Despite his knowledge, Levi’s abilities had limits. There were no herbs or ingredients to combat cancer, for example. Only prayer could cure that, and the Lord didn’t seem inclined to oblige. Levi had experienced failures. They haunted him. But so far, his successes had far outweighed his failures. Yet there were times when he was charged with doing more than helping the sick or curing livestock.
This was one of those times.
“Thy will be done, Lord. Thy will be done. Although I wish you’d have let me get my ice cream and milk home before you called on me. They’ll go bad sitting out here. And I’ve still got to feed Crowley. Wouldn’t do to let him starve, unless you plan on sending him some manna.”
Dee neighed in agreement. Or maybe dis plea sure. Levi couldn’t be sure.
He needed to face this—whatever it was. Defeat it. But to do that, he needed its name. He needed to know what he was fighting. All power stemmed from naming. And the only way to discover the girl’s identity was to follow her. She was on foot and hadn’t gone far. He still sensed her, although distant. She was heading west, toward the river. He couldn’t follow her with the buggy. There was no telling how far she would travel, and Dee was already tired. Also, if she crossed the river, he’d have to use the bridge. Such an undertaking was dangerous. Tractor trailers barreled across the two-lane bridge at seventy miles an hour. If he was in front of them, they’d never be able to stop in time. He couldn’t do the Lord’s work if he was dead.
Even as he considered his options, he felt the girl’s presence getting farther away. If he followed on foot, he might lose her. Already, her aura was fading. No, there was only one way to follow her.
And he didn’t like it. He loathed it, in fact. It had been a long time since he’d done it, but now, it was a necessary evil. There was no other way.
Levi was afraid of flying. Afraid of heights. He had a fear of gravity.
“Thy will be done…”
He ran back into the grocery store and asked the manager if somebody could keep an eye on his horse and buggy. Levi explained that he had an important errand to run. The manager eyed the clock on the wall and pointed out that they closed in two hours. Unblinking, Levi stared him in the eye, made a slight motion with his finger and asked if the night shift would be willing to watch it for him. It was very important. Sighing, the manager agreed. Levi thanked him and left the store.
On his way back to the buggy, Levi rummaged through his pockets and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed his closest neighbor, Sterling Myers. The older man answered on the third ring. He sounded drunk. Southern rock music played in the background.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Sterling. This is Levi Stoltzfus. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Hey, Levi. What’s up? I was just sitting here watching some stupid reality show. People singing. Don’t know why the wife likes this stuff.”
Levi silently agreed. When he’d finally gotten his first opportunity to watch television, he’d been underwhelmed. It wasn’t a tool of the devil. It was a tool of stupidity.
“Kids out trick-or-treating,” Sterling continued. “Don’t know why the township doesn’t wait and have that on Halloween night, but what the hell. At least the house is quiet. Anyway, enough about that. How’s it going?”
“Well,” Levi said. “Not too good, Sterling. I need a big favor.”
“Sure. What’s that?”
“I’m going to be late getting home tonight. Something’s come up. I was wondering if you could feed my dog, Crowley? He’s tied out back.”
“Yeah, I can do that. You know, those are weird names for your animals. Crowley and Dee. What’s the deal with that?”
“Old friends of the family. A long time ago.”
“I had a dog named Shithead, once.”
“Sterling, I have to get going.”
“No problem, Levi. I’ll take care of the dog. You got a key to the house hidden somewhere?”
Levi’s heart hammered in his chest. Sterling couldn’t enter the house without Levi being there. That would invite disaster.
“No,” he said, speaking carefully. “His food is in the garage. It’s unlocked. There’s no need to go inside the house at all. And Crowley has the dog house to go into if it rains, so he’ll be fine.”
“Okay. No problem.”
There was a burst of static and then Sterling came back again.
“You on your cell phone?” he asked.
“Yes,” Levi said. “I’m sorry about that. The network coverage is spotty in this area.”
“Let me ask you something, Levi.”
Levi rolled his eyes, anticipating what was coming next. He didn’t have time for this. Not tonight.
“What’s that, Sterling?”
“If you’re Amish, then how come you can use a cell phone?”
Levi sighed. “I’ve told you before, Sterling. I’m not Amish anymore. I use a cell phone for the same reason everybody else uses a cell phone: because it’s a lot more practical than a carrier pigeon.”
