue to what will happen next."

"I'm frightened, Greg. At least on the battlefield, you know what to expect. You can look across the range, see the enemy, taste their hatred - know them for what they are. But this? My worst nightmare doesn't compare with what happened to us. Especially to Pete."

They both grew quiet, wondering as to the fate of their friend, lost in the forsaken void, taken by a being which defied comprehension.

"Maybe the rift is still open, and we can pass through it again." Greg failed to take comfort in his own words of hope, but Marc snapped his head up, nodding with approval.

"Yeah, you might be right. When a doorway forms between dimensions, the power has to be incredible. Too much from just an ordinary storm, or there would be a precedent for these things."

Greg stood up. "There are a lot of strange stories about unexplained disappearances; ships and planes vanishing. It has happened, and we're living proof. But no one has ever returned to tell."

"Maybe we'll be the first, Greg. Your house disappeared. I never heard of that before. And it still occupies the same space - maybe that's it! A ship or plane is moving, but we're in a fixed location. That doorway might be somewhere outside, or even in the house. We've got to look. It's our only choice."

Greg recognized the truth in Marc's words. "You're right, and we better find it soon, because if the door is still open, I want to go through before it shuts forever."

They scoured every corner of the house, searching for anything unusual that could indicate the location of a disturbance in the fabric of air. They were unsure even if the doorway existed, yet no other option lay before them- the alternative was unthinkable. Haunted by the fear of confronting the creature again, the two men cringed at every imagined noise or movement. They started in the lower reaches first, reluctant to enter the den once more. No part of the house was overlooked, but all they found were dark and silent rooms.

Greg led Marc to the attic door, placing a weary hand on the knob. "This is it, my friend. If we don't find the rift up here, I would say that we're pretty much out of luck."

Marc's face was clouded as he leaned against the wall. "I keep thinking of Pete, and where he is."

"I know," answered Greg. "Why would that thing take him anyway?"

"I don't know," replied Marc. "Curiosity, maybe? We are as strange to that creature as it is to us. I wonder about the workings of its mind and intelligence. We might appear in a totally different sense - we're strangers from another plane, our minds can't even conceive this possibility, and might even be incapable of interpreting the visual scope of this dimension."

Greg passed into the entryway, illuminating the attic steps with the flashlight. The stairs were littered with numerous boxes, the contents tossed about from the quake. They descended carefully, pushing aside the scattered clothes and books which covered the steps.

The floorboards groaned beneath Greg's booted feet, and his hopes dropped as their search revealed nothing remarkable. They walked to the far end of the attic, opening the single closet and finding it empty.

"Nothing, there is no damn hole!" Greg kicked the door in frustration. "We're trapped here, it's no use."

Marc flopped into a swivel desk chair, head staring at the ceiling. He was about to say something when he noticed a glare coming from the top of the stairs. Every hair on his body stood on end as the room temperature dropped sharply. Greg felt the change also, and he followed Marc's frightened gaze. He quickly turned off the flashlight, his chest tightening with fear. No words were spoken as Marc retreated into the far corner next to Greg.

Greg's mind raced, striving to remember anything in the attic that would serve as some type of weapon against the being, but nothing came to memory. He grabbed Marc's shoulder, moving him away from the wall. Greg unfastened the window latch, and his friend nodded in recognition.

The window slid open, the noise alarmingly loud in the tense room, the back half of the attic radiating in a dull glow. A small catwalk ran beneath the ledge, and Greg stepped outside in the darkness, turning on his flashlight again. Marc followed a few seconds later, closing the window behind him. They were perched above a black void, the bottom of the house invisible in the murkiness.

"Now what?" Marc backed away from the window, watching the room grow brighter as the creature approached.

"Up on the roof," whispered Greg. "Grab the spouting and pull yourself up." He was already clinging to the gutter, hoping fervently that it would hold his weight. The metal girders buckled under the stress, but he managed to hoist himself onto the tile-covered roof, offering a hand to his friend.

Marc latched onto Greg's arm, gritting his teeth as he felt the odd prickling sensation crawling across his skin, exactly as Greg had described earlier. The spouting bent downwards under the added pressure, and Marc kicked his feet against the wall in panic. Greg tugged onto Marc's shirt, dragging him up to the roof. Breathing a sigh of relief, Marc raised himself higher, sampling the lurid atmosphere surrounding the house.

"Greg! Look!" He stared in surprise at a disturbance along the left side of the building. They trudged along the rooftop, staring in amazement at a shimmering section of light, encompassing an area of only a few square feet. It emitted a dazzling spectrum of churning colors - purple, violet, and various hues of a dozen other shades.

"The rift!" Greg was ecstatic as they drew nearer. "It has to be the doorway."

As they reached the edge of the house, they were almost blinded by the laser-like rays pouring forth from the anomaly. Greg looked grim as he measured their position. The opening was several yards in front of them and below where they stood.

"How do we go through?" Marc waved his hands in the air, as if to grab onto something substantial.

"We jump."

The prospect was daunting.

"In mid-air? Just like that?" Marc stared at the void underneath the rift. "And what if we miss?"

"If we miss," said Greg, "then we'll see a lot more of this dimension than we ever dreamed possible. There doesn't seem to be any surface like we're familiar with."

"We could drift forever in that nothingness." Marc shuddered.

"Have to do it soon, the lights getting brighter. It's starting to close." Greg pointed ahead, where the rift was slowly shrinking, the pulsing beams increasing in severity.

"Greg! What in the name -" Marc pointed behind them, where another light had appeared.

A billowing curtain of pale illumination slowly approached. It looked like a flag or banner, flapping softly without wind to move it, coming purposefully towards them.

"Another creature! We've got to take our chances with the rift." Greg poised himself like a long-jumper, hands splayed at his sides to brace himself for the leap. Peering over his shoulder, he was startled as a new glowing covered part of the roof, directly over the attic window.

The thing was following them.

"Good luck, Marc." He shook his friend's hand, and bounded forward into the air, never looking back.

He glided into space like a high-diver, going headfirst into the narrowing rift. Anticipating being burned or electrified, he was surprised by the oddest sensation, as if he were being sucked into mud.

His ears rang with a rending squeal and he lost all perception of direction or consciousness for a time.

***

Darkness and pain.

Every fiber of his body ached, and Greg felt bruised and weary. He opened his eyes but saw nothing. He was blind for a span of several seconds as his pupils adjusted to the new light. Staring skyward he recognized familiar shades of colors forming again. A soft groan reached his ears as he arched his neck, seeing the crumpled form of Marc lying next to him. They had made it, passing through the rift in enough time to leave the other dimension.

He pushed himself off the ground with battered arms, his eyesight becoming clearer, and he looked around.

"Greg, we made it. We made it!"

Marc's voice shook with excitement, reaching out to his friend with a shaking hand. Greg looked down at Marc, overwhelmed with emotions himself, trying to find the right words, but finding none. What could he possibly tell him, he thought, standing as he craned his head upwards at the purple sky above.

Words alone would not suffice. There was no way to describe the vision before him - the vast, spiraling vortex of blackness, stretching beyond the range of comprehension into the glaring-orange distance, the colorless fabric of haze they were impossibly resting on, the jagged streaks of ethereal lines criss-crossing the alien landscape, some of them even passing through their bodies. No, there was nothing suitable to express the awe that crushed down on Greg as he looked at his strange surroundings.

Marc would have to see for himself before believing in the fantastic elements of this new dimension.

Scary Nights

The scream echoed in Bill's mind, a shrill plea calling him, the thin voice drenched in terror. He tossed in fitful unrest, his slumber growing lighter as the disturbance molested his unconsciousness, pricking him with tendrils of anxiety. A slow suffocation draped across his mind - a blanket of fear and madness which threatened to overwhelm him, black creatures flapping invisibly over his drifting fantasies.

He opened his eyes, his skin moist with sweat, as he stared at the stucco ceiling overhead. Bill's breathing was labored, loud in his own ears, his heart racing in his chest. The voice, he thought. A dream?

"Mommy, help."

It was Bobby.

He looked over at the bleary-eyed figure of his wife Carol, now roused from sleep herself.

"Honey, can you go check on him? He's having another nightmare."

A grimace played across Bill's clean-shaven face, a face that managed to look pale even under the midday sun. He hopped out of bed, feeling a twinge of stiffness in his back, and slid his feet into a pair of fuzzy-blue slippers.

"All right. I don't know what's gotten into him lately, though."

Shuffling his lean frame through the room, he snapped on a lamp and continued toward Bobby's bedroom. He flicked on the light, banishing the shadows back into the corners as he stuck his head inside Bobby's room.

"Hey, what's going on here? Another nightmare?"

The nine-year old looked up at him from tightly pulled covers, only the upper part of his head visible. His gray orbs were misted, dusky with fright.

"Dad, I'm scared. There's something in here." His voice shook with that special blend of terror, which only a frightened child could feel, alone in the night, and shrouded in darkness. Bill frowned at the boy.

"We've had this talk before, you know. There is nothing in this room, do you hear me? Just a young boy with an overactive imagination, having a bad dream."

"But there is something, dad. Over there."

He pointed at the closet, which was open several inches.

Bill stepped into the room. "Listen, sport. This is the third night in a row; you've got to stop waking up at night. Your mother and I need our sleep, and so do you. If this keeps up, I won't let you watch any more scary shows, or play video games. Understand?"

The boy cowered under the blankets. "I don't care, there's something in the closet."

"Guess I'll have to show you myself." He walked towards the closet door.

"Don't! It's in there!" There was genuine fear in the boy's voice, causing Bill to stop in his tracks. Bobby was a good kid, and they didn't have any problems with him. His grades were excellent, he never got into trouble. Why the nightmares? What else was going on?

"Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"Yeah, please don't go in the closet. It's in there."

"What's in there? The boogeyman? There's no such thing, Bobby."

Bill stared at the closet, knowing how children could be afraid of such unseen terrors. All kids went through that stage at some point. Invisible friends, monsters lurking under the bed, creatures in the closet. He had felt the same way when he was a child, but grew out of them in time.

"Don't open it."

He looked at Bobby, then at the closet. A tingle of fear ran down his spine as he briefly shared his son's dread, a flashback of deeply buried feelings he had experienced long ago. What if there really was something in the closet?

Don't be foolish, he chided himself. You're a big boy, now, no throwbacks at forty. That's not part of being middle-aged. He placed his hand on the doorknob as Bobby huddled in the bed, concern for his dad etched into the smooth face, the blond hair ruffled to one side.

For a fleeting moment, Bill's entire body went cold. His hand rested on the door handle, and he felt absolutely terrified to open the door, convinced that something waited inside.

Something intelligent, horrible, and purely evil.

His wandering mind embraced the demons that brooded within, giving them a face, breathing life into their ethereal forms. Beads of new sweat appeared on his brow, conjured up by the trappings of subconscious fears.

In that single span of time, Bill knew that something existed in the closet.

Mechanically, he pulled the frame open, eyes wide in anticipation of what lurked inside the confines of Bobby's closet. He wanted to stop himself, wanted to scream out loud. He watched in fascination as his own hand, now an alien appendage, acted against the warnings in his head, while Bobby whimpered behind him.

"Daddy, don't, pleeeeease..."

Bill opened the door, feeling a rush of unseen nightmare wings thrust into his face, clawing at his mind.

It was empty.

Bill swished the spoon around in the plastic bowl, trying to gather as many of his favorite flakes as possible on the over-sized utensil.

"He'll get over it, all kids go through the same thing, you know," Bill said, scooping up a generous clump of flakes.

"Yes, but why don't you do this for him? Show him there's nothing to be afraid of?" Carol peered at him over one shoulder, carrying a handful of egg-splattered dishes.

He looked at the back of the cereal carton, which depicted a purple and yellow monster in the middle of a maze. Bill mentally followed a spot on the diagram, weaving in and out of dead-ends and false passages.

"Then we can all get back to our normal routine again."

Bill came dangerously close to choosing a fatal corridor, and then he backed up. If he'd been tracing the maze with a pencil, he would have led himself to the monster. Fortunately, it was make-believe.

"Are you even listening?"

Yeah, he thought. Lucky me.

"Bill!"

"What?" He swung his head around, looking at Carol, spilling milk over the rim of his cereal bowl and losing his imaginary spot on the labyrinth.

"I said, why don't you spend the night in Bobby's room, and prove that there is nothing to be scared of, all right?"

"That won't show him anything, he needs to overcome the nightmares by himself." Bill tried to find his spot on the maze, well away from the leering monster that waited in the middle.

"Come on, hon. I'm asking you. For me."

Bill grunted.

"Well?"

He sighed, knowing that he fought a losing battle. "All right."

"Thanks. Tonight then?"

"Yeah, tonight. But only one night."

"Fine. He'll be relieved to hear it."

What about me, he thought, thinking of his own panic the previous night.

Suddenly, Bill didn't feel hungry anymore.

All day long, Bill had waged a silent battle against a disquieting uneasiness, trying to distract the unwanted thoughts. He'd been unsuccessful. Now he stared at the black and white set in Bobby's room, flicking through the channels, and finding little of interest. He looked over at the clock on the dresser, shaped like a swimming fish holding a clamshell in its fins. It was nearly midnight, and he should have been asleep himself by now.

But he wasn't.

Bill's gray eyes shifted over to the bedroom closet, fully closed, and he felt spider-chills creeping over his arms, causing him to shiver. Stop it, he thought. You're worse than a kid. A grown man, afraid of the boogeyman. He almost laughed aloud.

Almost.

Why was he so disturbed? Maybe he felt Bobby's innocent fear, making him apprehensive, concerned for his son. He yawned, stretching out on the soft feather bed. Pretty comfortable, he thought. An airplane dangled from the ceiling tied to a plastic wire. Bobby liked the plane, especially in the summer when the wind would blow it, and the propeller would spin.

Bill fell asleep, dreaming about a warm breeze and sailing out on the lake.

Eyes, baleful and red, glared at him.

An open maw, slavering with dripping saliva, filled with rows of sharp teeth. The foul breath, hot, and steamy, poured out from the creature's mouth. Coming closer. Closer...

Bill awoke from the horrible nightmare, clutching the blankets and finding himself drenched in a cold, sticky sweat. His heart pounded in fear, his breathing deep and painful. He was fully alert, the dream dispersing into the realm of sleep to be lost forever.

Staring up at the ceiling, he saw the propeller spinning on the little airplane. Something familiar, friendly, he thought. Bill's jaw stiffened.

It shouldn't be moving.

The windows were shut - it was the middle of winter.

His chest felt a growing numbness, squeezing him slowly, threatening to stifle him. He pushed himself up from the bed, his entire body encased in icy terror. He knew immediately where to look, his body reacting to the subconscious command.

