October. A low pressure system moving in, planning to drop rain. The strange configuration of satellites in the sky, the position of Venus, something in retrograde. The last vestiges of Jack’s sanity.
None of those choices appealed to him, either.
5.
After hours of fruitless searching, Nick Hunter gave up. He returned to the apartment building where he first saw the creature.
The hand was gone, but bloodstains remained.
He didn’t quite know what to do. Expand his hunt? Forget it and move on? Wait for someone or something to return with answers?
Ultimately, by default, he decided to wait. Easier than continuing the vain pursuit. Less final than surrendering.
Nothing moved in the shadows, watching or stalking. As the night progressed, the wind strengthened, making finding a scent more difficult. If it rained—there were enough clouds up there—he’d lose all traces of its putrid scent. He had no such traces to lose.
Nothing skulked around the lake. He scanned the entire length of the path. Watched the park. Studied the veranda. Even the water’s surface, just in case.
Eventually, Nick noticed movement. It wasn’t anything to worry about, specifically, as many things moved through the night. But the things he saw—an owl, a cat, even the wind—all moved in a single direction. Toward downtown.
Once he noticed it, he couldn’t avoid it. Shadows, a stray dog, a homeless man in camouflage, a pretty teenage girl . . . all flowed in a singular direction.
Nick tried to accept it as coincidence. Couldn’t.
6.
Jack reached his car without incident. The footsteps stopped when he unlocked the Mustang. He opened the door, reached under the seat. He didn’t plan to search his database here, in the open. Too many eyes; too many that he couldn’t see. He didn’t trust it. The dark had turned. Every breath came uncomfortably. Goosebumps ran up his spine and down his arms.
He locked the Mustang. Scrutinized everything around him: every tree, every lamppost, every scrap of paper in the street. Listened to each sound until he knew its exact origin. Night had never before held secrets from Jack Harlow.
To others, invisible threats filled the night, unseen monsters and unimagined dreads. Jack knew these things; they were plainly visible to him. Tonight, they hid.
He hurried back toward the apartment.
He avoided the ghost in the club by taking a different street. Echoing footsteps followed again, two pairs now. Right and left. Forward and above.
Around the corner from a shoe store, a cat sat on a newspaper vending machine. It was perfect black. Its wide green eyes followed Jack as he approached and passed. It flicked its tail once, then jumped down to the sidewalk after Jack passed.
With the footsteps, he heard whispering—nothing definitive, nothing he could quite grasp. A single voice. Slow, drawn out words. Something between awe, fear, and hatred. Dangerous.
He listened carefully. The footsteps had ceased, but not the whispers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1.
Without a sound, Jack Harlow turned. He scanned all he saw, but noticed nothing. The whispering quieted. He said, “Come on out.”
No response.
“I can see you. And hear you,” Jack said. “You can’t play your games with me.”
Whispers—whispers that may have been just the wind. Faces in the windows—or simply shadows, reconfigured by his imaginings. Footsteps. Laughing. Down the street, a couple, arm in arm, stumbled in his direction. Regular people, drunk and happy, passing the cat which continued to stare.
Jack walked on.
Bats overhead. He was near the eastern shore of Lake Eola . Eyes became more visible now that there were fewer people, little rat eyes in the alleys, the eyes of roaches and palmetto bugs.
Laughter again—the couple had crossed the street and stepped into a parking garage. Their sound died suddenly. Unnaturally.
He stopped at a red light. Cars streaked by. Drivers slowed to look at him—or to turn, or find a
None of those choices appealed to him, either.
5.
After hours of fruitless searching, Nick Hunter gave up. He returned to the apartment building where he first saw the creature.
The hand was gone, but bloodstains remained.
He didn’t quite know what to do. Expand his hunt? Forget it and move on? Wait for someone or something to return with answers?
Ultimately, by default, he decided to wait. Easier than continuing the vain pursuit. Less final than surrendering.
Nothing moved in the shadows, watching or stalking. As the night progressed, the wind strengthened, making finding a scent more difficult. If it rained—there were enough clouds up there—he’d lose all traces of its putrid scent. He had no such traces to lose.
Nothing skulked around the lake. He scanned the entire length of the path. Watched the park. Studied the veranda. Even the water’s surface, just in case.
Eventually, Nick noticed movement. It wasn’t anything to worry about, specifically, as many things moved through the night. But the things he saw—an owl, a cat, even the wind—all moved in a single direction. Toward downtown.
Once he noticed it, he couldn’t avoid it. Shadows, a stray dog, a homeless man in camouflage, a pretty teenage girl . . . all flowed in a singular direction.
Nick tried to accept it as coincidence. Couldn’t.
6.
Jack reached his car without incident. The footsteps stopped when he unlocked the Mustang. He opened the door, reached under the seat. He didn’t plan to search his database here, in the open. Too many eyes; too many that he couldn’t see. He didn’t trust it. The dark had turned. Every breath came uncomfortably. Goosebumps ran up his spine and down his arms.
He locked the Mustang. Scrutinized everything around him: every tree, every lamppost, every scrap of paper in the street. Listened to each sound until he knew its exact origin. Night had never before held secrets from Jack Harlow.
To others, invisible threats filled the night, unseen monsters and unimagined dreads. Jack knew these things; they were plainly visible to him. Tonight, they hid.
He hurried back toward the apartment.
He avoided the ghost in the club by taking a different street. Echoing footsteps followed again, two pairs now. Right and left. Forward and above.
Around the corner from a shoe store, a cat sat on a newspaper vending machine. It was perfect black. Its wide green eyes followed Jack as he approached and passed. It flicked its tail once, then jumped down to the sidewalk after Jack passed.
With the footsteps, he heard whispering—nothing definitive, nothing he could quite grasp. A single voice. Slow, drawn out words. Something between awe, fear, and hatred. Dangerous.
He listened carefully. The footsteps had ceased, but not the whispers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1.
Without a sound, Jack Harlow turned. He scanned all he saw, but noticed nothing. The whispering quieted. He said, “Come on out.”
No response.
“I can see you. And hear you,” Jack said. “You can’t play your games with me.”
Whispers—whispers that may have been just the wind. Faces in the windows—or simply shadows, reconfigured by his imaginings. Footsteps. Laughing. Down the street, a couple, arm in arm, stumbled in his direction. Regular people, drunk and happy, passing the cat which continued to stare.
Jack walked on.
Bats overhead. He was near the eastern shore of Lake Eola . Eyes became more visible now that there were fewer people, little rat eyes in the alleys, the eyes of roaches and palmetto bugs.
Laughter again—the couple had crossed the street and stepped into a parking garage. Their sound died suddenly. Unnaturally.
He stopped at a red light. Cars streaked by. Drivers slowed to look at him—or to turn, or find a
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