The man didn’t respond.
“His eyes,” Rhonda whispered. “What’s wrong with his eyes?”
Sam hushed her with a warning glance. Rhonda fell silent.
They reached the stones. The man kept the rifle aimed at them, holding it at waist level. He nodded at Sam.
“You first.”
Grimacing, Sam slowly turned his back to them and knelt down. He tensed, expecting to feel his head split apart at any second, but their captor made no move. Sam put his hands on the stone in front of him. It felt cool, but quickly warmed to his touch. He could have sworn that it was vibrating slightly. The fillings in his teeth began to ache. Sam winced. He needed to piss. His bladder felt like it was going to burst.
“Don’t pull it out yet,” the man warned. “Your turn, girl.”
Rhonda knelt next to Sam. They both waited. As they did, something occurred to Sam. Obviously, they were in the part of the forest that had burned down two years ago. The area was barren and desolate—but shouldn’t it have been alive again? It had been two years. Surely, new growth would have started by now—saplings pushing their way through the ashes, small plants seeking new footholds in the wide open space. Instead, there was nothing.
“Okay,” the man said, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. “Pull those rocks out and toss them aside.”
Ignoring his bladder’s insistent urgings, Sam tugged and pushed until the heavy stone came free. Rhonda did too, but couldn’t get the stone to move. Grunting, she pushed as hard as she could. Veins stood out in her neck and forehead. She sat back, exasperated.
“It won’t move.”
“Do it.”
“Sam can do it. He’s stronger than me.”
“He’s already touched one. It’s your turn.”
“I can’t!”
“Do it or your boyfriend dies.”
With an angry shout, Rhonda freed the rock from the soil. It rolled aside, revealing more of the strange carvings.
“What now?” Sam asked, not looking back.
There was no response.
With the sigils removed, Nodens sent two more tendrils surging through the doorway and into the world.
Sam and Rhonda heard it at the same time.
A baby. Crying.
“Oh, God,” Sam gasped. “Oh, my fucking God.”
The baby’s cries grew louder.
“I’m sorry,” Rhonda sobbed. Tears streamed down her anguished face. “I’m so sorry. I want to take it back.”
In the center of the broken circle, darkness swirled, coalescing into a cloud. They watched, terrified but unable to turn away, as it formed their greatest regret. Their greatest loss. Their greatest fear.
It opened its eyes and curled its little hands into fists.
The ghost of Sam and Rhonda’s dead baby screamed for its parents.
They screamed, too.
And then the darkness took them.
CHAPTER FOUR
The newspaper’s archives were located in the basement of the building. It was a bright, well-lit area with a state-of-the-art climate control system. Dozens of rows of alphabetized filing cabinets dominated the center of the room. Each one held copies of every article the newspaper had printed in the last thirty years. Microfiche units lined one of the walls, allowing reporters access to articles older than thirty years. During their last quarterly meeting, the newspaper’s own er had promised the staff that he would digitize the entire library, making them available via computer, but had balked at the idea a month later. Something to do with profits.
Maria hated him for it.
If the archives were stored electronically, if she were able to view the files using some sort of search database, this would go a lot faster.
It was one in the afternoon. She’d been here since eight thirty that morning. She’d intended to be there for an hour or two, tops. Check in with her editor, Miles. Then do some research, familiarize herself with background for the story, interview Ken Ripple, write it up and turn the article in. After that, all she’d have to do is wait for the direct deposit to hit her checking account. Sadly, what was supposed to be a quick fact-finding session had turned into much more.
Maria closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She had a headache, and it didn’t look like the pain would subside anytime soon. She sipped cold coffee from a Styrofoam cup and sighed. The area the Ghost Walk was located in had a lot of history—far more than she’d ever imagined. Every article she uncovered led to three more. So instead of jotting down a few notes, Maria found herself unraveling a dense, spiraling series of events, folklore, and local history.
Maria started by researching LeHorn’s Hollow, but quickly determined that the stories associated with it actually included far more land than the hollow itself. The woodlands surrounding the hollow contributed to the folklore. The forest was over twenty miles wide and encompassed five different townships. Most of it was untouched by the explosive development that had marred other parts of the state. The land was owned by many different people—farmers, the Gladstone Pulpwood Company, various local governments, a paper mill, and the State of Pennsylvania. LeHorn’s Hollow had sat almost in the center of the woods, surrounded by cornfields, until a massive fire destroyed the hollow and some of the surrounding countryside in 2006. She remembered the fire. It had made national headlines at the time, even warranting coverage on the cable news channels. Eventually, accidental arson had been determined as the cause. The perpetrator was never caught.
All sorts of supernatural phenomena were associated with the forest—crop circles, ley lines, strange balls of light, unidentified flying objects, mysterious sounds, trees that seemed to move on their own, and a roster of creatures that would make any cryptozoologist salivate with delight, including numerous sightings of a large black dog with red eyes. The locals called it a hellhound. In the early nineties, a group of researchers from Penn State decided to investigate some of the paranormal activity. They discovered strange pockets of magnetically-charged ground scattered throughout the forest.
There were stories about the hollow long before it had even been LeHorn’s Hollow—anecdotes from before the time of William Penn and his fellow white men. Before the endless waves of German, Irish, Dutch, Quaker, and Amish settlers. The Susquehanna Indian tribes had considered the land to be “bad ground,” and avoided it altogether, refusing to hunt or dwell there. They thought it was cursed; believed that the hollow was infested with demons and that a portal to another world lurked beyond the trees. Their only documented usage of the hollow was as a place for their criminals and insane. According to legend, none of those who’d been banished to the hollow were ever seen again.
Apparently, that continued to the present day. Maria found numerous accounts of missing persons from over the years—hunters, hikers, teenagers, and a logger for the pulpwood company. All of them had one thing in common: they’d last been seen in the vicinity of the hollow.
There were deaths, too. A group of deer hunters perished when their cabin burned down in 2000. A state surveyor was found dead atop a tree in 1990; the official cause of death was listed as a heart attack. A little girl had been murdered by a child molester inside the surrounding forest. The killer, Craig Chalmers, abducted the girl three days after making parole on a similar charge. He was captured alive, babbling about demons. He told State Police investigators that the forest was full of monsters trying to kill him.
And then, of course, there was the most famous murder and disappearance of all.
Nelson LeHorn himself.
Depending on the source, Nelson LeHorn was either a simple farmer teetering on the edge of bankruptcy and divorce while the modern world encroached on his home, or a powerful witch devoted to dark folk magic, or both. Public opinion seemed split. Whatever he was, in 1985 LeHorn killed his wife, Patricia, by pushing her out of their attic window. He’d supposedly believed that she’d had sexual relations with the devil. After the murder, he promptly disappeared before police could capture him. He’d been missing for over twenty years, despite a sizeable reward for information leading to his arrest. His three children were adults now, and had forsaken their heritage. They were scattered across the country—a son in a Northern Pennsylvanian prison, a daughter in Idaho, and another in New York. Maria found notes from other reporters detailing their attempts to interview the children, none of whom had ever consented. They refused to talk about their father or their mother’s slaying.