"No," she said. "When you and I did drugs, we were experimenting, expanding our minds. We never resorted to criminal activity."

"Other than taking the drugs themselves, since they were illegal," he said dryly.

"You know what I mean."

He nodded. "The one boy turned up. We can only hope they find the other kid soon. It's bound to affect business."

She grunted her response as she moved into the sun and leaned her back on a tombstone. It was fashioned out of red granite, with a large ornate cross carved above the name. She loved spending time here amidst the remembrances of the dead. It was morbid on her part, but being here fit with the whole impression of the town, especially the past few days. The Crossing always had an underlying current, almost like a dread, although that seemed too strong a word. But she felt that aura, or whatever it was, now.

She looked down past the old metal gate and saw Taylor Lake. The sky was cloudless. She rested her head on the stone, closing her eyes and sunning herself. She could hear Douggie chewing, then the sound of a bottle opening and his gulping the liquid down.

Drowsiness overtook her as the heat soothed her bones. A slight breeze rustled through the trees. She drifted off, dreaming of being out on the lake in a boat with Douggie. In a state of semi-consciousness she thought she smelled matches burning, and she heard the tall brown gra.s.s breaking. She wondered why he was walking around and puzzled that she hadn't heard him get up.

"Hey." She heard an edge of alarm in his voice.

Her eyelids flew open. The sunlight struck her full in the face and she could only see Douggie's silhouette, a black shape against brilliant light. He was on his feet, hands on his hips. She moved and saw that his back was turned toward her. Then she noticed what had made him get up. Ed Miller stood off at a distance, and with him were Samuel Friedman, two other men, hikers she surmised, from their khaki shorts and st.u.r.dy boots, and a boy that she'd seen around town.

Pamela scrambled to her feet, brushing dirt from her legs. "What's going on?" Even though she wasn't very friendly with the other locals, news still traveled. She'd heard the rumors this morning, about Ed and Samuel missing, and how they might be involved in the disappearance of the kids. And it dawned on her that the boy must be the one who was still missing.

Ed met her eyes. His were so empty of substance, of life, that she thought she could see through them. A stale smell a.s.saulted her, body odor, but something else, like an old fire.

"Hon, they don't seem to be okay," Douggie whispered to her.

"No kidding." She shuffled uneasily toward him.

Ed closed the distance between them, stepping around a tall gray obelisk tombstone. Samuel went to the left, blocking the path to the cemetery entrance. The others stayed as still as the tombstones.

"What do you want?" Douggie asked. Pamela detected fear in the warble of his voice.

"What's the matter with them?" she hissed, gripping his arm.

"I don't know."

Ed halted in front of them, his piercing eyes darting from Douggie's face to hers.

He focused on Douggie. "Are you the one of the earth?" His voice was hollow, lacking in timbre and tone.

"Ed, maybe you should back off." Douggie stiffened, acting tough.

"It is time." Ed beckoned with his damaged hand and Samuel came up the path.

Pamela watched Samuel carefully, but made the mistake of looking him in his eyes. They were as dead as Ed's, and they hooked her. She wanted to run, to shout at Douggie to split, take off, and she'd be right behind him. But she couldn't make herself do that. She couldn't make herself do anything except peer into Samuel's vacuous eyes. She sensed that Douggie's arms dropped to his sides, and she somehow knew that Ed was hypnotizing him the same way that Samuel was hypnotizing her.

"I call you."

Pamela noticed Douggie nod slowly. She fought against an urge to do the same.

"What are you doing?" she didn't realize that she'd opened her mouth, and her own words jarred her into action. "Stop this." She forced her feet to move, to wrestle against a foreboding energy.

Ed stepped up to her. "You will come with us."

"What?" she struggled for breath. She stared into a void that almost pulled her in. But mentally she was strong.

"You," his voice, barely a whisper, empty but so dark, "will be a host."

"Screw you, buddy." She backed away from Ed, anger fueling her. "Get away from us." She reached to push him back. But his eyes drilled into her, and despite her efforts, she felt her will drain from her.

Clouds formed over her vision, but through the haze she saw Douggie standing nearby, motionless. Then the last of her true being faded as she succ.u.mbed to Ed's control.

Ed waited until he sensed no more resistance from the woman's spirit, then he turned to the others. Even though she did not have a role in the ceremony, she would serve as a host for other spirits. "Come." He pointed up the hillside, away from Taylor Crossing. "Our time is now."

Douggie and Pamela were beyond speech. They were followers now, the essence of their beings submerged in the evil presence before them.

Ed stalked through the high gra.s.s. Douggie and Pamela fell in behind him, then the two hikers, Mick, and Samuel. They left through the back of the cemetery, past one last, stately, granite tombstone. The name Taylor was etched on its smooth surface.

