By the time Lillian had gone to bed, she had already watched a bit of television, cleaned up her already tidy cabin, made a batch of scones for breakfast, and finished the book she'd been reading. This had kept her sufficiently preoccupied, and thoughts of the unsettling events in town were far from her mind.

As the night wore on, even the heat didn't bother her. A small fan directed the air right onto the bed, cooling her. But as the moon slid behind a dark cloud, she sighed heavily, a pleasant dream interrupted by a vague sense of some trouble in the Crossing. She stirred and babbled something in her sleep. She sighed again, rolled over, and drifted into a heavier slumber. She never woke to notice that the gloomy sky was different than usual, tainted ominously with dread.

Myrtle, sitting in her living room, noticed. Concern for her friend Joan had her up, fretting as she drank a cup of coffee. She knew the caffeine would keep her awake even longer, but the smell was comforting. Boo stirred at her feet, drug himself up, and sniffed noisily at the front door.

"Boo, stop it," she chided him, but an uneasy feeling grew inside her. She went to the window and looked out. She couldn't find the moon. She squinted into the murkiness, but nothing moved.

"It sure is black out there," she muttered. Apprehension washed over her, that childhood fear of the dark. She shuddered. All these strange things happening in town. Samuel disappearing was bad enough, but then that poor Mick lost out in the woods, Nicholas mumbling nonsense about his disappearance. It was all too much, too fast. And too eerie.

Boo growled and startled her.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked him. He stared back at her with plaintive eyes.

She went over to him and lovingly scratched his ears. "I know. I'm sad, too."

She went into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. Alarm gripped her, like something awful was about to happen, and it deeply worried her. She wondered how much rumors and old stories had a basis in fact, and that concerned her even more.

In her living room, Joan sat in a wing-backed chair with an open Bible on her lap, hoping the words would calm her. Yet she kept reading the same pa.s.sage over and over, the words not sinking in.

She'd been hoping all day that Samuel would turn up with some explanation. At this point she'd believe almost anything, so long as he was back safe. A brief discussion with the sheriff earlier in the day had done little to help her, because he had little to tell her. But she also gleaned from the conversation that Samuel was still a suspect in Mick's disappearance. He had to be, since no one had seen him since the boys had gone missing, but it still upset her. Clinton may not know Samuel that well, but she did. Most of the time her husband was like a big Santa Claus, kind and jovial.

As Joan tried to focus on reading, her mind came to a jarring conclusion: Samuel wasn't just out somewhere with Ed Miller. Something bad had happened, something that prevented Samuel from coming home. She wouldn't allow herself to think words like "accident" or "death". It was too early for that. At least that's what she told herself as she tried to focus on the Scriptures.

Exhaustion finally seized her, and her chin dipped down until it rested on her chest.

Anna tossed around in her sleep, her mind's eye filled with visions of a tired and frightened boy walking down Main Street. Then she would wake up, vaguely upset, but not quite remembering the dream. She wished that Paul were here and that he could wrap his big arms around her. She was worried about her father, how old and frail he seemed lately, but also about something else, a bad omen that she couldn't quite bring to consciousness.

In his own bed across the hall, Jimmy stared outside, watching the night deepen. He couldn't shake a premonition that his time with Anna was growing short. He hated the chasm that was between them, filled with the pain from that awful day so long ago. But his worst fear was being realized. When his bones started aching in that peculiar way he knew the time had come. And with everything happening today, it was all the confirmation he needed.

Something from that dark day had come home to roost. Whatever was out there that day when Paul died, that had wanted him to go across the lake, had returned. Jimmy knew it. And it scared the h.e.l.l out of him.

Rory lay sprawled on the old oak bed, staring up at the rustic beams in the ceiling. With each creak of the old wood cabin, he felt his stomach churn. He reasoned with himself, explaining each noise away with the simple fact that it was a very old structure that groaned its long existence with each change in the elements. But the logic didn't help.

He was drained, but was too scared to close his eyes and let sleep come. Scared because of the voices. Since he'd awoken from his faint, he had been unable to think of anything else. The rest of the day had been quiet, too quiet, and he had not been able to dismiss the voices. Just like that thing in New York, the way it seemed to speak to him.

Except for that last voice. It was different, with its single word of warning: beware. He didn't know what to make of it.

And why had Nicholas heard the same thing? Or had he? None of this made any sense. But not much had since that terrible day when the car had taken his life, only to have it returned by the EMT.

A creaking sound split the night. He sat up, staring out the window. The sky was murky and forbidding. He could see nothing, but had the strange feeling that he was being watched. He finally settled his head back on the pillow, dry eyes again focused on the ceiling. It was going to be a long night.

PART II.

To defeat them, first we must understand them.

- Elie Wiesel.

Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster and if you gaze into the abyss the abyss gazes into you.

- Friedrich Nietzsche.

CHAPTER 34.

The clan of spirits waited like silent ghosts in the confines of Ed Miller's dilapidated cabin. The eastern sky became pale, burnished with blue, and with it, Ed awakened as if from a deep hypnotic state. The others were aware as well, knowing, just as the spirit in Ed did, that the time was coming. They had to prepare.

