Yes, he had been Amish at one time, but that was long ago. Levi didn’t like to dwell on it. In truth, his excommunication from the church and his professed faith still chafed at Levi’s pride, even after all this time. When he was cast out, it had cost him everything—his love, his friends, his community. Still, he’d had no choice. He did what the Lord expected of him, using the talents the Lord had given him. If the church didn’t see that, then so be it. He just wished it didn’t hurt so bad.
He’d tried to fit in among the “civilian world” (as he often thought of it), but soon discovered that he was an outsider there, as well. Away from the Amish, he was nothing more than a curiosity. An oddity. He was pointed at and discussed behind his back. He didn’t fit in among the English (the term his fellow Amish used to describe people not of their faith). Levi didn’t like being an outsider. He didn’t like being alone. But like everything else in life, it was God’s will, and Levi’s cross to bare. Sometimes, the weight grew so heavy . . .
He was no longer Amish. Now, he was something else, and it was that something else that he didn’t need Myrtle Danbury discovering. She’d introduced herself as an author, and the foyer of Mrs. Laudry’s bed-and-breakfast had featured several of the woman’s books on display—slim, cheaply produced trade paperbacks with garish lettering on the covers. A quick glance had told Levi everything he needed to know. The subjects ranged from healing crystals to channeling ancient Lemurian deities. Mrs. Danbury was a New Ager, the bane of Levi’s existence. Nothing annoyed Levi more than New Age amateur mystics, except for maybe Evangelical Christians. In his experience, the majority of both were hypocrites and con artists, wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing, preying on those who refused to think for themselves and discern God’s truths from mankind’s lies. In Levi’s opinion, that was the problem with religion in general. The Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Sikhs, Satanists, pagans, Hindus, Cthulhu cultists, Scientologists and every other religious group or cult, no matter how big or how small, thought that their way was the right way. In reality, none of them had it completely right, for it was not meant for them to know all of the universe’s secrets. They fought each other, killed each other, committed atrocities against each other, all in the name of their particular god or gods, without any understanding of just how wrong—how completely off base—they really were.
New Agers were the worst. At times in life’s journey, when the Lord gave him a task to complete, Levi had needed the assistance of other occultists and magicians, those not given to practicing the same disciplines that he followed. Levi had always seen this as a necessary evil. The old adage, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” quite often applied. But no matter how dire the situation or its consequences, he had never sought help from the crystal-worshipping, herbal-supplementing, Atlantean-spirit-channeling crowd. And deep down inside, Levi knew that even if he had, they wouldn’t have welcomed him. Even the New Agers would have turned their backs on him.
In the end, Levi always walked his road alone, even among the splintered ranks of occultism’s lunatic fringe. He was a stranger to everyone but himself . . . and God.
Outside, the howling increased, disturbing his maudlin ruminations. Their cries grew more frenzied. Levi wondered what was going on. He reached out to the nightstand and fumbled for his cell phone, which he’d plugged in to charge before he went to sleep. Like everything else in his life, the cell phone was often a point of confusion among those who assumed he was still Amish. He wondered what they expected him to use instead. A carrier pigeon? Two paper cups tied together with string? Telepathy? Actually, he had used telepathy a handful of times in his life. He tried to avoid it as much as possible, however, because he didn’t like the nosebleeds that came with it.
All at once, the dogs stopped howling. Somehow, the silence seemed worse than the noise had been.
Levi flipped open the cell phone and was surprised to see that it was dead. If there had just been no service, he could have understood. His service had been spotty for the last three days, ever since entering the mountains. But there was no power whatsoever—no backlight, no time, not even a tone when he experimentally pushed the buttons. He wondered if a power surge could have done it, and glanced at the electrical outlet in the wall. He could barely make it out in the gloom, but from what he could tell, there was no cause for alarm. The outlet wasn’t smoking or sparking.
Levi slid out of bed and shivered as his bare feet hit the floor. Was it his imagination, or had it grown noticeably colder in the room? Gooseflesh prickled his arms and the back of his neck. He stood up, walked quickly to the small, plain dresser and opened the top drawer. He quickly pulled on his clothes and shoes. He patted the pocket over his left breast and felt a reassuring bulge where his dog-eared and battered copy of
The Long Lost Friend
was. The book was a family heirloom. It had been his father’s, and his father’s before him. Levi never went anywhere without it. The front page of the book held the following inscription:
Whoever carries this book with him is safe from all his enemies, visible or invisible; and whoever has this book with him cannot die without the holy corpse of Jesus Christ, nor be drowned in any water, nor burn up in any fire, nor can any unjust sentence be passed upon him.
Levi had never had any reason to doubt the inscription’s truth, except for maybe the last part, the bit about unjust sentences. He knew about those all too well. Sometimes it seemed to him that life was nothing but a series of unjust sentences.
Once he’d gotten dressed, Levi dropped his hands to his sides, closed his eyes and waited. His breathing slowed. The world seemed to pause as he concentrated.
After a moment, he felt it. His eyes opened again. Something was coming.
No, not coming. Something was already
here
.
“Oh, Lord . . .”
Pulse racing, Levi ran to the window, no longer caring if his host and her annoying friend knew he was awake or not. He looked out the second-story window and surveyed the scene below. Then, as his heart began to beat even faster, Levi crossed the room and yanked open the door. He dashed for the stairwell, reciting a benediction against evil as he took the stairs two at a time and plunged toward the first floor.
“
Ut nemo in sense tentat, descendere nemo. At prece denti spectaur mantica tergo. Hecate. Hecate. Hecate
.”