“Yeah,” Sterling cackled. “You got that right! Still, I hate the things. Wife has one, but I don’t. I think they’re just evil.”
“Perhaps,” Levi agreed. “But they are a necessary evil. Sometimes a little evil is necessary to achieve a greater good.”
Levi cut Sterling off in midreply and thanked him again, then hung up. He slipped the cell phone back into his pocket.
He did not smile.
There was nothing funny about what he had to do next. But it was necessary.
Thick clouds glided over the moon, engulfing it. The night grew darker.
CHAPTER SIX
Maria drove from York City to the site of the Ghost Walk. Urban row homes, ethnic restaurants, liquor stores, and pawnshops gave way to deserted industrial parks and factories, followed by the excesses of suburban sprawl, and then wide-open expanses of countryside. Along the way, she got lost on the back roads and had to turn around twice. Before leaving, she’d gone online and printed out directions; unfortunately, those directions landed her in the middle of nowhere. She’d never had to travel to the rural parts ofYork County before. It was a little scary after dark—just trees and shadows and darkened houses. Several of the porches held garishly carved jack-o’-lanterns. Their eyes and mouths flickered with an orange glow as candles burned inside them. Other than the pumpkins, the houses seemed deserted. No lamps or television lights. She passed only a handful of other cars. It was like she’d driven back through time. This part of the county seemed divorced from the rest of civilization. She felt like an astronaut exploring a different planet. In locales like this, it was easy to understand why primitive man had been so afraid of the dark.
The radio was on. Warm 103, the local easy listening station, played softly in the background. Whoever programmed the station relied heavily on songs from the sixties, seventies, and eighties—almost as if elevator music had died after 1989. Maria hated the selection, but for some reason the only other channel she could pick up in this remote area featured a preacher screaming at his audience. She tried again, scanning the dial, but found more of the same.
“
Luke tells us, in chapter twenty-three, verses forty-four and
forty-five, that there was a darkness over all the earth and the
sun was darkened and the veil of the temple was torn in the
midst. DARKNESS, brothers and sisters! It engulfs the world
.”
“That’s wonderful news.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm.
“
And in that darkness
,” the sermon continued, “
only the
light of the Lord can shine. All other lights will be snuffed
like a candle flame. Only the Lord’s light shall prevail. Can I
get an amen?
”
There was a chorus of amens, and then the preacher continued.
“Great,” Maria said. “My choices are hellfire and brimstone or Whitney Houston and The Righteous Brothers.”
Sighing, Maria turned off the radio and drove in silence. She found it preferable to the preaching. Although she considered herself a spiritual person, Maria had little patience for organized religion or its spokespeople. At her father’s insistence, she’d been raised in the Islamic faith, albeit a watered-down Western version. She didn’t know what she was anymore. She disliked the agnostic label and she didn’t consider herself an atheist, but she didn’t believe in the Muslim, Christian, or Jewish versions of God, either. She’d always felt that God, if He or She existed, was probably more of a personal, singular deity—a God that was specific to the believer’s current needs rather than beholden to the dictates of an entire world. A personal Jesus, just like in the Depeche Mode song, or an instant karma, like John Lennon had sung about. She’d never told her parents this. If she did, she’d never hear the end of it. While neither of them were particularly religious behind closed doors, they were all about keeping up appearances—doing what was expected of them by the community and their peers. They expected the same of Maria. It wouldn’t do for the Nasrs’ only child to be labeled a nonbeliever, especially in times like this, when Islam was so misunderstood by so many others. She was supposed to embrace her Jordanian father’s Muslim heritage, not turn away from it—even if she didn’t truly believe.
Her attention was drawn to something black and red lying in the road. Her headlights flashed off it. Her nose wrinkled at the sharp, pungent smell of a skunk. She swerved around the dead animal and sped up.
Eventually, Maria found some roadside signs for the Ghost Walk. Simple and crude—block letters and crooked arrows spray-painted onto cheap plywood:
GHOST WALK
—3
MILES
. Following them, she turned onto another winding road, then off the road and into a massive field. The terrain was bumpy. She bounced up and down in the seat. Her teeth clacked together.