The closet door.

Bill knew what he would see.

The door would be fully opened, the creature glaring out at him, silently beckoning to him, inviting him into its dark demesne. As a young boy, he'd been mercilessly tormented by the nightmare dweller. And now Bobby was too.

He never actually saw the monster, but that failed to prove anything. It was in there, coming into the world only at night, summoned by the frightful workings of a child's mind. Bill trembled in fear, telling himself that he was not a child. The boogeymen go away as you get older and smarter. They don't exist.

He stood up, gazing at the closet door. There needed to be an end to the dark fantasy.

Don't exist.

For both himself and Bobby. Time to grow up, put the monsters back where they belonged, in dreams and stories.

Don't exist.

Bill walked over to the door, terror mixing with determination on his face.

Don't exist.

Grabbing the handle with quivering fingers, he acted on his own this time, wanting to dispel the nightmares for good, eradicate them from his reality and Bobby's, the monotonous litany replaying itself inside his head.

Don't exist.

Bill opened the door.

Carol's eyes fluttered briefly then widened all the way, as she went from light sleep to wakefulness within the span of a few seconds. She'd heard a scream.

Looking at the other side of the bed, she saw the resting form of Bobby, his head nestled against her, the young face cherubic in peaceful slumber. She breathed a sigh of relief; her first waking thought one of concern for her only child. But she had heard something. What was it?

Without disturbing the boy she carefully crept out of bed, pulling her robe tight. She didn't usually get up at night for anything and was normally a deep sleeper. She entered the hallway, leaving the light off, not wanting to waken Bobby. The boy's bedroom door was shut, and she opened it, peering inside.

"Bill, did you call?"

Silence.

"You awake honey?" She walked into the room, looking at the crumpled covers on the bed. The bedroom appeared to be empty, the only light coming from the small lamp on Bobby's dresser.

Strange, she thought. Why would he go downstairs this late at night? He wasn't one to snatch a late snack; he worked early in the morning. A sudden movement caught her attention, and she stared up at the ceiling.

Something had moved, she was certain, but looking at the airplane, everything was still. Shaking her head, she decided to check the kitchen for her husband. As Carol turned to leave the room, she noticed that the closet door was closed. He better not be playing a joke on me, she thought.

"Bill, if you jump out of that closet to scare me, you'll be sleeping by yourself the rest of the week."

No answer.

"I promise."

Bill wasn't one for practical jokes. Actually, he possessed very little humor. Carol walked towards the door, her hand hovering before the handle. She felt tense, anticipating the panel to open at any second and Bill's reproachful face would appear, chiding her for having him spend the night in Bobby's room. Carol stopped, deciding that he wasn't in there. A foolish notion anyway - he didn't play such games.

Carol left the room to see if Bill was downstairs.

***

Ten minutes later, Carol again stood in Bobby's bedroom, this time with a serious look on her face. Bill was nowhere to be found. She'd searched the entire house, even the attic and basement, but still there was no sign of her husband.

Extremely upset, she came back to see if he had left a note, or some indication as to where he had gone. Carol threw Bobby's clothes off the dresser, hoping for a scrap of paper, or anything that told her of Bill's whereabouts.

On the verge of tears, she was frantic, staring at her reflection in the dresser mirror. A haunted image returned the gaze, looking weary and frightened. I am, she thought. Where is he? What would make him leave in the middle of the night, on foot yet? The cars were still parked in the garage. She felt nauseous. Carol noticed that the closet door was open, nearly halfway.

It was closed before - she was certain. And now it was open. Maybe he really was in there, ready to spring out and surprise her. It was one nasty trick, Carol thought, but she prayed he was waiting in there regardless. Better a bad joke than the unthinkable alternative. She stared into the reflection. Leaning against the dresser, Carol gasped at what now appeared in the mirror.

A pair of red pinpricks leered out from the shadowed depths of the closet. Eyes that belonged to something unspeakably evil, a nightmare that couldn't possibly exist in the living world.

She spun around, her blood frozen in terror.

The eyes were gone.

The closet door wasn't even open. Had it been only her frayed nerves, her overactive imagination?

Her question went unanswered as she left the room, sobbing and in disbelief.

***

The police search and following investigation proved fruitless. No clues were found in the mysterious disappearance of Bill that fateful winter night. No signs of struggle, notes, or subsequent sightings of the man ever materialized. The case remained open.

Carol would never be sure, looking back on that evening. The whole event was imprinted into her mind, whenever she recalled Bill's last moments at home before he vanished. Her life was forever changed, and they sold the home, moving to a neighboring town.

Her dreams were never disturbed by creatures lurking in the closet, or Bobby's after that horrible night, but Carol would always wonder about the monstrous vision she'd seen in the dresser mirror; those hideous, malevolent eyes.

The Uncertainty

Holding the wineglass in my hand, I swirled the contents within, watching the burgundy splash beneath the rim but not quite enough to spill out. I felt a yawn coming, but managed to stifle the reflex as Richard Chanders approached.

"Well, Edward? I can tell by the grim expression on your face, and the sure maneuvering of my vintage in your hand, that you seem a trifle weary at my gathering."

A broad grin appeared on his mustached face, and he lumbered toward me, snatching a trio of tea biscuits from a dour-looking serving man. I shook my head, taking a sip from my drink.

"Whatever gave you that impression?"

"Ha," he bellowed, slapping me briskly on the shoulder and nearly upsetting my glass. "You're not one for such pleasantries. Rather be out on the hunt, with a pack of yelping hounds, wouldn't you?"

"Unquestionably, with a sly fox to the front, and a cool breeze in my hair."

"I know you too well. One of these days, I will join you in a countryside frolic."

"You've been saying that for the past decade," I replied.

Richard laughed. "Business demands constant attention, my young friend. These parties are the mere indulgences I permit myself."

Although differing in our pastimes, Richard and I remained close comrades, living on adjoining properties for a number of years. It was hard not to like the man, I just preferred more exhilarating pursuits than indoor flippancy. I glanced across the brightly illuminated living room, filled with dozens of guests, the majority of whom I knew well.

In particular, I noticed an odd-looking fellow, standing by himself near the front foyer. He appeared to be in his upper forties, wearing a stark-brown coat with a long scarf draped over his back.His bearded face looked pale in the darker anteroom, and he possessed a quality of uncertainty, which defied my understanding, almost like a shiftless animal, pondering the most expedient method to his next meal.

"Richard," I said, "who is that strange-looking chap over there? I don't believe I've seen him at any of your parties before." Not intending rudeness on my part, despite the newcomer's scarce-concealed interest, I made a slight gesture with my hand, indicating the need for discretion. Richard feigned a low cough, turning in my indicated direction for a moment, and then answered.

"Oh, that's Gregory Higgins, lives on the hill in a small estate. He's an archaeologist."

"You don't say? Works in excavations and the like?"

"Yes, from what I know, which is little. Seems to be a recluse of sorts, keeps to himself. I'm surprised he accepted my invitation. I met him in town quite by accident, actually. I insisted he come tonight. I told him I would send a servant over to his place if he didn't show."

"What did he say?"

Richard gave a hearty laugh. "Seemed fairly startled by my threat. He claimed that it wouldn't be a good idea, and when I asked him the reason, he looked sharply at me as if in rebuke, then said he would show up. Very odd."

"I should say so," I replied. "Fascinating line of work though."

"Why don't you speak to him? I have more guests to entertain, anyway."

"All right. I won't be staying much longer, but of course you know that," I said.

"Right again." Richard patted my arm and walked over to a pair of merchants from town, their shrewd faces poised to engage him in a long-winded litany of complaints about the slow trade market undoubtedly.

I turned my head, ready to approach the mysterious Mr. Higgins, but stopped in my tracks.

He was gone.

***

I lingered at Richard's party for another hour or so, talking briefly with acquaintances about the dry weather and local harvest. The walls closed in on me, and I found the air becoming increasingly thick from the tiny clouds of cigar smoke swirling lazily towards the high-beamed ceiling overhead.

At the moment, Richard was being cornered by a pair of middle-aged widows, and I saw he relished every second of their wide-eyed attention. I waved a farewell to him from across the hall, and headed for the entryway and the short hike home.

I passed the butler, Harner, and we exchanged parting words. He was a decent fellow, a straight card when it came to formalities and occasions. He offered to drive me over, but I wouldn't hear of it.

"A quiet walk under the autumn moonlight will help me to sleep better," I told him. He nodded and I left. A crisp breeze ruffled my collar and I inhaled deeply, embracing the fresh air. My house was only a mile away, our two properties separated by a thin stretch of woods in that area.

I trudged along, admiring the cloudless sky above, arching my neck to identify the constellations that were in full regal display. Mighty Orion was splendid as he looked down on me, and I followed the length of his girded belt. Astronomy was one of my many hobbies, and I normally took advantage of such evenings to study the heavens, a much more enjoyable way to spend time in my opinion.

The nocturnal creatures were prowling the woods, and I heard an owl calling from the top of a huge oak tree next to the road. An eerie wail reached my ears, and I recognized it as the mating clamor of a raccoon, cooing to an invisible suitor.

Listening to the night sounds I continued on, reaching the beginning of my own walkway and stepped over the cobblestone path, my hunting boots clicking across the rock. Gaining the front steps, I was startled to see a man standing beneath the eaves of my porch, partly concealed by the thick shrubbery lining the outer walls.

Stopping instantly, I felt a cold shudder run down my spine, as I realized it wasn't either of my two servants. They returned to their rooms at sundown each day, and would have no cause to lurk outside the home like a prowler.

"Hey, you scoundrel," I shouted. "Show yourself now, before my patience is tested." Reaching into my pocket, I felt the reassuring metal of the small pistol I always carried. Hunting was a passion for me, and my skills at field and gamesmanship were well known.

The figure slunk into the bushes, further bolstering my anxiety. I hurried forward, convinced that a burglar was afoot on the property. I heard a soft rustling and aimed my weapon at the unseen intruder. Standing there for a few moments, I knew he had no intention of revealing himself. I shouted to my servants, hoping they might have a window open, and waited for a sign from either them or the hidden prowler.

Within a minute, Carlton burst through the front door, and I pointed into the bushes. He understood something was amiss, and ran back inside for Stephens. Moments later, they both reappeared carrying lanterns, and I told Carlton to remain there, taking Stephens with me.

I kicked the nearest bushes, sending Stephens ahead. Working through the undergrowth, we saw no sign of the intruder. We made our way around the side of the house, and were greeted by a tremendous raucous from the kennels.

"He's in with the dogs!" I shouted to Stephens, and we headed across a strip of grass leading to the small barn housing my prize hunting hounds. "I'll skin him alive if he does harm to those creatures."

Stephen's tall form glided easily next to my own, and he was greatly agitated. He treated the dogs like they were his firstborn, having been entrusted to their care. There was only a single entrance to the barn, and with luck we would find the culprit trapped. Stephens pulled out his own gun, and we bolted to the entry.

The animals were in such distress I thought they were being tortured. Such cries of anguish roared from within that I was terrified for their safety, but then my senses took over and I wondered what manner of person we were dealing with.

"The fiend!" Stephen's face was etched with tight lines of anger, and he looked ready to fire into the open door.

"Have a care, Stephens. We might have a madman on our hands here." He nodded and we hesitated, catching our breath. "He is definitely inside, so let's not lose our heads. We'll put him to the ground, and bring in the proper authorities when he is detained. I, for one, would like to know what mischief the man has been wreaking on my property, and if he's harmed those dogs -"

I never finished, because the noise inside abruptly ended, as if on cue. We looked at each other in astonishment, and Stephen's mouth gaped open like a fish gulping for air. I grabbed a pair of oil lanterns hanging from a set of place-hooks, since the barn lacked interior lighting. Scratching the tinderbox, I lit one of them and set it on a shelf just inside the door. Stephens held the other, and placed it back on the hook. We didn't want to enter in darkness.

Gesturing with a nod of my head, we slowly walked forward, weapons in one hand, lanterns in the other. Stephens looked like a grave robber; such was the pallor of his face and the dread expression he wore. The runway was before us, filled with several haystacks and tools. The pens sat to our right, facing the hall and leading deeper into the barn.

Our footsteps were silent and we continued on, nearing the cages. The building was void of sound, the only noise being our nervous breathing. We reached the first pen, but no movement was heard from within. I was dumbfounded. The dogs would become restless whenever someone so much as opened the barn door, but now all was quiet.

It felt like a tomb.

I peered into the kennel, shocked to see that it was empty. The gate was secure, and did not appear to have been tampered with. I glanced at Stephens, and held my lantern close to the metal bars of the pen. My blood froze as I saw what lay inside.

Bones.

Three sets of bones. All that was left of the dogs.

My heart pounded, heavy in my chest and loud in the deathly solitude of that place. Stephens was shaking - I saw his unsteady fingers gripping the pistol in a vise of cold terror.

"Help us," he whispered. "What could have done this to them?"

I had no answer to his question, still in shock myself. What type of man could do something like this? Or was it even a man?

I went to the next pen, glancing inside. My dusky lantern chased the darkness into the corners, revealing the same ghastly spectacle. "Impossible," I gasped. "Nothing is capable of such quick savagery." My finger rested on my pistol trigger, and I would not hesitate to fire at our quarry, once he came into the open. We checked the remaining three pens, and were stunned by the same lurid vision. Not a single dog was left. I shuddered in horror, wanting very badly to turn around and leave the barn to the night and the intruder.

Turning to Stephens, I was about to tell him we should leave immediately, but my stomach churned at the look on his face. He was staring behind us at the entrance, and I followed his gaze with loathing. A figure stood before the entrance.

It was a man wearing a familiar-looking brown coat. Higgins, the archaeologist.

The oil lantern swung at his side, perched on the fastening, casting his shadow on the far wall, and that was where Stephens stared. Higgins remained motionless, his arms resting at his sides, head bowed slightly, his eyes vacant.

The shadow, for it could not possibly belong to him, or anything else from this world, bore the semblance of a great black mass of tentacles, writhing vigorously across the wall like a maddened serpent.

Wild and flaying, my darkest dreams could never have fathomed such a hideous monstrosity. We were frozen in absolute terror, unable to comprehend what lay before our eyes. I felt light-headed, as if fighting off a deep slumber. Stephen's whole body shook like a beaten canine - he was in total shock.

Transfixed, we gazed at the bizarre apparition in stunned silence. My vision swam before my unbelieving eyes, striving to understand what lurked before us. The shadow moved in jerking motions, beginning to grow larger, yet Higgins remained unmoving, the air around him looking mundane, undisturbed. To my utter horror, the shadow surged forward, directly across from Stephens.