He leaped the last four stairs; his boot heels landed on the floor with a loud thump and his teeth slammed together. Picture frames and other fixtures shook on the wall. A ceiling fan swayed back and forth, sending flecks of dust drifting to the floor. Mrs. Laudry and Mrs. Danbury bustled into the room as Levi headed for the exit.
“Mr. Stoltzfus,” Esther gasped. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Levi turned to them, and the fear and uncertainty he saw in their faces mirrored what he felt in his heart. He tried to project a calm demeanor.
“I’m sorry to alarm you, ladies, but I’d like to ask you both to stay here.”
“Why?” Esther’s eyes shone in the darkness. “Does this have something to do with the power outage?”
He nodded. “Perhaps.”
“The phones are out, too. What’s going on?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, but I thought I’d check around your property and make sure everything is okay.”
“Did you hear something?” Myrtle asked. “Is there somebody outside?”
“Not at all. At least, I don’t believe there is. It’s just a precaution. Nothing more. But I’ll take care of it. The two of you shouldn’t be out on a night like tonight. It’s the least I can do to repay your generous hospitality. Plus, it will give me an opportunity to make sure my buggy is secure. I don’t have much, but I wouldn’t want my belongings getting looted during the blackout.”
“Oh,” Esther said, “that would never happen here. Nothing ever happens in Brinkley Springs. Especially bad things like that.”
Levi wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that something bad was indeed happening in Brinkley Springs right now, but he didn’t. Instead, he forced a smile. A sour taste rose in his mouth.
“I’m sure you’re right, of course. But still, better safe than sorry. You ladies stay here. I’ll be right
back.”
He reached for the doorknob and hoped they couldn’t see how badly his hand was shaking. Then he stepped out into the night, shivering as the darkness embraced him in ways the girl in the cornfield from so long ago never could.
THREE
Stephen Poernik had just passed the green and white sign on U.S. 219 South that said WELCOME TO BRINKLEY SPRINGS, AN INCORPORATED TOWN, when his faithful Mazda pickup truck suddenly died. There was no advance warning. One moment, he’d been doing a steady forty-five miles an hour and scanning the radio, searching for some heavy driving music, or anything other than bluegrass, preaching and talk radio, which seemed to be the only three programming choices this part of West Virginia had to offer. The next instant, the engine, lights and radio all went dead. The truck didn’t stall. It simply shut off. The headlights and the rest of the electrical equipment shut off with it. Cursing, Stephen coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, just past the welcome sign.
“Well, shit.”
He glanced down at the dashboard gauges, but had trouble reading them in the dark. Stephen reached above him and flicked the switch for the dome light, but it was dead, as well. He leaned over the steering wheel, squinting at the gauges. They seemed fine. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a problem with the engine temperature. He put the truck in park and then turned the key. His attempts were fruitless. Nothing happened. He didn’t even hear the starter clicking. Apparently, he’d lost all power.
Stephen didn’t know much about fixing vehicles. He knew that he’d be up Shit Creek under the hood, but decided to give it a try anyway. Maybe it was something simple like a loose battery cable. He hoped so. Otherwise, he was screwed.
He reached down beneath the heater vent and tugged the hood release. Then he opened the door and hopped out of the truck. Stephen was immediately struck by the silence. He’d spent enough time on these rural back roads to become familiar with the sounds of the night—crickets and other insect songs, the chirping of spring peepers, the occasional call of an owl or whippoorwill, the barking of a dog or even just the sound of another car approaching on the road. He heard none of these things. It was almost as if Brinkley Springs existed in some sort of noiseless vacuum. Even the wind seemed nonexistent. Standing on the road next to the truck, with one hand on the open door, Stephen felt uneasy. For a moment, he considered reaching into the glove box and grabbing his SIG Sauer P225. He never left home without it. (Stephen’s thoughts on handguns were that he wasn’t on parole and didn’t live in New York, so fuck the permit.) He paused, and then decided against it. For one thing, he might need both hands to look at the engine. For another, if a cop or somebody pulled up, they’d be a lot less sympathetic to his plight if they saw him brandishing a weapon. Besides, he was just being silly. His unease was just a bad case of nerves. Nothing more. He’d been driving all day and needed some sleep.
Sleep. Not that he slept all that well anymore. Not since losing his job as a cabinetmaker, thanks to the disastrous economic policies of the last two presidents. He’d been suffering from bouts of insomnia and depression ever since. He was trying to be patient, of course. Trying to give this new presidential administration more time to fix things. After all, they’d been handed a shit sandwich. It was hard not to become disillusioned with something as inherently fucked-up from top to bottom as the American political system, but he’d given them a chance, hoping they could turn things around, hoping for the change that had been promised over and over again during the campaign. And he had to admit, things were starting to look and sound better. But at the end of the day, he was still unemployed. These days, there just weren’t many job openings for cabinetmakers and glassblowers. The only other thing Stephen had ever worked as was a blackjack and roulette dealer. At age fifty-five, with both his beard and his long black hair that hung to the middle of his back now shot with gray, he was too old to get back into that game. That’s why he was out here on the road. He’d been driving around with a book of sample pictures, trying to find craft markets and antique stores that would sell his woodworking and stained-glass wares. Stephen wasn’t much of a people person, and he disliked going from business to business, but he had no choice. His hope was that he could find enough outlets and sell enough goods to support his family full-time. If not, at least it would supplement his meager unemployment checks.
He’d been fortunate, and with his third marriage lasting twenty-three years now, Stephen considered himself a lucky guy. Things would turn around.