“Jesus…”
Fragile wisps of fog swirled in her headlight beams. A paunchy man with a flashlight appeared, waving her in and directing her to the parking area. Maria smiled and nodded, indicating that she understood. Then she realized that he probably couldn’t see her in the dark, so she waved her hand instead.
There were about a dozen other cars parked in the field. Maria turned off her headlights and got out of the car. The man with the flashlight approached, smiling. As he drew closer, she was able to make out more details. He was in his late thirties or early forties. A few days’ worth of whis kers covered his pale face. His red flannel shirt fit tightly over a middle-aged gut. He also wore a hunting jacket, dirty jeans, and a Mack Truck ball cap. Thin, brown hair jutted out from beneath the hat’s brim.
“Howdy,” he said, pointing the flashlight at the ground. “You the lady from the paper?”
Nodding, Maria stuck out her hand. “I sure am. Hi. Maria Nasr.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand.
“You must be Ken Ripple?”
“Sorry, no. I’m his friend, Terry Klein. I’m sort of a second-in-command here, I guess.”
“Oh. Where’s Mr. Ripple?”
“He’ll be along in a minute. Rudy Snyder, the Winters town fire chief, wanted to inspect some things real quick. He showed up late. Said this was the only time he could do it, and we can’t open up without his blessing.”
“I see.”
“So Ken’s with him. He sent me up here to make sure you knew. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Okay.” Maria quickly recovered from her initial surprise. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small notebook and pen. “Well, while we’re waiting, since you’re involved with the construction here, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about the Ghost Walk?”
“I think you’d better wait for Ken. No offense.”
“None taken. They were just general questions, really. What you think of Ken’s idea and things like that. What people can expect. You know, a chance to talk it up?”
“Sure, but no thanks. Like I said, you’d better wait for Ken. He’ll do the talking.”
Maria decided to try changing the conversation. “Do you happen to know if the staff photographer from the newspaper showed up? He was supposed to take some pictures to accompany the feature article.”
“Yeah, he was here earlier. Took some shots of Ken and a few of the volunteers. Then he walked the trail and took a bunch more. You ask me, he took too many. No way they’ll use all those photographs. Seems like a waste of film—and money.”
“I guess you don’t care much for the media?”
“Not really.” His whiskered cheeks turned red. “I’m sorry. Does it show?”
Maria grinned. “Just a little.”
“Sorry about that.” Terry shrugged. “It just seems to me like they’re doing our country a disservice. You know? CNN or FOX News, it’s all the same bullshit. None of them really report on anything that matters anymore. There’s no news on the news. They just give screen time to a bunch of talking heads who only further whatever agenda is important to them. They let these clowns in Washington dictate the news, rather than going out and finding it.”
“Actually, I agree with you. Cable news services are businesses, and these days advertising dollars and ratings come first. But what about the newspapers?”
Terry laughed. “Shit. Who has time to read the paper these days? I’m lucky if I get a chance to read
American Rifleman
from cover to cover every month. I don’t bother with the newspapers anymore. Nobody does.”
Maria was speechless. Part of her wanted to laugh and another part wanted to scream in frustration.
“And besides,” Terry continued, “you guys are a business, too. You’ve got advertisers, just like the networks. Instead of ratings, you have to worry about circulation.”
“Perhaps. But I’d like to think we try to do better.”
Still chuckling, Terry said, “I’ll go and fetch Ken for you. I’d call his cell, but the coverage is shit down there in the woods. You okay waiting here by yourself?”
“Sure. It’s not Halloween yet. I’ll be fine.” She grinned.
Terry turned and walked away. Maria leaned against the hood of her car and watched him leave. Despite his jovial, engaging tone, he looked exhausted. His shoulders slumped and his head hung low. She wondered how many hours a day the organizers were putting in on the Ghost Walk.
After he was gone, she looked around, studying her surroundings. The field was large and could probably hold hundreds of cars on opening night. Two large trailers sat in one corner of the field. She guessed that was where they stored their tools and supplies at night. The woods were a long distance away—she couldn’t tell how far for sure in the dark. Maybe the length of a football field. Possibly farther. The tree line was nothing more than a wall of thick, gnarled shadows—skeletal black fingers reaching for the night sky. Their tops swayed slightly in the breeze. She heard dry leaves rustling, even from this distance. Then an owl screeched. It sounded like a screaming woman—just like it had on a special about owls she’d seen on Animal Planet. The cry chilled her. It sounded far more terrible in real life. She idly wondered if owls ever attacked humans. She didn’t think so, but wouldn’t it just be her luck if this one did?