He clenched his fists into balls of agony, as if fighting off an unseen assailant, and I was convinced that he fell under attack by the dread phantom. His shrieks of pain were unbearable, and my only thought was to blast the archaeologist.

Higgins was responsible, either bringing with him the hellish creature, or himself being the monster, I didn't know. Aiming my pistol, I bounded against the wall, not wanting to strike Stephens in his torment. Higgins made no effort to escape, and I fired off several rounds.

A queer look crossed Higgins' face as the bullets struck, a look of quiet resignation. He lurched backwards from the impact, slumping to the floor. Stephens was down also, and what I glimpsed defied any rationalization, as a dark cloud covered his frame for a brief instant, dispersing just as quickly.

There was nothing left of him, just a pile of bones.

I dropped my pistol, hands shaking uncontrollably. I must have gone into shock myself then, because my recollection grows faded. I remember staring at Higgins as he pushed himself back up, and walked towards me in a gesture of supplication. Backing away, I retreated into the far corner, staring at the man and the wall next to him.

The shadow was there yet, but seemed to have settled, probably from being satiated in its horrific appetite. There was no place left to run, and I was unable to move regardless. Higgins approached me, and I felt the caress of something colder than the grave across my face and arms, as if from an icy serpent risen from the abysmal depths of the great sea.

I closed my eyes and lost consciousness.

When I awoke at last, it was to find myself suffering from a dull headache, and feeling unusually weary. I was in my own bed, with Carlton at my side, and a stranger as well. The curtains were drawn, and the aroma of freshly brewed hot tea wafted through the air.

"Feeling better?" Carlton appeared anxious, giving me a hard look.

I felt nauseous and extremely tired, but managed to straighten up, leaning on an elbow. "What time is it? What happened to Higgins?"

He shook his head, the thin gray hair disheveled, his eyes ringed by dark circles. "You've been sleeping for over a day, but the doctor said this was normal after such a shock. You've survived a harrowing experience, but I'll let Inspector Reynolds fill in the details. I'll be back shortly with something for you to eat."

Carlton left me alone with the stern-looking detective, a tall man with a hawkish face, and short-cropped black hair.

"And the archaeologist?" I peered into his expressionless eyes.

"We found him, inside the barn. The incident is over."

"He was no man," I answered, "but I'm sure you realize that."

"A cannibal."

"What?" I was astounded. "A cannibal? Are you mad?"

"That is the only rational explanation, and the official one, I should add. The case is finished, you are cleared of any suspicion." I wondered then if he knew something more.

"Something ravaged Stephens before my very eyes! Something unspeakable. What else aren't you telling me?"

His face twitched for a moment before answering my question. "You are lucky to be alive, for one thing. Higgins was an abomination. From the stress of his trade over the years he buckled under the tremendous strain, deviating into such a grisly existence, becoming a cannibal. Rare, but there is record of this occurring before, in certain regions of the world."

"That is insane, we both know it," I replied. From his look, he would concede nothing.

"When you are well, I need you to come down to the station and sign a statement. Right now, you should try and rest."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"Our concern is for the community. The murderer is dead, the matter ended. Let it remain that way. It would be in your best interests if you did. We wouldn't want to implicate your good name too, now, would we? Good evening."

He inclined his head, leaving through the bedroom door.

I lay back on the warm mattress, my mind reeling from the bizarre events. They were covering up the facts, that was quite obvious. Whether from ignorance or knowledge, I couldn't be sure, but most likely they wanted to forget the whole occurrence, bury it with a human face. I was not of the same opinion.

And Higgins? What was he?

Could it be possible that he had unearthed an ancient curse at some point in his fated career, perhaps opening a tomb which concealed something far more appalling than a crumbling sarcophagus?

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall.

It was nightfall, and the sun was hidden behind the bordering hills. A dim flame flickered from the bed lamp, and I probed the tiny fire with searching eyes, trying to understand the dark secret of the archaeologist.

I stiffened then, and shuddered in revulsion with the certainty that I would some day comprehend the nature of Higgins' curse.

On the near wall was my own shadow, bulging with unseen tentacles, swaying briefly as if shifting about from a restless slumber.

Unwelcome

A trailing, pulsing mist, clenched at the feet of Craig Andrews as he ran further into the black maw of the ancient corridor. Billowing orange plumes of smoke lined the damp walls, which throbbed with unholy life - a concrete heart, closing in, suffocating, and threatening to ensnare him before he reached the end of the tunnel.

Somewhere in the distance echoed a blood-curdling wail, and he faltered, instinctively knowing the source.

Robin.

Time was swiftly churning to the end game. Craig was being played the victim by a diabolical cat's-paw, and within that deadly grasp hung Robin's fate. Running like a crazed fiend he continued, his chest aching from exertion.

Opening up before him was a large chamber, the dank ceiling dripping with globs of moss, like the melting wax of a candle formed from the rock bowels of mother earth.

A scream pierced Craig's ears and his eyes focused on the ghastly image of Robin, hovering in mid-air over wicked spikes protruding from an unseen floor, pinpricks of yellow glaring at the tormented man from a dozen pairs of bodiless orbs.

"Wake up! Craig, are you all right?"

He flailed away with his arms, feeling someone grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, mercifully banishing the nightmare that plagued him.

"Craig?"

A pale light illuminated the smooth skin of his face, and his wife Kathy's concerned sea-blue eyes stared into his own gray ones,.

"Another dream?"

The thirty-year old artist covered his head with clammy hands, his robe damp with sweat. He tried to calm his pounding heart. "He's still alive, Kathy. Robin's trying to reach me. It has to be true. The nightmares are getting worse. They're unbearable."

Kathy cradled her husband in gentle arms, kissing him lightly on the head. "You really feel that way, even after the police couldn't find a trace of him?"

"Yes, I do. Maybe Robin can't be found by just anyone. The mansion is huge - and I believe they failed. The investigation considered only what their eyes told them. I can sense what they can't. These dreams, they're terrible. I don't know what happened to him, but he's still in that house. I'm sure of it."

Kathy nodded her, understanding her husband's grief, and his resolve. "So you're going then?" "I must. I'll never forgive myself if I don't at least try."

"When?"

"Tomorrow. I'll talk to the owner, he was open to Robin's research to some degree, or he wouldn't have let him probe at the estate's mysteries."

"But it took a lot of convincing, I thought. And what if he doesn't permit you to enter?"

Craig answered without hesitation, the husky voice low and firm. "Then I'll break into that damn place and turn over every stone with my bare hands."

The seven-hour drive to Rachfort crawled by, and Craig watched the highway flow by with disinterest, focusing on what awaited him at the end of his journey. As he approached the small town, the countryside transformed into vibrant hillsides dotted with forests of oak and maple trees, embracing the orange and yellow vibrancy of the encroaching autumn.

Few cars passed his blue sedan, as he mulled over his conversation with Jonathan Stickman, the owner of Grabold Manor. Mr. Stickman was still greatly upset about Robin's disappearance three weeks earlier from the deserted estate. The investigation remained open, but the premises had been thoroughly searched, without a shred of evidence to show that Robin was there, or for that matter, that he had ever visited.

Craig opened up to the man, pleading for entry. In the end, Stickman agreed, but only after hearing the determination from Robin's friend. Craig reached a fork, taking the left turn, recognizing a huge dairy farm from his directions. After another mile, he approached a line of dark chestnut trees leaning over a rusted metal gate, and a long, burgundy, limousine sitting in front.

He parked and watched a gaunt skeleton of a man remove himself from the car, scarcely animated enough to complete the act. "You must be the caretaker Mr. Scirolin. Craig Andrews."

The spidery man ignored the outstretched hand, and pursed his chapped lips into a grim line. When he opened his mouth again, a low, gritty voice chided Craig with sarcastic rebuke.

"You're a fool, just like your friend."

Craig felt an immediate surge of anger, but held his tongue. Mr. Stickman had informed him of the questionable temperament possessed by his long-time caretaker. "I'm sorry you feel that way, sir," he replied.

"I warned Jonathan before, and your friend, now I'm warning you."

His rheumy gaze was strong despite the years behind them, and circles ringed his eyes. He lifted a bony finger, pointing it squarely at Craig's chest.

"There are things better left alone in this world. Old things, here before you or me, and they'll remain long after we are gone. The manor is one of them."

"Do you know what happened to Robin?" Craig tried to stay calm, knowing that if any could help him, Scirolin was the one.

"Yes, I do. Grabold took him."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said."

"Grabold? You mean the manor? That makes no sense."

The caretaker narrowed his glance, measuring Craig. "You understand, all right. You have some of the gift as well."

Craig hesitated for an uncomfortable moment before answering. "I have psychic ability, yes. You must too, or you wouldn't ask."

"Obviously, but soon you'll wish you didn't, if you continue. Master Crowel possessed a great measure of talent. He awakened the powers that slumber in Grabold with his research. To his unfortunate end."

The man's words were chilling. "That's not what Mr. Stickman believes to be true."

To Craig's surprise, the old man laughed, cackling like bark scraping off a hoary tree. "Jonathan is a fool, too. He chooses to ignore what lurks in the darkness behind his modern comforts, refuses to hear the truth in his own heritage. But at the same time, he'll never live under the roof of Grabold again. The only reason the two of you were allowed to enter is in the hope of finding a rational explanation to the nature of the manor. Mr. Crowel discovered the truth - don't make the same mistake."

He paused, fumbling in his coat jacket and bringing out a metal key. "Let's go," he ordered, "I don't want to be on the grounds after sunset."

Craig stared at the vast building as the caretaker drove away, holding a small suitcase in his grasp.

Crawling along the discolored walls were sinuous vines of ivy, curling against the structure in a stranglehold for support. Shuttered windows returned his stare in stony silence, as if daring him to enter its vacant premises. Although the great portion of the estate was shrouded in dark forest, the trees immediately near the mansion were of ailing health, the trunks parched, and few leaves hung on the drooping branches, fewer yet on the barren earth below.

The entire scene was one of gloom and decay, curls of mist descending upward from the damp ground, seeking to quench any glimmer of light from above. Several blackbirds circled the aged pinnacles of the estate, gliding lazily in the premature twilight.

Dismal were the visible attributes, but more striking to Craig were the invisible sensations. He was stunned by the undercurrent of vibrations leaking outward from Grabold. Unseen waves of energy pulsed against his finely tuned abilities, warning of latent power and dormant evil. His jaw dropped at the strength he felt, and he nearly turned around to follow the caretaker.

No, he thought. I know the signs, hear the warnings. I must be sure of myself, for Robin's sake. Yet, how insignificant he felt, standing in front of the brooding mansion.

He opened the map of Grabold's interior Scirolin had left him. Notes were scribbled at the bottom, describing concealed doors leading to hidden chambers. The locations were not shown, however, so Craig realized that he needed to rely on other resources; his own mental abilities.

Attempting to bolster his confidence, he walked toward the front entrance. Cracked concrete steps lay before him, and a rail of black metal, rusted and bent, sided the short flight offering access to the main doorway. He shuffled forward, stopping before the alcove-enclosed archway.

Two marble gargoyles made of polished obsidian guarded the access, , their large folded wings lay over tails spiked with tiny horns. The architecture was fantastic, unique to his trained eyes. Shiny orbs glittered menacingly at him as he passed, of the type that illusion-shifted, appearing to follow his every step. The faces were twisted and malevolent, but possessed a gothic beauty.

His back felt numb, partly from the cool air, and perhaps also from the watchful figures protecting Grabold. Old power lay deep within the stone hearts of the gargoyles. The crafter had been a master of arts, both sculpting and the occult. Lingering wisps of psychic energy emanated from their dreadful shapes.

The sculptor had also suffered terrible anguish in finishing the work, and the sensation was strong in Craig's mind.

A large, oaken door stood before him. A brass clapper served as doorknocker, shaped in the guise of a lion with mouth stretched open, revealing rows of countless jagged teeth. Everything here was symbolic, carefully made, conveying awe to any who entered, demanding respect to those with understanding, and whispering of dark consequence to others choosing to ignore.

Craig turned the handle, opening the door. The mansion was never locked anymore, according to the caretaker. Scirolin said that all valuable items were taken away long ago, and only fools would seek to enter now. Craig reached into his pocket, bringing out a flashlight, feeling the bulge of a spare set he'd also brought along.

Matches and lighters, an oil lantern, small tool kit, and a few other items were inside the suitcase he carried, necessities if he were to properly search the mansion. He paced down a short walkway, stirring up clouds of dust devils, the sound of his footsteps echoing dully in the silent house.

Shining the light before him, his beam illuminated empty tables and scattered chairs, the building reeked of intense mustiness, a powerful assault on his nostrils. A large area opened up, and he found himself in the spacious social room. Craig paused, taking out the oil lantern from his case. The wick flickered instantly as he lighted it, the fumes covering up the background scents of the aged house. He pushed the wick to the fullest extent, the lamp forcing the shadows back.

The room had once served as a gathering spot for revelers, and could easily hold a great number of guests. An enormous fireplace dominated the chamber, piles of smooth stone climbing upwards into a miniature mountain of rock, scaling towards the vaulted ceilings overhead. He walked around the confines, holding his lamp up to several portraits depicting various lords of the manor from years long past.

Cobwebs crisscrossed the weathered frames, entangling the paintings in a latticework of spider weavings. Stern faces peered back at Craig - men of strong bearing and cold vision.

His inherent senses also picked up residual energy, originating from somewhere in the room. He could imagine the rise and fall of voices in conversation, dealings of commerce, and blacker business as well, although the details remained obscured. Friends, enemies, and lovers, both public and private, all had once paced through the room in prestigious banquets, decades ago.

Craig felt his chest heaving, perspiration soaking his brow, as the images increased in strength. Feeling a moment of panic, his hands trembled, the light dancing about from his lantern.

Something was happening.

His heart pounded as a wave of psychic energy crushed down on him, and he fell to one knee. The darkness disappeared, and the room flared with vibrancy.

He blinked his eyes, and when they opened again, the chamber swarmed with people, their chattering lips speaking incoherently, engaged in dialogue that once served as the social hub of the community. Impeccably dressed butlers, servers, and maids, shuffled about in a painstaking effort to accommodate the many important guests. The garments were vintage and garish, telling of status and fortune.

Craig was a spectator to the lavish scene, watching in amazement at the incredible display. His hair felt static, charged by fright, but he seemed ignored - a mortal trespasser to the supernatural event.

A bearded man stood several feet to his right, and Craig saw the walls through the transparent figure. He wore an overcoat of stark black, gold buttons richly bedecking a broad waistcoat, and Craig reeled backwards, staggered by the wash of power spilling out from the shade. The spirit turned toward him, the spectral eyes gleaming balefully at him. Craig's blood ran cold, riveted by the frozen stare, and the whole room immediately went silent.