CHAPTER 32.

Later that afternoon, Rory sat at the oak table in his kitchen, reading a fragile book that he'd found in the living room. It was a copy of the Apocrypha, the book that Myrtle had told him about. He'd been reading the references to the Nephilim from the Book of Enoch. It was fascinating, but he was having a hard time focusing. His mind kept going back to last evening, and his conversation with Anna and her references to spiritual influences and dark forces. She had verbalized his fear that what he'd seen in New York was indeed unexplainable, at least in a way this world would understand.

He concentrated on the book. Enoch tells how the fallen angels took earthly wives, then imparted their knowledge of occult phenomena to them, teaching their wives about magic, the art of enchantment, sorcery, and other unG.o.dly acts. These things were pa.s.sed on to their offspring, the Nephilim, who continued in their evil ways, s.e.xually defiling women, men, and beasts. The Nephilim had such huge appet.i.tes that they devoured not only the animals of the earth, but even men, which in turn caused them to stink. Like the Genesis account, Enoch writes that G.o.d finally wiped out the race by releasing the upper waters, saving only Noah and his family, who had a pure bloodline.

Rory's mind wandered again, this time to Nicholas. The poor boy had been terrified when he wandered into town, but he couldn't get over what else Nicholas had said about the dark mist that talked to him. To Anna and Myrtle it must have sounded like pure gibberish, nonsense spoken by a child in shock. And at any other time, he would've agreed. If only he could dismiss it that easily.

Even as he thought about the mist, he began to perspire. He got up and poured himself a gla.s.s of water and went out on the porch. The air was still and hot, and a few boats dotted the lake. Big drops of sweat rolled from his armpits and down his sides, soaking his shirt. He downed the water, gulping it as if he hoped to wash away his memories.

But the flashback kept coming. The sinister mist, hovering above the street. It was so real, he thought he could reach out and touch it. And then the dark thing seemed to talk to him and no one else. It called him. And as he looked at the mist above the street, it grew eyes that penetrated him. And then the car hit him.

He fought a sudden urge to vomit, bending down and sucking in deep breaths. "c.r.a.p," he muttered, gripping the gla.s.s tightly. The nausea pa.s.sed and he went back into the cabin. He put the gla.s.s in the kitchen sink, and was about to sit down when he heard it. Just like yesterday. Just like that day in New York.

"What the..." his voice faded away. He looked around but saw no one.

The voices can't be real, he told himself. And yet they were.

He stood near the table, head c.o.c.ked to one side, straining in the silence to hear.

"What?" he finally shouted, throwing a fist in the air. "I am not going crazy!"

Nothing.

He went into the living room and peered out the rear window. The cliff face glared brightly in the sunlight.

It spoke again. And this time he understood. "It is time," something faraway said.

He went rigid for a moment while his mind raged a battle, one part saying he heard nothing, the other acknowledging the voice.

"Time." A hollow whisper. He did a three hundred and sixty degree turn, frantically scanning his surroundings for an explanation. He was utterly alone.

"Time for what?" he asked the emptiness, his irrational side winning out.

Nothing.

An ominous chill crept over him. The air soured, and the room shrunk around him. His chest began to heave, and he couldn't seem to breathe. He heard a cacophony of sounds, each clamoring over the other, louder and louder. He put his hands to his ears, pressing hard to drown out the noise.

"Time for what?" he gasped. The room spun violently, and his vision blurred into a thousand colored dots.

He sank to the floor, leaning against the couch. Oh man, was he dying again? He threw both hands to his chest. He felt his heart pounding. "No," he groaned.

Spots appeared in his vision and he began to lose consciousness.

Another voice, different in tone and aura, spoke. "Beware."

Then blackness.

CHAPTER 33.

The clearing reeked of stale, human smells, and burning flesh, but also of something from the depths of the earth, dark and sinister. The powers of h.e.l.l had been gathered up and released into this small part of the mountains. Pamela Henderson and William Douglas Douggie moved away from the center of the clearing, their human bodies now inhabited. Pamela was a host for a spirit that would seek release, but Douggie was host to one with a necessary role in the ceremony. They would soon have all the necessary ones. The spirit inside Ed was satisfied. And as the energy in the forest grew, so did the power of the ent.i.ties within their human hosts.

"We must seek the others," Ed said. "We must prepare the way."

Samuel Friedman nodded, his spirit's awareness growing with the dark presence in the clearing.

"Soon you will get others."

Samuel nodded again.