Ed stood up and addressed the group before him Douggie, the one of the earth, and Pamela, his companion; the hikers the one who prepares the dead and his companion; Mick, the one with fire; and Samuel, the one with water. Each had his established place, except for the companion ones not necessary ones for the ceremony, but useful as host bodies.

The one with water, the one with fire, the one of the earth, and the one who prepares the dead would know their roles. Their way had been set before. They knew of their calling. And now they would help prepare the way for the others.

Ed, the gatherer, would oversee the preparations. He would have the others a.s.sembled and ready. When the time was right, they would all come together at the ceremony, and then they would gain enlightenment.

"Our time is near." Ed spoke to them. "The others wait."

The group nodded solemnly. The hot confines of the cabin enveloped them.

"We must prepare the way."

Silent agreement.

"You," he pointed to Samuel. "Get your companion one. She will be a host." Samuel stared at him. "When the sun is high you shall return."

Ed began to breathe heavily, his lifeless eyes fixated on Samuel. Soon a rush of energy crackled through the room, and the being in Samuel captured what was in the air. Ed began to chant, louder and louder. A stale smell permeated the room.

When Ed finished, Samuel turned on his heels and quietly left.

"You," Ed addressed one of the hikers. He focused his power into the man. "Get the one with air."

"You." To Douggie and Pamela. "Others await release. Bring more hosts."

They all nodded, slowly, disembodied. And they left.

They would succeed. The spirit knew this. Because they had been here before. They would reclaim what had been left for them; their essence was waiting, blood in the earth, calling to them now.

CHAPTER 35.

Rory sat at the oak table in the kitchen, staring out at Taylor Lake. He nursed a cup of strong coffee, feeling like a fog had settled over him. He was dead tired, emotionally drained from worrying about the voices and what they meant. But he also worried because last night, when he'd finally been able to sleep a little, he'd had the same dream again. He was inside a mine, searching for something.

He was using the pickaxe furiously, digging at a spot on the cavern floor. His pace was frenzied because he had to find the object before they came to get him. He didn't know who 'they' were, but regardless he knew he was in danger of them. As he dug he heard noises, like the wind howling on a stormy night. He ignored it and continued to work.

Then the ax clunked on something. He threw the tool aside and dug at the loosened dirt with his hands. He touched the object. He threw more dirt until he uncovered a box. Inside it was a book, its brown leather cover tattered and worn. Just as he reached to pull it out of the box, he heard another sound close by. He sat back and stared, horrified.

Materializing next to him was his mirror opposite, wearing the same overalls as he had on. The man gestured at the hole in the ground, then looked straight at him. As he watched, the man's skin shriveled up on his face and body, then disintegrated, and he turned into a skeleton. His jawbones and crooked teeth formed a hideous smile at Rory, then snapped at him, and his right hand, bones like sticks, pointed at him. His mouth worked, and even though words didn't form, Rory knew what it said: beware. Then the skeleton evaporated, leaving a rotten, polluted smell in the cavern.

Next he was running through tunnels, carrying the book in his hands. And ghouls chased him, wailing at him, hands like claws clutching at him, wanting to destroy him.

The dream went on like this in some form every time he managed to sleep. Then he'd wake up, sweating. And he thought he could hear voices, coming from the living room. Morning hadn't come quick enough.

He rubbed his tired eyes and stared out the window. It is time. Time for what, he thought. He brought the cup up to his lips, noticing that his hand shook slightly. He finished the coffee and set the cup down with a clatter. Time for what?

And what of the other voice? Beware, it had said. Just like the miner in Rory's dream.

Weary of coming up with no answers, he grabbed some of the articles he'd copied from the University of Colorado library, scanning ones that referenced Taylor Crossing. He read a general article about the town growing, how good the mining was; how there had been a murder in Nederland that remained unsolved. Then he found an interesting article. Renowned journalist comes to Taylor Crossing in search of gold, the headline blared. The article related how Burgess Barton had left his prominent post at a Boston newspaper to come to the Colorado mountains to try his hand at mining. It went on to discuss his stellar reputation in the journalistic community and included a snippet of biographical information.

For the first time since he'd heard the name Burgess Barton, the miner was not just a name related to the mystery of his cabin. Rory flipped through more pages until he saw the miner's name again. Burgess Barton had left The Boston Globe, and according to the newspaper account, a recent article he penned had cast a pall over his reputation because of its speculation about the possibility of supernatural forces visiting Boston, and himself in particular. Some had wondered if Barton had gone crazy, as further evidenced in his sudden departure to Colorado, where he intended to mine.

Rory felt himself go cold. Barton had a similar kind of experience as he had in New York. And he ended up in Taylor Crossing. What forces were at work in this town? he thought. He read another headline: Mysterious happenings in Taylor Crossing. He read the article.