He shivered uncontrollably as the apparition moved its lips, speaking with an airy voice, at the same time close, but also muffled, as if from behind a closed door, or buried underground.

"You are unwelcome here."

Craig shuddered in revulsion, feeling nauseous. The spirit vanished, and the room was empty once again. He wiped sweat from his face, dazed by the fantastic incident. It had lasted only moments, but the energy still resonated against him in harsh unseen currents. There was nothing in his experience to compare with the event. Craig had anticipated brushes with the unexplainable, but could not believe the magnitude of what had just occurred, and he'd only been in the house a few minutes. The caretaker was right. Grabold should be left alone. The dead ruled here, the living were infringing on their grounds.

Unwelcome.

Memories of Robin passed through his mind, pleading in Craig's fantasies. He was somewhere inside the manor still, and needed Craig's help. He couldn't abandon him, not without at least making an attempt. Craig was wrenched by churning emotions, fear and pity warring for dominance. Holding the lamp up high, he decided to continue, knowing that a warning had been issued.

Grabold had given him an admonition - what would the next encounter bring?

Roaming the lower floor, Craig uncovered nothing. No other apparitions appeared, but he knew that the house patiently waited for him to delve into Grabold's secrets. He believed the evil powers slept, and the earlier event was primarily a host of restless spirits, reenacting memories precious to their living experience in the manor. It may all have been staged for his benefit, he mused. What worried him, though, was the reason. Was it to scare him off? Or more frighteningly, tempt him onward?

He thrust aside such thoughts, deciding to try the spiraling staircase, that led to the second floor. The floorboards moaned at each step, creaking ponderously as if waking from warped repose. At times he picked up sensations of the spirits wandering the great house. More than once he walked into a cold area, an indication of a nearby shade. Craig considered them harmless, lost in their own trappings beyond the earthly plane, and felt only sorrow at their plight. He could help some move on, but dared not risk an attempt in Grabold. Such an act would assuredly send vibrations through the structure, and the last thing he wanted was to awaken all the slumbering entities, and there were many dwelling in the ancient manor.

He reached the end of the stairs, finding himself perched high above the lower floor. The ascent was longer than he had guessed. Looking down, he peered into the circular opening between the handrail, the light from his lantern unable to reveal the bottom. It was a good drop, and he stepped back, shaking at the thought, the lure of vertigo beckoning him.

He started down the hall, noticing a number of iron racks fixed in the walls, once serving as torch holders. The manor must have been a bright and grand place at one time, he thought. Something happened to change all that, and now Grabold was an open grave, filled with darkness and beings that relished in the darkness.

Studying his map, he decided to try the master bedroom, hoping to find a trace of Robin. So far, there was nothing familiar to him in the house - it was as if Robin had never walked the aged grounds.

The hall was long, and several doors lined either side. He opened each and found the guest chambers, a small library, and the trophy room.

It took him a while to finally reach the great bedroom, carefully passing the closed doors, probing gently with his gifted consciousness. This level felt relaxed compared to the social room, although the trophy room emanated psychic vibration briefly, and then quickly vanished. Possibly a spirit was somewhere within.

The bedroom door was ponderous, and Craig set the lantern down to open the heavy panel. The creaking echoed mournfully down the empty hall, and spider-chills trickled down his spine at the disturbance he was causing. He shrugged away such thoughts, for that path led to fear and then panic. He couldn't afford either for Robin's sake, or his own. Wide strands of cobweb stretched across the room, bare except for a massive bed and a hulking dresser.

The headboard over the bed was shaped like a tree, the boughs split to either side and arching forward several inches. A face was carved into the trunk, leering and spiteful. The symbolic artwork clearly suggested that whoever slept there would be under the watchful eye of the graven image. Craig suspected it to be the face of the original lord of the manor, recognizing the features from a portrait in the social room.

He stared at the bed for several moments, feeling no threat from the structure. It may once have contained energy long ago, he decided, but was now only an empty reminder, a relic of a past age, although hideous to behold. Craig turned, reaching out for any remnants of other elements, focusing on the mirror. The object was large enough to accommodate more than one person at a time. The glass was surprisingly dust-free, but a thin crack ran the length, from top to bottom.

His light pierced the mirror, and he was struck by a strange sensation. Gazing into the depths, Craig's mouth opened in shock.

He was not alone.

A horde of white faces gazed back at him. Men and women alike, pale, glazing eyes, staring hungrily at the mirror, standing alongside of himself. It took every shred of his courage not to bolt away - few people could have kept their senses. Looking out of the corner of one eye, he saw that he was alone in the room, but the reflection spoke otherwise.

The faces were ghastly.

Mouths hung open, spectral lips moved like the jaws on a cat, anticipating a meal. The heads continued to stare ahead, and he knew that his own face was drained of all color. He didn't know how long the episode would last, and he stood, shoring up his confidence, knowing that to give into his fear would spell the end of him.

His chest ached, the pressure immense on his heart and will. To Craig's horror, the faces slowly moved, turning inward, looking right at his reflection in the mirror. Bony hands reached out, pawing at his image, and his skin crawled in terror and revulsion. He was faltering. The hands caressed his body as he watched, unseen to the naked eye, petting him, longing for the warmth of his life. Craig shuddered, his body feeling weak, his head swimming on the verge of blacking out.

In front of his waking vision, his face now changed. The features misted and reformed into a short jutting beard, crafty eyes, rounded nose.

Robin. On top of his own features. Robin's face drifted away from Craig's reflection, and the figures in the mirror grabbed him, his friend's mouth opening frantically, soundlessly screaming in agony. Craig watched as the host of ghouls clawed at his friend, dragging him off and disappearing into a swirling vapor.

He collapsed to his knees, gasping wildly for breath, devastated by the macabre scene. Craig was soaked to the skin, his sweat cold and clammy. His whole frame shivered in loathing at what he'd been witness to. Was his friend alive or dead? Held captive by some powerful entity of Grabold? The first lord? Craig failed to comprehend the meaning behind this new, but much more horrendous event. Was it to further discourage him, or ensnare him deeper, to share Robin's fate?

He stood, feeling tired and empty. His resolve was breaking down, and he realized that he was nearing the point of no return. He went to the door, stepping back into the hall.

The corridor was ablaze with light.

Torches were lit, the shadows dancing wickedly on the stone walls. Craig was amazed, his own lantern drowned by the spectral illumination. The hallway was empty, but a single door stood open.

The trophy room.

Dread clutched his throat, and he cautiously walked toward the chamber, bracing himself for the unexpected, if such preparation was possible. He passed the sputtering torches, gauging the insubstantiality of the flickering brands. Although they cast off light, they were unreal. His experience with the supernatural lent a fragile balance to his unique logic, to what the eyes saw and the mind could interpret. Opposing senses conflicting against his inborn perception.

Craig reached the trophy room and the torches disappeared, casting the hall back into darkness. He had anticipated this, and walked inside, his pupils adjusting to the dimmer light.

The walls of the room were adorned with the heads of wild animals. A regal lion sat across from him, mounted in a square plaque. The enraged face of a wild boar was next to the lion, and other figures materialized as he proceeded.

A tiger's head hung there, along with a heavily antlered elk, several stags, mountain goats, and a black bear, mouth gaping in fury. Centered against the far wall was another fireplace, much smaller than some of the others he came upon throughout the manor. Each room was furnished with one, a common feature in old estates.

The beasts stared at him with lifeless, gleaming orbs, their expressions hostile. He felt a subtle threat in the room, but not from the vanquished creatures. No, there was something else, and he located the disturbance as the fireplace. The structure was created from smooth stone, piled in even sections, all similar in shape. Craig moved the lantern closer, examining the depths of the hearth.

Closing his eyes briefly, he determined that part of the room remained unrevealed, and a hidden chamber existed behind the fireplace. Although Craig was comfortable with his psychic powers, he never claimed to be clairvoyant.

Yet he felt sure there was a room concealed here.

Strong waves of energy circulated throughout Grabold, and he surmised that his own abilities were being greatly magnified. He wondered whether this was part of the manor's secret, that a reservoir of power was trapped in the aged walls, causing all the supernatural activity, enabling gifted visitors to tap into the vortex. That would explain a lot, he thought.

Craig stuck his head into the fireplace, knocking at the rear wall.

It seemed to be solid, but as he continued the noise changed, a hollow tone answering back. On hands and knees, he pushed forward and a panel slid open, uncovering a black tunnel. He peered inside, and heard something overhead. Craning his neck upward, his eyes registered shock as a face leered down at him.

Luminous yellow eyes bored into his own, and he was unable to draw breath. The face hovered there, unmoving. It was the visage of the specter from the social room, the one that had given the dreadful warning.

Craig gasped aloud, paralyzed with fear, and the image disintegrated. Another warning? Am I close to finding Robin, he thought? He crouched for several moments, waiting for the racing in his chest to subside. The inky blackness ahead of him was like the maw of a predatory beast.

Going into the tunnel was one of the bravest things he ever did. Craig possessed tremendous courage, but he was becoming numb, physically and mentally, from his harrowing encounters at Grabold. He moved mechanically, whether drawn on by his own resolution or another's will, he didn't know.

The tunnel sloped downwards and grew larger, enabling him to walk upright. Rocks crumbled beneath his weary feet, and he was a mortal will-o-the-wisp, carrying the forlorn lantern in front, the lost searching out the lost. Time ceased to move as Craig stumbled along, wondering where the passage would lead him. Voices whispered in his ear, but he was unable to catch legible words. He feared his mind was succumbing to the intense strain of Grabold, wearing away at his strength and resolve.

Shortly he noticed a change in the corridor. The angle leveled off, and a faint orange glow emanated from the walls. A sluggish mist issued from an unseen source, and the sides of the tunnel rippled like breathing lungs, pumping for sustenance. Everything was closing in on him and he started running, tripping over loose rock, falling several times, his shins scratched and bruised. Craig stumbled forward, his mind swimming at the unreality of his quest. It was like a dream, he thought, and then he remembered.

The nightmares, the horrific nights, harboring the fantasies of Robin's fate. He was living the dream now.

Onward he staggered, feeling the trap grow tighter, panic welling in his breast like a forsaken child. Without warning the tunnel opened before his quaking limbs, the lantern cracked and was in danger of being extinguished, which would finally leave him in the dark without escape.

A great chamber lay around him, and he felt something moist brush his face. The area was glowing, a dim luminescence, and Craig saw strands of moss oozing from a limestone ceiling high above, stalactites aiming downwards like spears of retribution pointing at his heart. He moved further inside and stopped.

A dozen yards in front of him hung Robin.

Hovering in mid-air, wicked spikes of stone fixed beneath his helpless form. A blood-curdling wail of sheer anguish poured forth from his tormented lips, and Craig knew that his dream was now coming to full circle. He watched in shock, frozen at the impossible sight of his friend. What was happening to him? Could he yet save him?

"Go back, leave me."

The words came out, strangled and hoarse, as Craig set the lantern down, edging forward.

"No, no." Robin squeezed the syllables out, warning his friend.

"Robin? What's happened to you?" Craig drew closer, and then staggered as if from a physical blow. Tiny spots of yellow filled the air around Robin's form, pairs of diabolical eyes lacking bodies, staring down at Craig. This time, he knew that it was the adamant walls of Grabold that cushioned him, not the warm blankets of his bed. This nightmare would not end in a fortuitous awakening.

A new sound descended on Craig's immobile figure, shredding his sanity, molesting his mind. It was laughter - low, evil, full of contempt.

He threw his hands over his ears, but the noise defied Craig's hastily imposed barriers, both of physical and psychic defense. He was crushed by the power behind the sound, the deep resentment, and the overwhelming confidence. The laughter had a name, and it was Grabold.

First lord of the manor, his spirit holding rein upon the ancient house, was strong enough to cross the worldly plane and hold Robin captive, and now Craig was coming under that same deadly grip. He was in danger of becoming enslaved, a pawn to be dominated by the unrelenting specter. He was to become a sacrifice, his essence being sucked away into the ethereal grasp of the evil master, and there was nothing he could do to fight and win.

The truth sank in deep, screaming at Craig's mind. He had been chosen, through his friendship with Robin. The hands stretched forth from the manor into Craig's dreams, a supernatural summons, bringing him at last to the chamber, where Grabold's power was focused, a spiritual trap in the black heart of the structure. It was a funnel of energy, tended by the first lord, during and after his life.

Craig knew it all to be true, the invisible arms of Grabold enveloping him in its dreadful fold at last, bestowing the bitter knowledge, and turning him into one of the manor's unwilling entities. Craig forced his eyes to open , hoping to discover a means to break the spell being weaved for him. To his horror, he also now hovered in the air, his body limp as he was moved to join Robin and share his friend's fate. The end was at hand.

He resisted, willing his mind to banish the phantoms. He told himself it wasn't real, but he was swiftly losing control over his own thoughts. The internal protests voiced determination and outrage, but the foul touch of Grabold drowned out his attempts, claiming domination. Craig surrendered, knowing the battle was lost. He did not possess the power of heart or mind to win such a war.

The eyes followed his progress, only inches from his face. He blocked the image away, pleading a silent prayer to find himself awake once more.

"Stop."

A new voice reached Craig's hearing, and he felt the hold of Grabold hesitate. "I have come to fulfill the bargain. Let them both leave, they are of no use to you now."

Craig flew forward and was dropped mercilessly to the floor. He clawed up from the ground, pushing his battered body to his knees, and looked to find the source of the intrusion. A staircase had opened up on the far side of the chamber, and two men stood at the top.

Through watery eyes, Craig recognized the caretaker, but the other man was a stranger. He was tall, with gray hair and a dark face, and he knew instantly that it was Jonathan Stickman. Scirolin bounded down the stairs towards Craig and Robin, who lay unmoving on the cold ground.

"Hurry, we must leave! Help your friend up. Now!"

Craig was bewildered, but shook Robin, rousing his friend. Glazed eyes met his own, and Craig saw the old spark come alive in the man's pupils. He pulled him to his feet, and they followed the skittish figure of Scirolin up the steps.

"What about him?" Craig's chest heaved from the sprint, but he turned to see Jonathan standing before the spikes, his shoulders sagging in a gesture of finality.

"You mean Jonathan Grabold, for that is his real name. He's come to pay his dues, and is beyond our help." They entered a stone door, and Scirolin closed it behind them with a surprisingly strong shove of one shoulder. Craig's eyes scanned the murky air, and he realized that they were in the wine cellar.

"We won't be truly safe until we're outside the walls of Grabold. Follow me."

The unlikely trio climbed solid steps of carved stone, bursting out of a massive wooden door, which opened like a tomb. Through several pantries, and then the kitchen itself, the men continued without pausing. Scirolin lit the way with a lantern of his own - Craig's was still lying on the floor of the chamber hidden below.