Ed turned to the others. The two hikers, Mick, Pamela, and Douggie, stood in indifferent silence. Ed took a few deep breaths. The late afternoon sky directly above them darkened as the nether power descended. Ed channeled the energy into those before him.

Then just as quickly the force left. The western sky faded into a deep purple and faded to black.

Ed stalked out of the clearing, followed by the others. The light would bring a new day, and they would have more to do. They had more to gather. And they must prepare the way.

Travis Velario stepped out of the antique store and locked the door. He took a moment to survey Main Street. It was more dead than normal, he suspected, because the cafe was closed. This time of the evening a lot of folks were usually coming and going from the cafe, but not now.

He shook his head sadly. Too bad about Samuel Friedman. He was a good man, a decent sort. Treated Travis better than most of the locals. He had a hard time believing that Samuel's disappearance had anything to do with the missing boy. He sniffed at the air, detecting pine and burned wood. He scanned the horizon where most of the cabins were, but didn't see any smoke from chimneys. He circled and looked all around but didn't see any smoke at all.

"Huh," he muttered.

He was standing in front of the art gallery, and he noticed that the 'Closed' sign was not in the window. Not that unusual, but Pamela and Douggie were usually gone by now. The lights weren't on inside either. He started to head up the walk to the gallery to check things out. But then he stopped. What if Pamela and Douggie were in there, doing who knows what, and he interrupted them? He knew about their little trysts at the cemetery, had dang near stumbled over them one time, he remembered with a wicked grin. Pamela had the nerve to be mad at him, even though she was the one caught with her pants down. Literally.

He stopped just short of the porch steps. Nah, they were probably inside. And he was making a big deal of nothing.

"Screw 'em." He laughed harshly and went on up the road, looking forward to a bite to eat and a cold brew.

He didn't notice the smoky smell anymore, nor was he aware of the intense lack of sound in the woods.

As the evening pa.s.sed, the night sky above Taylor Crossing twinkled with a myriad of stars. Soon the moon crept up over the horizon like a frightened child, scared of something threatening in the heavens, something that would change the community forever.

In a spa.r.s.ely furnished cabin not far from the town, Old Man Brewster paced across the wood floor of the kitchen, his white hair askew. His Bible lay open on a rickety table. As he paced, he periodically stopped, flipped through pages, and mumbled to himself. Then the pacing would resume.

The trouble was upon them, he mused. The blood of the hosts had been spilled into the ground a long time ago, when his granddaddy lived here, and the blood was what had brought them back now. Those in town think it started with the disappearance of the boys, but it was before that. He knew that, could've told them something was going to happen. But no one wanted to listen to him. And now look at things.

They think I did it, he thought, his pace quickening. I know those looks on their faces. I can tell by the way the newspaper guy was acting, he thought. They think I could do harm to those boys. But they don't understand. They think I'm a fool.

A pang hit him full in the chest, bringing with it something akin to sadness. He growled at himself. He should've tried to save the ones from being taken, but how? He knew he would have to stop them from performing their ceremony.

He wished he could summon up his granddaddy. Nah, he shook his head, scowling. His granddaddy didn't do anything but run. And he wasn't going to do that. No, he would fight.

You're just like your granddaddy.

The words of his father haunted Brewster, a whisper in the stale air that kept pace with him.

He rubbed at that familiar place on his chest. No, he wasn't like Granddaddy.

But if he was going to leave, now was the time. He knew that just like he knew that gnawing in his chest. But I'm not running like Granddaddy. He threw a fist up at the ceiling.

You hear that? he thought, as if he was talking to his father. I'm different!

In his dark bedroom, Nicholas D'Angelo huddled under the covers, blankets clutched up over his head. He was baking, sweating profusely, but he wanted what little protection the paltry fabric offered. If his father came in, he would think Nicholas was asleep. And the other thing lurking out there in the night might think the same thing.

He had spent the day in his room, banished there by his father. His stomach growled noisily, letting him know that he hadn't eaten since sometime the day before. He trembled, fighting back tears. He lived in a state of eternal fear, fear of the spirit who had inhabited Mick, fear of whatever dark forces had invaded the clearing, and fear of his father, who didn't believe a word Nicholas had said. It was hopeless to think that his father ever would. He never believed Nicholas, was too worried about the family reputation to care anyway. The jerk didn't even care that he'd been found. Nicholas snorted. More tears came as he thought about his mom. Her apathy to him was worse than his father's abuse. Nicholas didn't care if she was scared, too. She was his mom didn't that mean she was supposed to try and protect him?

He wiped away tears, wincing at the pain from his cheek. Then he threw a silent torrent of curse words at his father. He wished that his father were missing, not his friend. Why couldn't whatever it was in the forest come and take his father away?