A murder and a series of disappearances have the sheriff in Taylor Crossing puzzling over what has been described as prowlers in the woods. "Joseph Connelly, a new miner to these parts, was found dead outside his claim on Sat.u.r.day. It appears that a wild animal might have got him because his throat was torn out. And a number of residents have just up and disappeared," said Sheriff Wayne Tucker. Tucker seemed genuinely puzzled over events that he has no explanation for. "I can't understand why someone would leave right in the middle of the day. Ennis Slade, the town blacksmith, just left, his tools right there." Emily Graves, at the post office, said she'd noticed a drop in the number of miners coming through the town in the past week. "It's downright spooky how quickly they're leaving," she said in a soft British accent.

"Tell me something I don't know," he muttered as he finished the article. "What happened to them?"

He read a few more articles from the same time period, one talking about a drought that had fallen over the area in recent days, and a couple of others citing how more town residents were disappearing, with no explanations for their departure, and no evidence of foul play. Some residents of Taylor Crossing were voluntarily leaving, fearful of the strange happenings.

The words on the page began to blur as his eyelids drooped. He pushed the papers away, got up from the table and walked slowly back to the bedroom. He needed to go into the Crossing and see if there was more news about the missing boy, but his body was sapped of energy. He sprawled down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Dreams about miners, voices speaking to him what next? The miner in the dream had to be Burgess Barton, but where was this mine he kept seeing? What was the object he found in the cavern? And what was it that Barton had seen in Boston?

He needed to go into town. But rest first. Yes, just a little rest. His eyelids began to droop and the wooden beams on the ceiling began to blur. A mercifully dreamless sleep overtook him.

CHAPTER 36.

By the time Clinton Truitt stopped at the general store for a cup of coffee, it was already almost noon. It had been a very busy morning, still searching for Mick, along with visits to the Hulls and D'Angelos. The Hulls were, understandably, still in shock, clinging to hope that their son would be found. They were trying to stay busy, packing up their belongings, having decided to go down to Boulder to stay. They had family coming in from the East Coast and they didn't want to bring them to Taylor Crossing. The place had a bad feel, they explained. And Ellie was scared of the mountains since Mick had disappeared. Kenneth wanted to help search more, but Clinton had discouraged this, asking no, telling him to get some rest today. He could help in the search again tomorrow.

Clinton shook his head as his mind went over everything. Then there was Gino D'Angelo's behavior. It had been downright disturbing. He seemed so indifferent to the tragedy that had struck the other family and to his son's own trauma. He refused to take Nicholas to a hospital, had said that after a good night's sleep, his son was fine. But Gino wasn't. He was tightly wound, and Clinton was certain he was beating his son. But without proof, there was little he could do. He hadn't even seen Nicholas when he visited with Gino, nor did he see Mary D'Angelo. Gino definitely bore more scrutiny, Clinton thought as he walked up the porch steps of the store. Myrtle Hester's dog, Boo, was resting on the porch. He wagged his tale at Clinton, who took a moment to scratch behind the dog's ears.

"Hey, Jimmy," Clinton said with a nod at the old man in the rocker. How could the old man stand sitting out in the heat?

"Any news?" Jimmy asked, the crow's feet wrinkles around his eyes more prominent today.

"Afraid not." Clinton went inside, leaving Jimmy staring out at the lake.

It was pleasantly cool inside the store. Clinton walked up to the counter where Anna was talking with Myrtle.

"h.e.l.lo, Sheriff," Myrtle said. "Any sign of Mick?"

"Not yet, but we're still looking. Has anyone seen Brewster?"

Both women shook their heads. "He hasn't been wandering around the dock like he usually does," Anna said, looking out the front window. She exchanged a wary glance with Myrtle. "That makes him look bad, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't help," Clinton answered.

"So you didn't find him yesterday," Myrtle said.

"No." He took off his hat and scratched his head. "I went by his place but he wasn't around. I stopped back by first thing this morning, too. He seems to have disappeared, too."

"Oh dear." Myrtle put a hand to her throat. "That's not like him at all."

Clinton leaned against the counter. "Anna, did you have two hikers come in here yesterday?"

"That describes most of my clientele," she said with a faint smile. "Can you be more specific?"

"Sorry, I'm a bit tired. Two men, both in their mid-forties. One is stocky with a beard, the other tall and thin. They would've been wearing backpacks."

She thought for a moment. "That's still pretty general, but it doesn't sound familiar. I couldn't say for sure."

"Why?" Myrtle asked.

"I got a report this morning that they're missing," Clinton said. "The wife of one of them called it in. Howard Stein, goes by Howie, is a mortician and he was supposed to come home last night. His wife just arrived back in town herself, took a redeye from the East Coast this morning. When she got home and he wasn't there, she made a few phone calls trying to find him and then contacted the police."

"What about the other one?" Anna asked.

"Guy by the name of Lewis Pope. He's a computer programmer, divorced, lives alone. n.o.body to go home to. Someone checked around when he didn't show up for work, and found out the two were camping, then got in touch with Lewis's ex and asked her to call around. She can't find him. We found Lewis's truck parked down the road, locked up and waiting for them. As far as anyone knows, they were camping somewhere around here over a long weekend, but haven't returned."

"Maybe they decided to stay out longer," Myrtle suggested.