Vibrations of agitated energy assaulted Craig at every turn, and from the look on Robin's face, his friend felt the same currents of psychic distress. Grabold was greatly disturbed. They reached the social room and the air struck them like a winter gale.

Icicles hung from the chandelier above, and a frosty breeze drifted across Craig's ashen face. Cries of lost spirits drifted through the chamber, confused and hopeless. It was unbearable.

Scirolin hurried toward the entrance, and a horrible thought blackened Craig's mind that they would be forever trapped inside the manor despite their efforts. He covered his ears against the wailing, but the voices remained. The idea was thrust away as the door opened, and the men found themselves outside the house, passing the marble watchers.

Craig felt an aura seeping from the gargoyles, and he grabbed Robin's arm. Before their eyes the statues shimmered in green mist, and the sleeping orbs opened wide, radiating pure evil.

Muscular limbs of stone thrashed out, grabbing Scirolin in an unbreakable grip. Robin shoved Craig forward, pushing him beneath the monstrous spectacle, sending him down the steps, and he tumbled to the bottom. The moon illuminated the estate in milky radiance, and Craig stared back at the ghastly scene. Scirolin screamed, and deadly laughter rang out.

"Why such haste, old windbag? You've had a long life, how soon we forget. Your ancestors served Grabold - and we are reluctant to forget such loyalty."

Robin stood transfixed, trapped between the house and the stone guardians. The caretaker went limp, and the gargoyles released him. Robin jumped over the lifeless body, bounding down the steps and joining his friend.

"I don't understand." Craig stared at Robin, then at the unmoving form of the caretaker.

Robin bowed his neck, breathing in ragged gasps. "Grabold is under a curse. The first lord of the manor called his kinsman to him, when the debt needed to be paid."

"What debt?"

"A charmed life, free of pain, worry, earthly tragedies. They can refuse, early on in life. They are all psychic, so they must know in their youth."

"Jonathan?"

Robin shook his head wearily. "He accepted, but tried to renege on the deal. He let me enter the manor, hoping to throw off the bargain somehow, offer me in his wake. I was held, and you were manipulated as well. Jonathan must have realized that he could never escape his fate."

"But why not? He seemed to be free, for all these years."

"No, I think he was aware only recently of the summons. My powers were used to reach Jonathan's mind, show him the consequences of trying to cheat his legacy." Robin shuddered. "I caught fragments, faint images. It was hideous."

"What do you mean?"

"To break the deal would mean enslavement to Grabold, in death. He would pay for it in torment, spiritual torture. I was witness to the mental pictures sent to Jonathan's dreams. It was abominable." Robin closed his eyes, looking older than his forty years.

"And Scirolin benefited too, how ironic. He thought Grabold's offer was only to family members. Another pawn, to feed Jonathan with threats, and in the end, claimed by the manor."

Robin shivered.

"Please don't ask me anymore, for your own sake, unless you want to share my nightmares as well as your own. You've been through enough already, my friend. I owe you everything."

He turned his back on Grabold, walking towards the parked car, tears of anguish spilling from his reddened eyes. Craig looked at the house one last time. The manor was subdued, the tension drained from its walls. It also felt different - satiated. The hunger was diminished, and Grabold's spirits could rest once more.

The words of Scirolin again whispered in Craig's mind.

"Some things are better left deeply buried."

Stick Men

Bobby looked at the stone fireplace in wonder. His dreamy-blue eyes reflected the glare from the blaze, and he rubbed his little hands together, feeling the warmth, the scent of charred logs strong but pleasing.

"Hey, sport, ready for the marshmallows?"

The eight-year old nodded, his mouth watering in anticipation of the delicious treat.

"You know, your uncle Fred makes the best ones in the whole world."

Fred walked over to his young nephew, holding two forks loaded up with puffy white marshmallows. The grizzled farmer smiled broadly, his tan face creased with wrinkles.

"Everything all right in there?" The kind voice drifted in from the kitchen, where Bobby's aunt Nancy was baking apple pies.

"You bet. Me and Bobby are having a fine toast in here." Fred turned the long forks, working them like a master.

"Wow, uncle Fred. They look good." Bobby licked his lips, eyes fixed on the crackling fire.

"I think they're done. Here you go, don't burn yourself."

The two sat down on a throw rug embroidered with autumn leaves, a comfortable distance from the fireplace. "These are great!" Bobby looked up at his uncle .

"I told you. Too bad your parents don't get up this way more often, I have a lot of tricks I could show you."

"This farm is all yours?" Bobby felt a piece of marshmallow sticking on his cheek, and was trying to lick it with his tongue.

"You bet, sport. Me and your wonderful aunt out there." He said it loud enough to carry into the kitchen, and Nancy peered around the corner for a brief second.

"How can you do it yourself? It would take me a million years."

Fred laughed. "When you grow up on a farm, you learn, Bobby. You could learn to be a farmer just like me someday."

"Really? Wow. But no one helps you."

The farmer bent close to the boy. "Want to know a secret?" There was a mischievous gleam in his eye, and Bobby nodded eagerly. "You promise never to tell anyone? Not even your mom and dad, Bobby?"

"Yeah, I promise."

"Cross your heart, hope to die?"

"Put a needle in my eye!" Bobby exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.

"Close enough," said Fred. "You can't tell anyone, they might get mad at you."

Bobby frowned. "Who?"

"My helpers."

"But you said nobody helped you." Confused, the boy pointed a finger at the farmer.

"You're right, it isn't people who help me. It's the stick men."

Bobby felt his breath coming faster as he asked, "Who are they?"

Fred leaned closer, and looked out the window as a miniature whirlwind of leaves scampered against the frame, collected by the brisk autumn breeze to a new resting place. "Men, made of sticks and straw. They only move around at night. They work in the fields, cleanup, finish some of the things that I couldn't get to during the day."

"How did you find them?" The boy felt chills going down his back, as if someone poured cold water beneath his cotton shirt.

"They were always here. Ever since I was as tiny as you. I don't understand where they came from; maybe my grandfather knew the truth, he built the original farm. But they make my life a lot easier, so I'm just grateful for them, and never worried about how strange they are." He poked a callused finger into the boy's stomach, causing Bobby to jump.

"Does she know?" The youth looked at the kitchen, and Fred shook his head.

"Nope, just you and me. We're the only ones now."

"Hey you two, the pies are done. Come and get it!" Nancy called for them, breaking the spell of Fred's words.

"Time to go eat some more." The farmer helped his nephew to his feet, and put a finger to his lips.

"Remember, you can't tell anyone. Right?"

Bobby nodded.

"One more thing - don't be afraid. As long as you stay in at night, you'll never even know they're out there in the fields. But if you listen real hard after midnight, you can hear them sometimes. Working the fields, moving around."

"Come on you old farmer, the pies will be frozen by the time you stop talking to that poor boy." Nancy said as she walked around the corner, arms folded around her white cooking apron.

Fred laughed. "See, Bobby, when the boss talks, the farmer walks." He held his nephew's hand, leading him out to the offered pasties.

Bobby turned his head and stared out the front window into the waning afternoon, the last of the orange rays now gone, devoured by the creeping hands of approaching twilight.

A cool breeze blew into the guest bedroom where Bobby lay watching the gray curtains as they swayed gently in the breeze. He couldn't stop thinking about what his uncle Fred had told him.

The stick men. Unseen helpers, busy working in the fields late at night. And now it was late, nearing midnight, as he glanced at the rustic wooden clock hanging on the wall, carved into the form of a cow.

At first, Bobby didn't want to believe the story. But why would his uncle lie to him? Why make him promise not to tell anyone? It didn't make much sense. Any of it. How could men made of sticks walk, anyway? His uncle probably just wanted to scare him, maybe to keep him from getting into trouble. An owl hooted somewhere far off, and a tingle of fear shot through Bobby's neck, quickly spreading down his thin frame under the warm blankets. Gooseflesh covered his arms and legs, and he shivered. The stick men. What if they were real? What did they look like? Mixed emotions clashed in the boy's young mind. Fear of the unknown fought against a strong desire to discover the truth.

Shut your eyes, he told himself. Go to sleep.

But he couldn't. Bobby was wide-awake now and sleep was a long way off. Excitement kept his mind fully alert, not permitting his body to relax. He propped himself up, lifting his legs from the comforting blankets. The house was silent, the only light a milky splash from the harvest moon, nearly full in its white radiance. Bobby crept towards the window.

Still afraid, he opened the window. The boy stuck his head out as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A sudden noise came from the side of the house and he jumped in fright.

Relief crossed his face when he recognized it as the eerie call of a raccoon, searching for a mate. It had to be near, and he strained his eyes, but the elusive creature remained hidden. The landscape was illuminated by the moon's glow, and the sky was clear overhead. The twinkle of a billion stars filled the heavens, and the boy gazed up in amazement.

Feeling a little braver, he crawled through the window. Scattered bushes grew along the side of the farmhouse, and grass carpeted the surrounding yard.

Bobby snapped his head upwards as a shooting star flashed through the night sky then was followed by a second.. His dad had taken him to a small hill the previous summer and the two had sat on the grass, faces skyward, staring up at an incredible meteor storm. Maybe there was one tonight.

Not wanting to go too far from the house, he walked to the stone well in the backyard. An open space lay apart from the host of oak trees, which lurked in thick clumps, and allowed a better view of the sky. It was several dozen yards away, and his courage increased at the prospect of seeing more shooting stars. He reached the well and sat on the rim. The clearing was perfect and he craned his neck skyward, trying hard not to blink much and miss anything.

Bobby sat peacefully for a few minutes, glimpsing two more shooting stars, when he heard a noise and froze.

Again - a quiet, rustling noise. He looked around the yard, his heart beating wildly. Bobby's wide eyes drifted further to the right, where he was sure he'd heard the sound. Something was definitely moving. It was in the near cornfield. A wave of horror filled his small frame as the words of uncle Fred came back to him.

The stick men.

They were out, only at night. Working in the fields. There was no question that something was moving around in the cornfield, a few dozen yards from where he sat. He slowly stood, terrified and numb. He wished with all his heart that he never wanted to see a stick man - not now, not ever. Please, let it go away, he prayed. Please.

The boy's teeth were grinding together and his legs felt weak. He needed to get back to the house. He didn't want the stick men to see him.

Backing away, Bobby forced his resisting body to move. The noise was unmistakable, at the edge of the cornfield. Some of the stalks were now moving - it was almost in the open. Gasping for breath, his eyes were riveted on the corn stalks. Cold sweat moistened his brow. Rustling, stalks bending. Something was at the edge, nearer.

The cornstalks exploded and Bobby thought it was the end of the world as a huge creature came crashing into the open yard. He stumbled backwards, landing on the turf, his legs going straight up in the air as he caught a completely different view of the sky. Quickly righting himself, he saw the creature standing in the moonlight.

It was a huge buck. The boy sighed deeply, thankfully. Something familiar and friendly. It had certainly been feeding on the ample supply of field corn which stretched for acres in all directions.

A deer. Bobby clutched his chest, trying to calm himself.

"Only a deer," he whispered.

The buck looked at the young boy, wary as to any threat that he might pose. A small apple tree sat nearby, and Bobby inched towards it, keeping his eyes on the animal, avoiding any sudden movement. "Don't be afraid, I'll get you something to eat." He saw the fallen shapes of numerous apples lying on the ground, and he slowly bent down, grabbing several.

The buck had wandered further back behind the house, and Bobby cautiously approached it. He threw an apple close to the deer, and it immediately stiffened, ready to bolt. After pausing for a few seconds, the buck went toward the fruit and put his nose to the grass. A small smile crossed the boy's face as he watched the animal take the offering.

Without warning, the deer snatched its antlered head up, stomping a thick hoof in aggravation.

Bobby opened his mouth in surprise as the buck bounded away, plummeting back into the field. A feeling of renewed dread came over the boy and he turned around, too late discovering that a shadowy form was almost upon him. The scream never left his mouth as a rough voice cut him off.

"Bobby, what are you doing out here?"

It took the boy a moment to realize that it was his uncle Fred who approached, dressed in a bed robe and slippered feet.

"Uncle Fred! You scared the death out of me," Bobby said. "I was trying to feed that deer, but he ran away."

"Shh, you shouldn't be out at night. Come on, let's get you back inside." The farmer put his arm around the boy and they started walking back.

After a few feet, Bobby winced in pain as his uncle's grip tightened, his voice speaking low - dark and laced with terror.

"Wait, don't move."

The words sliced through the boy like a spear of ice, the hand of fear once again clutching his heart. "Do you hear that?"

A faint rustling came from the cornfield, originating in several locations. They both gazed at the dimly illuminated stalks, sections of them swaying from the approach of something unseen.

"Oh no, they're here - they know! Bobby, run to the house and don't look back." Fred's voice trembled as he shoved his nephew away.

Bobby ran faster than he'd ever run before, as his uncle issued a dreadful warning.

"They know that I told you. Bobby, you can't tell anyone. Never, or they'll find out. Remember!"

The boy sprinted to the open window, the words of his uncle echoing in his head. He reached the bedroom and scrambled inside, not looking back. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a choked shout, gone so quickly he thought he imagined it.

Bobby was shaking so badly that he couldn't stop his teeth from chattering. He pulled the covers over his head and felt the heat from his own breath as it moistened the blankets. The minutes went by without a sound. He was too afraid to uncover himself, imagining that he would find the room filled with the stick men.

He knew beyond any doubt that they were very real.

They had come after his uncle because he'd told Bobby about them, making them angry. Uncle Fred had said that no one else knew, it must be kept a secret. He failed to keep the secret himself, and the stick men had crossed the fields looking for him. Tears streamed down Bobby's face and he covered his mouth, trying not to make any noise.

The terror was still strong, but now he felt paralyzed. The walk in the yard was now a nightmare, and he half hoped that his eyes would open and everything would be fine. Just a bad dream.

But he knew the truth. And uncle Fred - poor uncle Fred.

Very gently, Bobby lifted the edge of the blanket, peeking into his room. It was empty. He was alone. He pulled the blankets down a few more inches and stared at the window.

Something was standing there, gazing directly at him.

A dark, sinister figure, wearing a straw hat. Dead, orb less eyes pierced his own as a scarecrow stood outside in mute silence, gazing in at him.

Bobby did not breathe in that short span of time as he locked stares with the creature, unable to move. No feeling of horror could compare with that moment in his life, when he looked upon a thing which was utterly alien and terrible.

He blinked his eyes and the scarecrow was gone.

A soft rustling drifted into the room for a moment, then the night was quiet once more. Bobby drew the blankets back over his head, his overwrought body succumbing to sleep.