Maria waited, cold, restless and bored. She flipped the hood of her blue sweatshirt over her head and fought to keep from shivering. It was getting chillier with each passing minute. She tried to be patient, tried to fight back her annoyance, but it was hard to do. She wanted to get this article wrapped up and turned in, so she could focus on the book, instead. It was all she’d thought about that afternoon. A true-crime publisher would flip over it. The story was something different, something unlike the usual serial killers and crimes of passion they normally focused on.
A few volunteers walked by her, nodding with polite indifference, but none of them stopped to talk. Instead, they got into their cars and drove away. Maria noticed that all of them had the same weary gait as Klein. The field emptied of vehicles, leaving only four, including hers. She assumed the others belonged to Terry, the fire marshal, and Ken Ripple.
The owl shrieked again, and Maria jumped, banging her leg on the car.
“Go on,” she hollered. “Scat! Get out of here.”
She was glad, at moments like this, that her parents didn’t ask her much about her career as a freelancer. Although they had never said it out loud, Maria knew that they were disappointed with her. They’d expected far more for their daughter than the hardscrabble life of a freelance writer. They wanted her to marry someone successful—a good American Muslim—and move back to Paramus and have an important career as a journalist and give them lots of grandchildren. If they could see her now, standing in a field in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, jumping at owls, what would they say?
The night grew quiet.
“Hello,” Maria called. “Anyone there? Mr. Klein? Mr. Ripple? Mr. Owl?”
Silence. Then the wind moaned through the trees.
“Goddamn it. I don’t need this shit.”
Maria unlocked her car, reached inside the glove compartment, and pulled out a flashlight. It was long and black—a Mag light just like the cops used. The heavy steel cylinder felt good in her hands, gave her confidence. She plucked her digital voice recorder from her purse, tested it, dropped the notebook and pen back inside, and then hid the purse beneath the driver’s seat. Then she locked the car again and flicked on the flashlight. The darkness seemed to press against the brightness. The spotlight beam showed a clear path to the forest. She’d been right. The woods were farther away than they’d looked. It would be a long walk.
“This is bullshit. These shoes aren’t made for traipsing around in the woods.”
Cursing, her hood pulled low, Maria trudged toward the hollow. The mud sucked at her feet, as if the ground were trying to prevent her from going forward.
Levi climbed into the back of the buggy. His weight made it shift, rocking the suspension. The wheels groaned. At the front, Dee shuffled her legs, hooves clattering against the pavement.
“I know what I’m doing,” he told the horse. “Trust me.”
Dee chomped her teeth together. They sounded like a mousetrap snapping shut.
“There’s just no pleasing you, is there?”
A car drove through the parking lot, hip-hop music blasting from the speakers. The bass rattled the windows. The driver’s face was painted to look like a skull—white and leering. Obviously, they were getting a head start on the holiday. Levi waited for the car to pass. If the driver parked next to him, he’d be unable to proceed until they left.
When the coast was clear again, Levi pulled a canvas tarp off a long wooden box and laid it aside, stirring up dust. He sneezed. The box was padlocked, and covered with charms to protect its contents from thieves, witchcraft, and the elements. The sigils were painted onto the wood, and in some cases, carved deep into the surface. There were holy symbols and complex hex signs, as well as words of power. Levi ran his fingers over the two most dominant etchings.
I.
N. I. R.
I.
SANCTUS SPIRITUS
I.
N. I. R.
I.
SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS
He’d carved them himself, just as his father had taught him, carefully inscribing the words from
The Long Lost
Friend
and other books. Levi smiled. All of the books had been passed down to him from his father. He wondered what his father thought of him now, as he looked down on Levi from the other side. Was he proud of his son? Did he approve? Did he understand that sometimes you had to use the enemy’s methods and learn the enemy’s ways if you were to defeat them? Or, like the rest of Levi’s people, did his father disapprove, even in death?