The next morning, Bobby woke to the noise of his aunt Nancy, sobbing and holding onto him. The farmhouse swarmed with police, neighbors, and the town doctor, as everyone tried to make sense as to what had happened. Bobby walked about in a daze, speechless and stunned by his surroundings and what was taking place.

Later on, Nancy held her nephew's hand, telling the boy that his uncle Fred had wandered outside late at night, suffering a heart attack. Bobby cried along with her, staying silent the entire time. Nancy had phoned the boy's parents, and they would be picking him up that afternoon, canceling the rest of their plans for the weekend.

A flurry of neighbours stopped by that day as word spread swiftly around the countryside concerning the farmer's passing, and Bobby received countless hugs and sympathetic claps on the shoulder. They would all miss his uncle, and Nancy had no choice but to put the farm up for sale. She couldn't go on living there without Fred.

Bobby's parents came over later in the afternoon, and decided to get the boy home without delay. All the excitement and sorrow was overwhelming for such a young child, and he needed rest at his own house. It was a chilly sunset by the time Bobby and his parents drove down the dirt lane, having said their farewells, the evening promising of frost and nightmares.

They pulled onto the main road and Bobby looked into the cornfield, where a scarecrow hung on a wooden stake.

As they went by, Bobby saw the head move ever so slightly, an ominous warning against him telling anyone about the secret of the stick men.

The Raid

"Hey Rusty, how much corn do you have left?" Tommy Miller questioned his freckled friend, a big grin crossing Rusty Patton's face.

"A whole shopping bag full - that should be enough."

Tommy nodded. "I've still got plenty since I went down to the field again Monday. Got a coupla cobs, too."

The seventh graders walked down the sidewalk as a brisk October wind rustled the fallen leaves that were scattered around the lawns of their neighborhood. Several piles sat in the gutter, waiting for the leaf collection trucks to make their rounds. The boys gazed at the houses, continuing their short hike home from the school bus.

"Hey Tommy, look at the Crawford's place."

Rusty pointed a thin finger to his right, and the pair looked at a huge Jack o' Lantern carved in the likeness of a cat, sitting on the front step of a two-story house.

"We'll smash it tonight," Tommy answered.

"Better run fast, though. If Mr. Crawford sees us, we're in big trouble. He knows my dad, they go down to the bar sometimes." Halloween raiding was an adventure, the trick being not to get caught. Both of the boys' parents allowed them to go out with two conditions - they had to go together, and they had to be in by nine. The boys could deal with the rules, although they would bend them at times. They approached an intersection. On the far side was a large maple tree; strips of toilet paper strewn about its lower branches, as if decorated by an insane artist.

"Rob Sterner did that. Don't know where he sneaks all the toilet paper from." Rusty said and laughed.

"He takes it from the school bathroom," Tommy said.

"Really? He's crazy," answered Rusty. "If he gets caught, he'll be in detention for a week."

"Yeah, he's nuts all right. Hey, I forgot to tell you, Jimmy Krick is coming over later. He's raiding with us tonight."

Rusty stopped, looking over at his friend as they reached the other side of the street. "Jimmy? Talk about crazy. I don't know if we should go with him." Rusty adjusted his backpack, looking worried, his brown hair fluttering in the breeze.

"It's okay. He's not that bad," said Tommy.

Rusty wasn't convinced. "I heard he broke three windows last year, and soaped up a police car."

"Well, don't worry, if he tries anything like that, we'll just tell him no."

They approached Tommy's house, and he turned around, shoving Rusty lightly. "Seven, all right? Meet us out front here, and make sure you bring enough corn."

"See ya'," replied Rusty. He crossed the street, angling towards his own house, which sat across from Tommy's.

"Ready?"

Tommy and Rusty nodded, as Jimmy counted on his fingers. The boy was a pale figure on the wooden porch, taller than his two companions. He reached three and in unison the trio jumped up and down, stomping relentlessly on the floorboards. Laughing hysterically, they bounded away off the landing and ran, cutting through the neighboring yard. Lights came on at the house they had left behind, and a dog barked from within. Wordlessly they continued their flight for another block, until they were convinced that no one had followed.

"Good one," said Tommy. We probably gave them a heart attack."

"That'll teach them to leave their lights off, won't it?" Jimmy's smug grin gave the boy a malicious appearance in the darkness.

"We still have some time left, let's go." Jimmy crouched behind a hedgerow, and the others followed him.

They scrambled across to a stone alleyway, leading up a small hill, which was wooded at the top. Jimmy hurried ahead and the alley ended, stopping at a poorly lit street. Few houses were there, mostly older stone dwellings. Across the road sat a solitary home, fronted by a bank of ivy, crumbling steps leading up to the entrance. Moss clung to the house like fungus. Half of the roof tiles were missing, the grass was unkempt, and dark woods loomed ominously behind the backyard. A single light escaped from an upper window, forlorn and sinister in the chill night.

"Now that's strange," said Jimmy. "Who lives there?"

"Old man Berger," replied Rusty, a shiver going down his spine. "He's some German guy, lives by himself. One time Micky Davis yelled at him to go back to Germany, and he came over to us, but we ran away. I've seen him once or twice after that, and he looked at me like he wanted to skin me alive."

"Yeah, his place is supposed to be haunted." Tommy shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the mysterious house.

"Cool. A real haunted house, and here we are, the weekend of Halloween. Perfect." Jimmy fingered a tomato, and Rusty looked at him in alarm.

"I think we better go, it's getting late." Rusty looked at Tommy questioningly.

"Wait, we have to hit this place before we leave." Jimmy turned to his companions. "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?" Tommy shook his head, but Rusty was silent.

"Oh, come on now, you guys call yourselves raiders? Now this is raiding."

"I don't know," answered Rusty. "Well, we're not going inside for trick or treat," Jimmy mocked, gesturing with his hands in Rusty's face. "Jump on the porch, throw a cob or two, then run. If he's just an old man, then what's the big deal? Tommy?" Jimmy looked at Tommy for support, the boy showing some hesitation. "It's all right, Rusty. Let's do it and we'll run home."

Already moving forward, Jimmy went into the street, the other two following reluctantly. They reached the sidewalk in front of Berger's house, and Jimmy started up the worn flight of steps leading to the rotting porch. Rusty came last, and he glanced up at the gloomy upper reach. He gasped in fear as a shadow appeared at a window, and then it was gone.

"Wait," he hissed, "I saw him look out."

His friends stopped, scanning the building with straining eyes. After a few seconds, Jimmy spoke in a hushed whisper. "I don't see anything, you're just scared. Come on."

He reached the porch, and the others approached with less confidence. Gesturing with his hand, Jimmy carefully went to the curtained front window, peering inside.

"Guys, you ain't gonna' believe this. Come here."

Heart pounding in fear, Rusty stared at Tommy's back as he stood with Jimmy. His legs felt leaden, his eyes darting left and right as he joined them. Rusty gazed inside, through a small curtain with tattered holes revealing glimpses of the interior. Black candles were placed in an odd pattern, circling the edges of a low table. The wicks sputtered wildly, caught in some unseen draft.

"Wow, that's weird." Jimmy let out a low whistle, his breath fogging the glass.

"Look! What's that?" Tommy pointed inside, his fingertip touching the window.

The boys followed his gaze to a diminutive form hunched over in one corner. A small man, apparently sleeping, sat on the floor, the face hidden within the folds of an odd-looking robe.

"That can't be Berger, he's too small," said Tommy.

"Is that a dwarf?" Jimmy pressed his face against the cold glass. Rusty had an ominous feeling, and was ready to bolt away. From somewhere in the street a low voice pitched upwards, accompanied by a short bark. Instantly they crouched down, with Tommy crawling to the rim of the porch.

"Berger's coming, he's walking his dog. And it looks mean." A shuffling, bent figure approached the house, holding the chain to a large black animal, looking more wolf than dog.

"Oh no, if he catches us we're history," Rusty's voice quivered. There could be little doubt as to what intentions the group had on the man's porch this late.

"Quick, over the side, then around back." Jimmy was already next to the stone ledge bordering the porch. He pulled himself over and disappeared. Tommy backed up to where Rusty knelt, motioning his friend to follow. Rusty shook with fear, and knew that he had to run. Glancing inside the window briefly, he noticed that the sleeping figure was gone. His eyes grew wide and dread clutched his heart.

What was it? And where had it gone? He had no time to think as Tommy reached the stone and the sound of Berger drew closer. On hands and knees, Rusty made it to the edge and slunk over, dropping onto the ivy that strangled the foundation of the house. He followed the retreating form of Tommy as he snuck along the side of the home. Rusty joined him as a harsh growl erupted from the front of the building.

"Where's Jimmy?" Rusty was breathless from fear and the short sprint, and Tommy darted his head around, searching for their friend.

"He couldn't of gotten far"

Dozens of yards away stood the dark woods, and rotten tree stumps littered the backyard. To the side of the house lay a wide stretch of grass, and the moonlight would have clearly revealed anyone crossing. The sound of a door being closed reached them, and they stared at each other in horror. It came from behind the house.

"Someone came outside," hissed Tommy. He hesitated. "Or went in."

"Now what?" Rusty's pulse raced. Visions of the strange little man swam before his eyes. Were they trapped? There were no other noises from Berger. For all they knew he could be waiting out front. Rusty felt like he was drowning, indecision freezing him.

"Got to find Jimmy. Let's check the back. If you see anything, run like crazy, and don't stop."

The pair crept along the house, expecting at any moment to have someone jump out at them. Thorn bushes lined the home's exterior, the nasty undergrowth cringing against the cold stone as if trying to scale the walls. Tommy reached a corner which blocked the view from the back entrance, and arched his neck as he gazed around the edge. "Nothing here, come on."

A narrow porch sat a few yards to their left, the wooden planks warped and bent upwards at several spots. A dim light spilled out from a partially shuttered window next to the porch.

"I don't see anyone. Do you think Jimmy went inside to hide?" Tommy's question was a terrible one. What if Jimmy had gone in? He would be taking a dreadful chance of being caught. But then again, Jimmy had done some outrageous things before.

Tommy moved to the window, and Rusty turned around, worried that Berger might sneak up the side of the house. "Hold on," he whispered, returning to the corner. Nothing stirred. Rusty returned, gazing across the silent yard as he rejoined Tommy's huddled form.

"It's clear. Berger must've gone in."

Easing up to the window, they held their breath, not daring to disturb the frame. Through the cracks, they saw a table in the middle of a modest kitchen, a seated figure facing the back door. It was Jimmy, staring straight ahead, unmoving.

Two mouths gaped wide at the sight of their friend inside the forbidden home. But that was not the worst of it, for standing on the table was the little man, his back turned to the spying boys. He was gesturing to Jimmy, his tiny hands swaying in front of the boy's face like a diabolical maestro directing his orchestra. Rusty shuddered.

"Wh-what's he doing to him?" Tommy's voice whispered in Rusty's ear, but the boy was unable to respond.

As they watched in horror, Berger entered the kitchen, his gaunt form leering down at Jimmy whose lips moving mechanically, mesmerized by the waving limbs of the dwarf. Berger nodded, a malevolent grin piercing his face, empty and humorless. Without warning, Jimmy stood, the movement dreamlike and controlled. He shuffled towards the door.

"What's he doing now?" Rusty felt Tommy's hands gripping his shoulder, palpable fear in the tightening hold. "Are they letting him go?"

Jimmy reached the door, and the boys struggled with indecision - to leave the house far behind, or try and help Jimmy if possible. The door opened.

"Tommy, Rusty. Come on inside. Mr. Berger wants to talk. He knows where you are." His voice was low and emotionless.

At that moment, the little man turned around, staring straight at the two boys, who watched in horrid disbelief. The dwarf had a long pointed nose, and a face that looked like a rotten apple core. A pair of wicked yellow eyes gleamed menacingly, and small fangs protruded from a cruel mouth. They bolted away, almost knocking each other to the ground in an attempt to escape the evil house and its hideous occupant. Jimmy laughed at their fleeing forms, the sound lacking any semblance of mirth.

"He knows who you are. You can't run from him."

They raced away in the night, their tension finding release. Fear gave them the endurance needed to carry their weary frames past the long blocks back to their own neighborhood. They passed trick-or-treaters and another group or pranksters, ignoring all of them, their only thought to reach the comfort of home. Neither boy spoke until they collapsed onto Tommy's front porch, gasping for air, cramped and tired.

Almost immediately the door opened, and Tommy's mother looked out.

"Well, what have we here? You two rascals had enough escapades for one night?" The boys stared at each other, not knowing where to begin.

"Tommy, I have a message for you. Jimmy's mom just called. He thanked you for letting him come along."

"What? Jimmy's home?" Tommy stood up, his face pale and disbelieving.

"Of course. He went to bed already, guess it was a long night for you guys."

Neither of the boys spoke. Jimmy had gone home, without a word concerning Berger or the dwarf? Impossible.

"Come on, time for bed, Tommy. Good night Rusty."

She gently tugged on Tommy's arm, pulling the confused boy inside. Rusty felt very alone now, and walked over to his own home, eager for the security of familiar surroundings. He scarcely said a word to his parents, who were watching an old movie on TV.

"Hey Rusty, did you have fun?"

The boy nodded his head and went up to his room, locking the door behind him. He lay back on the welcome softness of his bed and noticed a light flashing on the answering machine. His parents had given him his own phone line for friends to call. Rusty's hands trembled as he pressed the button, retrieving the message.

"Hey, it's Jimmy. Just called to tell you I had a great time tonight."

There was a brief pause. Jimmy's voice changed, drawling out the next sentence.

"Your turn is coming soon."

Recoiling in horror, Rusty stood, his young face aghast at the dire warning left on the tape. He had to do something. His parents needed to know, and if they heard the strange message, maybe they would believe him. The tape rewound itself, and he pressed the play button again.

"Hey, it's Jimmy. Just called to tell you I had a great time tonight."

Click.

There was nothing else. Rusty was chilled to the bone. A realization dawned on him - there was no denying it. He was dealing with the unknown, the supernatural, and Jimmy had been taken. Changed somehow. All of them were in danger.

He was suddenly very afraid.

Rusty paced about the room, the clock hands moving to the darker hours. Sleep was far off, and on a whim he jumped up, locking his bedroom window - the night was not to be trusted. He decided to call Tommy, to convey his fears, and also come up with a plan. Rusty dialed the boy's number. Tommy also had a private phone, and they sometimes called each other late at night.

The line was dead. Rusty's hands felt cold and lifeless, holding the receiver. A coincidence, or something else? He went to his closet, bringing out a telescope. He carried it over to the window, now unlocking it for a clearer view through the screen. The lens needed adjustment, and after several moments he zoomed in on Tommy's house. The angle of his own home was perfect for a direct sighting, and he moved the frame into position. Rusty peered into the scope, and saw a faint light coming from Tommy's window. There was no sign of his friend, but he probably was in bed. A single downstairs lamp was on, and Tommy's parents were night owls, so nothing unusual there.

He turned the lens again and stopped. Something moved at the side of Tommy's house. In the bushes, which sat below the terminal box. Rusty felt a new wave of chills crawling along his back. A small figure appeared, wearing a hat, climbing up the drain spout, which passed within reach of Tommy's window. It was the dwarf.

A huge lump formed in Rusty's throat, and he couldn't swallow. The dwarf! Going for Tommy! Rusty had to warn him. He grabbed for the phone again, this time dialing Tommy's main number. The line was disconnected.

Panicking, he looked through the scope. The dwarf was now along Tommy's window, fumbling at the latch. The horrible creature was having some problem, so hopefully that meant it was locked. Rusty had no time to waste. By inaction, he would bring disaster to Tommy and himself. Berger and the dwarf would be after him next, for their unknown diabolical purposes. The boy left his bedroom and ran down the steps. The living room light was still on, and his dad was up yet, watching a black and white horror movie.

"Dad, you've got to come with me!"

Rusty's dad jumped up, surprised by his son. "What? Oh, Rusty, what are you doing up? It's late."

"Over at Tommy's. There's a burglar outside his window."

His dad stood up, eyes darkening. "Are you sure?" He knew his son could be excitable at times, but Rusty wasn't a liar.

"I swear it! You've got to hurry!"

His dad was not one to back away from trouble, and he sprinted into the garage, reappearing seconds later with a small pistol. "This isn't a joke, is it?"

"No." Rusty's frightened look spoke the truth.

"Okay. Call the police, and tell your mom."

He went to the front door and left. Rusty quickly dialed the emergency number, and went outside. He was afraid for Tommy, afraid for his dad as well. They didn't know what they were dealing with here. He felt confused and frightened, not wanting to let his dad face the dwarf alone. He needed to do something.

Rusty had an idea.

Jon Patton crouched next to Tommy's house, staring up at the window. It seemed unbelievable, but a strange miniature figure was holding onto the spout, grasping at Tommy's window. Jon heard a soft clicking, and the window began to open.

"That's enough. Come down now, or I'll shoot a hole in that hat of yours, you little creep." The dwarf froze, and looked down. He made a gurgling noise, and spat his distaste at the man below.

"Right now. Move."

The dwarf descended, lowering himself with remarkable agility. When he reached the ground he paused, his face obscured from Jon's view.

"Hands up, turn around. Slowly. No tricks, either. We wait for the police."

The dwarf moved, head bowed. It suddenly snapped its chin up, revealing the hideous features. Jon gasped in shock, his hold on the gun faltering for a moment, and that was all the time the dwarf needed. His tiny hands rose in the air, gesturing hypnotically, capturing Jon's gaze. The man's eyes grew unfocused.

Nodding in satisfaction, the dwarf stepped forward, muttering something unintelligible beneath his breath. He scowled as he stood before Jon, his hands clenching the air. Yellow eyes glittered in the twilight.

The dwarf then glimpsed something approaching from the corner of his eye, and he turned around, gasping in surprise. From the sidewalk erupted a large black form, as Rusty released Krypto, his pet shepherd.

"Get him Krypto!"

The dwarf shrieked in rage, flying back as the dog pounced on him. Growls from both combatants pierced the night and the two bodies tumbled over into the bushes. The dog barked furiously, trying to bite the much smaller opponent. The spell was broken, and Jon waved a hand across his brow, running forward. Krypto yelped and the little man broke away, but not before Jon fired a shot at his retreating form.

The dwarf vanished into the night.

The three boys sat in Tommy's kitchen the following morning, having been given the day off, trying to unravel the previous night's events.

"Dad said he hit him, but they found no blood. And Jimmy, you don't remember anything?"

"Nope."

Rusty was astonished. "Nothing about Berger, the dwarf, the house?"

"Like they said, I was probably hypnotized, or something. Can't remember anything after leaving his front porch. Weird." Jimmy sat quietly, looking perplexed.

"Well, Tommy, I'm officially retired from raiding." The boys nodded their heads in agreement.

"I knew you would get us into trouble." Rusty yawned, tired but relieved to see Jimmy had returned to his normal, but unusually reserved, self. He mulled over the morning's events in his mind.

The police had entered Berger's house. The old man was gone. Apparently no one had lived there for years. Everything was covered in thick dust, without any signs of recent occupancy. Bizarre. But they did find one thing to corroborate the boy's fantastic tale.

A small tattered hat, with a hole in the middle.

Forsaken

Three horses carefully picked their way up the steep ridge, avoiding the loose rocks and treacherous roots that strove to thwart their progress. Mossy trees enshrouded the slope, bringing premature shadows to the high country. A chill wind whistled in the bouldered summit overhead, an invisible banshee that darkened the hearts of the three woodsmen who struggled to convince their mounts to press onward. Foremost rode Kyle, the leader of the trio, and he held up a callused hand signaling a halt.

"Well, Richard, you still think this will bring us around the canyon?"

Kyle glanced back to his companion's huge frame, seeming too large for the brown mare he sat astride, and pulled out his leather water pouch.

Richard rubbed a thick hand through his bristled red beard, the keen gray eyes scanning the ridge that loomed in the distance. "Didn't expect it to be this rough going around. Let me check my compass again."

Behind him, Matthew leaped off his horse and stretched leans arms above his head. Despite being younger and smaller, he was an excellent tracker and could keep up with his two more experienced friends.

"Damn, getting cold," he muttered. "These mountains forgot about fall, it's only September."

"Old man winter comes real early to this neck of the woods," replied Kyle. "Haven't been up this far north before, it's all wilderness. Did you notice the lack of trappers the last day?"

Nodding in answer, Richard put away his compass and absently stroked his beard. "Supposedly a no-man's land. Local Indians have avoided these foothills around Whistling Mountain for centuries. This should bring us a clearer picture after we gain the top. Still have two days to make it back to camp in time."

"I hope so," replied Kyle. "Our job was to find a shortcut, not get lost in the woods."

"This is a confusing area, though," replied Richard. "The readings haven't been true. There's been some magnetic interference. Strange."

Matthew put a booted foot in one stirrup, hoisting himself back onto his horse. "Well, let's get it over with. The sooner the better. I don't like the look of this place, and that wind gives me the creeps."

"Letting your age show again, boy. Respect the wild, but never fear it. Now, no more breaks until we reach the top," Kyle replied.

He nudged his mount to move forward, and they resumed their trek.

The territory was unknown to them, and the logging company that employed the three had sent them out to track a new path for when the expansion grant would take effect, opening up previously isolated areas for lumbering. They continued on, the mounts laboring to make the ascent. It became increasingly obvious that the climb would be too difficult at their present rate, and Kyle made them all dismount, leading them in single file as he tried to find the easiest route. Large outcroppings of sharp stone jutted out, and the footing was unsure.

Tiny landslides rolled down the slope behind them, and each of the men fell several times. Bruised and weary, they gained the ridge and found a renewed burst of energy, wanting only to leave the hill behind. A thick cluster of pine trees grew at the top, and the forest floor was littered with cones, nuts, and thousands of acorns. The ground leveled out and they led the horses through the evergreens as the evening wore on. They wound their way between the trees and Kyle gave a quick shout.

"There's a trail here." He pointed a finger into the bushes ahead where a narrow path opened up.

"Who would make a path up here?" said Matthew.

"Definitely not a deer trail," Kyle replied, bending down and examining the beaten ground. "That's a good question. We haven't seen anyone this far up, but there has to be somebody to maintain it. This might be what we've been looking for."

The group followed the path, which inclined downward. They noticed a mist rising from the ground, but none of them brought it up. Considering the altitude and climate, there seemed to be no apparent reason for it. After a while, the pine trees gave way to larger and darker oak and maples. The mist was still with them, and now the path was angling to a steeper descent.

"This is taking us down a hollow," said Richard. My compass isn't working at all now."

He showed the instrument to the others, and the arrow was spinning in every direction. Kyle pulled his own compass out with the same result. The men shook their heads and trudged on, knowing that nightfall would be arriving shortly, and a suitable campsite was needed. In the deepening shadows the surrounding forest began to close in on them as the gnarled branches of hoary oak trees rose into the canopy above like wooden fingers of sinister creatures, clicking together in the ghostly breeze.

The air grew steadily warmer, and the woods were strangely devoid of any noise, whether from animal or insect. Each of the men felt a growing trepidation inside, not wanting to announce their feelings, considering themselves singular in each case from the other two. They had continued for over an hour with little conversation, and Kyle started to notice great strands of cobwebs strewn about the forest, intricate tapestries of arachnid designs. There were hundreds of silk weavings clinging to the branches, and he looked warily for any of the creators, finding none.

Richard would at times check his compass, discovering the same result each time, and eventually he gave up on the instrument. Matthew remained in the rear, and he found himself looking over his shoulder constantly, expecting to see some lurid shade following in their wake. He was only twenty-five, the junior of the group by more than ten years, and although proven in the field, he was unsettled by the solitude of the hollow.

It was twilight, and the men hadn't seen a glimpse of the sun in nearly two full days. First the clouds in the lower valleys and on the slope, and now the pervasive mist which swirled between the trees in lazy circles. Without warning, the path opened in front of Kyle and he stopped short. Matthew reined his horse in sharply to avoid crashing into Richard. A low whistle came from Kyle's lips and he gestured for silence. Dismounting, he cautiously walked forward, leading his horse on. His companions followed suit, and Richard sniffed the air.

"Fire, do you smell it?" His voice sounded harsh in the still forest, and Kyle nodded.

"Yes, from up ahead in this clearing. Quiet now, move slow."

In single file they passed through a clump of bushes, which had replaced the tree line. They walked a dozen yards when Kyle gasped in surprise. Waiting until his companions caught up, he stood in mute silence, transfixed by what he saw.

A large cottage lay in the middle of a grass clearing, the likes of which they had never seen. The building was a perfect circle, the bottom section was a reddish hue, the upper part a light gray. A thatched roof sat on top of the structure, and the siding consisted of oval plates, almost like reptilian scales. Two windows faced outward in exact alignment with the front door, which was made of wood, with no step leading up to it. A stone chimney jutted out through the roof, curls of smoke drifting up into the blackness.

The appearance of the cottage in the middle of this isolated hollow, countless miles deep in the wilderness, struck a profound chord within the three men. They stood in awe, each feeling the touch of something, which could only be described as magical, in a bizarre and mysterious way.

Kyle gaped in astonishment, while Richard's face was an emotionless mask. Matthew's eyes grew wide, and he glared at the building in dismay.

"I've never seen anything that looked so out of place in my life." Kyle fingered the rifle that was secured in his mount's saddle. "What do you make of it?"

"I don't," replied Richard. "This is no trapper's cabin, or any style I've come across before."

"Foreign, European maybe. But who in the devil's name would be living out here in the middle of nowhere? Strangest thing I've ever seen." Kyle felt a twinge of warning in his mind, an extra sense from his subconscious, finely tuned from living in the wild most of his years, but he shrugged the feeling aside.

The cottage held them within its cloak, a vision of something unknown in a place where there should be only forests and mountains. They were under a subtle spell, but one, which they were completely aware of. "Fantastic as this place looks, I wonder who the occupant is? We have to be careful, whoever lives here can't be used to seeing strangers." Kyle turned his head to look at his friends, and Richard nodded, while Matthew continued to stare at the building.

"Something is strange here," said Matthew. "I can't explain it, but I think we should leave this hollow."

Kyle's blue eyes darkened. "What? And turn around now? I think you're a bit superstitious, lad. We can find some shelter here, it's almost dark."

The hollow was deathly quiet, and the mist was solidifying, becoming more substantial, but Kyle was a seasoned hunter, unwilling to give into fears of the night.

"Come on. Tie the horses to those trees at the edge, and we'll go in." He pointed to a pair of trunks, which were more tall stumps than anything else. They were gnarled, bent and twisted as if by the hands of a warped mind, waiting to let rot and decay put them out of their misery. Matthew took the reins of all three horses and walked to the trees, looking nervously into the forest eaves.

Richard glanced at Kyle, shouldering his rifle.

"No, that would really scare someone. Our intentions are good, keep the guns with the horses. My hand is never far from my hunting knife, you know."

The two went to the door, and after a moment's pause, Kyle knocked on the wood frame, the noise dull and echoless. There was no sound from within. Waiting briefly, he tried again, without a response. The silence was ominous, and they looked at each another.

Matthew finished with the horses and rejoined them, still looking into the woods. Now Richard knocked, the big man pounding solidly.

"Hello, we mean no harm. If you could help us with the path, we work for the lumber company." Kyle pressed his mouth close to the entrance, while Richard kept his ear flat to the door.

"Hear anything?"

Richard didn't respond, then turned his head. "I thought I did, for a moment there."

"What was it, someone coming?" Kyle looked curiously at his companion.

"No, it was odd. Almost like breathing, from a large animal. Can't be sure." Matthew stared at him in alarm, but Kyle rubbed a finger under his lip in concentration.

"I guess there's only one way to find out." Kyle reached for the doorknob.

"Wait, I don't think we should do this. We don't belong here - it feels like a trap." Matthew moved forward, and the other men were silent.

"What do you think?" Kyle waited for the big man to answer. Richard shrugged his shoulders. "You're the leader here, I follow." Kyle clapped him on the arm. "We've been through a lot, my friend. With you watching my back, I'm not afraid."

"Who will watch mine, is what worries me." Matthew searched the woods behind them, all traces of the path gone. The horses nickered lightly, huddled together in a restless group.

Kyle turned the black doorknob easily and the wooden entrance swung inwards smoothly, an orange glare illuminated the man's face.

"Hello, anyone here?" He stepped in, Richard close on his heels.

The men had not anticipated what waited inside. The cottage was magnificently furnished. A blazing fire licked the sides of an enormous stone fireplace, an obsidian cauldron resting on the edge. Sitting in the middle of the building was a long wooden table, complete with plates of food and goblets of liquid, enough for a small feast.

Several shelves sat against the walls filled with a host of books, and various ornaments that were clearly made from different parts of the world. Garishly-colored tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of exotic lands and beasts. Overhead, vast wooden beams complimented the hardwood flooring. The lower rafters were adorned with oddly shaped decorations, and the ceiling above was obscured in shadows. A single door was visible at the far end, fronted by a railed landing and a flight of steps. There was no one to be seen.

"Amazing."

The other men could only agree with Kyle's description. The building was of a unique design - the furnishings were relics of the old world.

"Whoever lives here certainly has gone to tremendous lengths. How could they have brought such a collection to these mountains?"

Even Richard's normally stoic demeanor was startled by the building.

"It's like a fairy tale."

The other men looked at Matthew. "So out of place. And we've been expected."

The aroma of the meats attracted the ample appetites of the weary group. Steam issued forth from the hot plates, and fruits were scattered about the sumptuous table.

"Hello! Anyone home? We mean no harm." Again, Kyle shouted a greeting, but the cottage appeared deserted.

"Maybe they're in the next room. I'll try that door."

Kyle and Richard walked further inside, walking up the short landing. Matthew had not moved, his eyes still wide at the fantastic display lying before him. He watched fearfully as his companions reached the door.

"It's locked." Kyle knocked, and called out. Richard took a turn, pounding on the door himself, and then shook his head. They returned to the middle of the room, and walked over to the table.

"Well, if our host went to all this trouble preparing a meal for us, and wishes to stay hidden, I guess that is their right. I'm starving, and will gladly accept such hospitality." Kyle sat down on a cushioned chair, the arms molded into the talons of an unknown beast. Pausing momentarily, Richard eased his frame down across from his companion.

"Come on, have a seat," snapped Kyle. Matthew had not left the doorway, and stared at Kyle. "Do I have to order you? Listen, I'll leave some money here if the owner doesn't show up."

"What if this meal was meant for someone else?" Matthew replied.

"What? Out here, in the middle of nowhere? If by chance another group arrives, then they're most welcome to be compensated from the company - a good bargain if you ask me," Kyle returned. He picked up a morsel of steak, biting off a juicy piece.

Moving over slowly, Matthew stared at the table.

"Coming in here, uninvited, it's not right." He sat down anyway, and Richard took a deep gulp from a pewter goblet that was filled with wine.

"Like no vintage I've ever had before." Richard wiped his mouth, drinking again.

Soon all three of the men were eating ravenously. The food was excellent.

Ripe apples, pears, and berries filled several metal bowls on the table. There was plenty of wine to go around, and enough meat and bread to feed twice their number. They became engrossed in their meal, soon forgetting the strange setting which surrounded them. A good half hour was spent on the delicacies that lay strewn about the table, and even Matthew let his guard down after a while. The woodsmen ate to their heart's content, until finally, Kyle pushed his chair back.

Standing up, he lifted his flagon high in the air.

"Men, I propose a toast. To the benefactor of this outstanding meal. If anyone can hear us, we thank you from the bottom of our stomachs. We are in your debt, and owe you dearly." He raised the rim and drank deeply, followed by the others. They all finished their swigs when a faint noise echoed from somewhere nearby, and the men instantly froze, their blood running cold.

It was a shrill, mirthless laugh, quickly ending.

Richard kicked out from his chair, and Kyle's hunting knife was in his hand immediately.

"What the devil was that?"

They looked around, but the cottage was again silent. The only noise an occasional crackling from the fire, which seemed to have grown stronger since their entrance.

"Are we being played the fool?" Richard fingered the short ax, which he always carried. "I don't like games."

"Hello. Show yourself. We want to talk with you." Kyle tried again to entice the owner to come out, but his words had no effect.

"A trap, do you think?" Kyle glanced at the big man.

"Maybe it is. Better check outside." Richard pointed to the entrance, nodding at Matthew. The younger man ran to the door, knife in his hand. Several lanterns hung from the walls, and Matthew grabbed one of them. "Watch my back." He opened the door a crack then went outside, while Richard remained at the entrance.

Kyle stared at the man, gauging him for a reaction. His fears came to light as Richard turned around. "They're gone. Matthew is over at the trees now."

"Damn!" Kyle swore, slapping his hand onto the table. "Go out with him and..."

A sudden noise broke off his words as the locked door opened on its own. Both men sprang to attention, expecting an attack from the other room. Richard crept over to where Kyle stood, but nothing revealed itself at the landing.

"Walk with me, slowly." Kyle motioned to his friend and they put their backs to the front door, unaware that it silently closed as if from an invisible hand, leaving Matthew outside.

The horses and rifles had disappeared, and Matthew moved the wick higher inside the lantern, lighting up the tortured forms of the two trees. He whistled, calling out to the horses. The hollow was deathly quiet, the mist damp on his skin.

There was no trace of the animals. Reluctantly he walked closer to the forest, peering into the gloom. As the light fell on the foremost trees, he heard a rustling sound in the branches overhead. Holding the lantern up higher, he saw something move.

As he went closer, a gasp of horror left his lips, for one of the horses was in the tree.

It was entangled inside a huge web, and a pair of yellow eyes stared down at the woodsman from several feet above the imprisoned creature. Matthew backed up in terror, revulsion filling his bloated stomach as the horse struggled to break free. He turned to run and felt something strong grip his arms. Matthew watched in disbelief as the branches from both the tree stumps moved on their own, pinning him where he stood.

A wicked laugh reached his ears and a figure appeared out of the mist.

"Leaving so soon? I'm afraid that would be quite rude, seeing as your debt hasn't been paid yet."

Richard gained the top of the landing. "I'll go first, keep a watch."

He walked forward with the ax in front. A dim light filtered through the doorway, from an unknown source. Richard braced himself, and then kicked the door apart savagely. As he blasted the frame, the cottage shook, knocking Kyle to his feet.

He yelled out, seeing his companion thrown off balance, falling forward into the open door. Kyle saw the tip of one booted foot, and then watched in amazement as the door slammed shut behind the man, leaving him alone in the large room.

Richard was on his hands and knees, the stone floor warm to his touch. He pivoted, gaining his footing, and faced a blank wall. The door had vanished.

Running his hands along the smooth surface, he expected to find a spring, which would reveal the hidden entrance. His efforts were futile. Light suddenly filled the room as torches flared to life, numerous racks of them lining the walls. Richard spun around, ax in hand as a low huffing sound reached his ears.

A huge figure stood in the center of the oblong-shaped room. It was a nightmare.

Manlike in appearance, its hunched over form was a dozen feet high. A misshapen, hairless body was covered in a small loincloth, and a wicked grin issued from a bulbous head, revealing rows of cruel fangs. Ripples of corded muscles ran the length of the monster's limbs, and it wielded a spiked club in one of its taloned hands, splotches of green marking the skin like festering sores.

A low guttural laugh came from the creature's maw, and Richard backed up. There was nowhere to run. He realized that they had entered into a lair of horrors. The ogre moved forward, and a poisonous voice uttered from behind the hideous beast.

"Don't hurt him too much, his services will be needed."

Alone.

Kyle tried both doors unsuccessfully, and now stood next to the table, rage and frustration on his rough face. He'd been brash and foolish. Disregarded the warnings that were clearly visible. Ignored his own intuition. Lost the horses and rifles. Maybe their lives too.

And now his group was separated.

Matthew outside, Richard trapped somewhere within the recesses of the cottage. Biting his lip in anger, he was unable to help his companions. They were good men, and followed him into the cottage to an unknown fate. He looked around, scanning the walls for a way out, perhaps a secret panel. Nearing one of the bookshelves, he grabbed a text and looked at the covering. The words were in a different language, but seemed vaguely familiar.

Slovakian, maybe even Russian, he thought. Picking up several more, they were all written in the same dialect. Nothing made sense here. But he knew one thing - a trap had been laid, and they'd walked right into the middle of it.

He noticed a tall ladder leaning against the far wall, and he rushed over to. Kyle peered into the rafters high above, wondering if a door was overhead.

Carrying the ladder to one of the beams, which supported the cottage, he placed it against the side and started up.

Matthew's eyes grew wide with fear as the huge spider crept towards him. The creature's forelegs waved in the air, a chittering noise escaping from it. His arms burned from the harsh grip that held him. The figure out of the mist came near, and the imprisoned man saw an old crone dressed in a wraparound shawl, flecks of brown and yellow covering the weaved garb.

The hag spoke, and Matthew trembled in terror.

"I have come to receive my payment, for the hospitality that you greedily accepted."

"Wh-who are you?" Matthew stammered, as the spider was almost on him. "Make it go away."

"My name is Jezi, and no, I will not make it go away. How quickly you forget. A toast was made, and you drank deeply, placing yourself in my debt. And now, the time has arrived to fulfill that oath."

The spider lunged forward, biting the woodsman in the neck as he screamed in agony.

"Don't worry, my young friend. You'll wake up soon enough, although you might wish otherwise."

She laughed mirthlessly as Matthew fell to the ground, the spider dragging him off.

The battle was hopeless - Richard knew it from the onset.

Now wounded in a dozen places, he was limping badly, his breathing ragged. The ogre stood a safe distance from him, face leering with grim confidence. Richard had scored several blows that would have killed any man alive, but the brute merely shrugged them off. It was time now to end the fight, and it walked deliberately toward the woodsman with the club raised.

Richard made a last desperate attempt to catch the monster off guard, but instead was tricked himself. The ogre made as if to bring the club down, but then with a surprisingly quick move it slapped the man on the side of his head with a mighty swipe of its arm. Richard's ears were ringing from the assault and he flew back against the wall, falling unconscious as the ogre stood over him.

The beast grabbed Richard by the leg and threw him over a mottled shoulder like a rag doll. It lumbered to the far wall where a hidden doorway opened up, leading to a flight of stairs.

Kyle climbed higher, holding the lantern above. The shadows fled, revealing a spacious ceiling much larger than he had expected. All along the wooden beams were small figurines, some of men and others of unknown origin. They were attached by long nails, a bizarre collection of detailed beings.

He gazed at the display with great dread, black suspicions in his mind that he didn't want to pursue. The ceiling itself seemed to have a leathery texture, an odd pinkish color that seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite place the resemblance.

Craning his neck, he found what he had been searching for. An opening was tucked away directly beyond the support beam he was climbing against. If he could scramble up the post, it might be possible to gain the entry hole. He put the lantern around his shoulder to keep it from crashing to the floor, and found some handholds in the beam. Grabbing with both arms, he almost fell as a tremor shook the cottage.

The ladder buckled at his feet and his heart raced, not wanting to fall to the floor. He was fairly high up now, and would be injured from such a height if he lost his balance. Hesitating, Kyle again started up, and once more another tremor moved the building. This time he heard something along with the shaking. A soft noise, like an object being sucked into water.

It was brief, and then the cottage was silent.

Kyle remained poised, waiting for something else to happen, but the episode was finished. Resuming his climb, he was able to make his way to the opening, which was not so much a trapdoor but a hole in the ceiling. He listened for movement, hearing nothing. Kyle was directly below it and stretched his head into the hole, holding the lantern with one arm.

A hideous stench wafted downward, reminding him of spoiled meat. He nearly gagged from the smell, and his imagination turned into dark corridors. He stuck his head fully inside, and the light revealed a separate room reaching even higher.

A noise drifted to his ears now - a low moaning, as if from someone in distress. Kyle pulled himself up, straining his eyes to penetrate the retreating shadows. Two forms hovered overhead, several seconds lapsing before they became distinct to his shrouded vision. What he saw shot utter horror into the deepest corners of his heart.

Several yards above him were Matthew and Richard, hanging upside down like human bats. The pair was enmeshed in strands of cobweb, their bodies visible up to the knees. Their lower extremities were joined with the ceiling, which moved in a steady rhythm, like the breathing lung of a living creature.

Pathetic whimpering issued forth from the mouths of the two, kept alive for sinister reasons, which Kyle now began to understand. His stomach churned in outrage, and he felt the bile rising in protest at the ghastly scene. His companions hung well above him, and he saw nothing that could lead him to their aid. There was no ladder or rope to be seen, and he choked in desperation at their abominable plight.

Kyle gasped in shock as a tremendous quake rocked the structure, causing him to drop the lantern and nearly fall himself. Darkness closed in on him, and he held onto the post with trembling arms, trying desperately to maintain his balance. Adding to the confusion and terror, diabolical laughter filled the rafters. He needed to find an escape - his companions were beyond his help. Kyle scrambled down blindly, splinters stabbing into his exposed skin.

Ignoring the pain, the woodsman felt the ladder at his feet and managed to find a grip on it, starting down. He lowered himself precariously, seeing the glow from the fireplace beneath his legs. When he had reached the crossbeams, another tremor swayed the cottage, stronger than the first two. The vibrations knocked the ladder loose , and he plummeted down the remaining distance onto the floor below. The wicked laughter grew louder, and now a desolate voice echoed through the walls of the structure.

"You have served me well and are free to go, but your friends will pay the price for your foolish bargain, feeding the appetite of my home. Lucky for you that two will be adequate. Leaving here with that last thought shackling your conscience is satisfaction enough for me. Flee now, before I change my mind."

Kyle crawled to the front entrance, and the fire leapt up, licking the sides of the chimney. The door flew open, a gust of wind blasting the woodsman as he righted himself. He stumbled out of the cottage, heading for the cover of the forest ahead. Insect eyes stared down at him from the boughs above, the bodies of the creatures invisible in the twilight.

The fog had dissipated, and a full, bloated moon illuminated the clearing as Kyle turned back for a final look at the building. The cottage shuddered, shifting from left to right. The woodsman watched in disbelief, unable to break his gaze away from the impossible spectacle.

Two monstrous limbs broke out from the bottom of the structure, elongating into enormous avian claws, and memories of an old fairy tale resurrected in Kyle's mind. A cottage that was not what it seemed - an evil, unforgiving mistress who defied the ages - a black and diabolical witch.

He burst down the path as a tremendous whoosh echoed throughout the forsaken hollow, the last vestige of the ancient evil retreating into the sky above.

The scouting party found Kyle staggering down the slope two days later. Feverish, raving incoherently, the men brought him back to camp, but there was nothing they could do to banish the madness, which gripped the once-shrewd woodsman.

The company physician treated him but no signs of his companions were ever found, and Kyle didn't respond to any of the questions he was asked. His physical injuries were curable, but not the spiritual ones.

Kyle's mind was lost to him.

He would speak only a single name, something that was cast aside as the ramblings of a madman.

Baba-Yaga.

Paul Melniczek

Paul Melniczek is a small business owner and a college graduate, with a degree in business management. He also teaches a part time class at a local college, is married with two children. In year 2000 he began writing, and since then has had over seventy stories published or accepted for publication in a wide variety of markets, including print anthologies, print magazines, e-zines, and e-anthologies. Some of these include sales to Fangoria, Black Rose, Cold Storage, and many others.

He is also a musician, playing classical piano and electric guitar. In his free time he enjoys the outdoors, weightlifting, golf, and tennis. Living in the country lends much inspiration to his writing, and he is currently working on another short story collection, a fantasy novel, and a children's book.