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Brew City Magazine | |
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Guidelines About the Magazine Editor-in-Chief:
Managing Editor: Associate Editor:
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Peter Roblejo
“That I cannot reveal, nor would I do so if you were my mother risen from the grave,” Sutherland stated. “But it is neither weapon nor jewelry; that is all I will say. But I shan’t give up hope of finding Osborn. My investigation has just begun. ” Satisfied for the moment, Junia gestured toward the notebook. “There were a few more entries.” A sense of relief pervaded the trailer, though Sutherland’s mistrust had barely diminished. Junia gave off an unsettling vibe, different from those with the Gift. Putting doubt aside for the moment, he turned once more to Osborn’s journal.
September 13 - Couldn’t sleep. Dreams are terrible. There is bleating in the woods, but it is no goat that I have ever heard. More like a crow, but with a foul grate. The sun’s almost risen. I must press on. I will go deeper into the forest today, despite my condition. My tremors have become violent at times. I have dropped two cups and stumble about like an old man. Perhaps I shall go to the drug store for sleeping pills. I wonder where that fellow went. Have not seen him for days.
Sutherland read on with mounting unease. Osborn’s script had become spidery, jittery. Streaks of dirt had invaded his lettering.
I have penetrated two hundred meters in. The pines there are taller and denser, and they are bent unnaturally. The oaks, too are gnarled in an almost surreal fashion, and they are enormous. The sun cannot get through. There is a marker there, a ring of large stones that stretches north and south. I traced its borders, which took the better part of the day. Many Indian trails begin within the circle of stones, but none lead in or out. Every boulder is etched in the same symbology. They are a warning. This could represent a burial ground. But there is more: an odd chill lies beyond the ring of boulders. It is misty in places, and the pine needles rustle but there is no wind. I have heard strange whispers and stirrings. Perhaps my lack of sleep has left me delusional. I would have entered the ring, but my legs have weakened. I don’t understand why I cannot sleep. I have not heard the bleating and I pray it does not return.
It is past midnight. I cannot sleep. There is laughter echoing from the woods. It does not sound human. It fills me with fear. Just now, I hear a scream. It is horrid, a maniacal cat-call. This must be the work of pranksters, hindering me from my goal. What else could explain it? The level of human regression in these parts is deplorable. I will not allow them to frighten me. Tomorrow, I will go deeper.
“Obviously the man was out of his mind,” said Junia with a shake of her head. The savant bit his lip in consternation. His heart grew heavy as he flipped to the last entry. His colleague’s script had degenerated into meandering lines and sharp, misplaced strokes. Its meaning could barely be discerned.
S 14 - Found it! Stone figure … likeness of Zefonith exact. The screamer is angry. Terrible dreams … beyond the ring … burial ground … pillar of alien stone … she is there … the First Eve … Barely made it back … it has followed me … the yellow eyes … it wants the stone … The eyes …
“Look at this, Bill,” said Junia, plucking a folded sheet from behind the next page. It bore an image that stole Sutherland’s breath: the photograph of a clay plaque, upon which was engraved a naked female form, head covered in a multiple-horned miter, bird-like wings folded beneath her. Her feet were avian, sporting fierce talons, and each raised arm held aloft an ankh. At her feet sat two owls, wide-eyed and menacing. The savant’s eyes rolled upward ponderingly. In the span of two heartbeats, he began to recite:
“Isaiah 34:14, Wildcats
shall meet with hyenas,
“Lilith?” echoed Junia. “Lilith is another name for the object of Osborn’s obsession. The First Eve, according to Medieval tradition. She went by many names … a demon of antiquity. Her sigil is held within the Liber Maleficarum, an ancient compendium of demonic lore.” A shudder ran through Sutherland: he feared the worst. Could Osborn still be alive? He was beside himself with regret: If only the Department of Occult Studies hadn’t scoffed at Osborn’s theories; such ridicule had only fueled the man’s determination. Junia watched in silence as the Briton went over every inch of the trailer with the meticulousness of a Scotland Yard agent. An examination of the cabin showed no signs of struggle or violence … odd. Not a visible trace of blood was to be found. Interestingly, no unusual relic or sculpted item had turned up. Sutherland returned to the kitchen. The notebook was slammed shut and stowed away. “I must find him.” He stared blankly ahead, as if seeing through the trailer and into the forest with x-ray vision. “Dead or alive.” “I’m going with you.” Intrigued by her tenacity, Sutherland spun to face his acquaintance. “Gifted or not, I don’t think you understand what we’re facing. There are dark things that dwell on this earth, in desolate, hidden places … you would do well not to follow.” Junia shook her head. “I am a psychic sensitive; I’m skilled at divining the course of ley lines … of discerning their source. You need me to save time.” Sutherland’s finger stabbed the air mere inches from Junia’s nose. “This is no run-of-the-mill house-haunting. There is a restive evil that dwells in the desecrated heart of this forest. The very ground is cursed, its infernal emanations a source of madness to all that venture there. I will not be able protect you from the dark stalker that serves it.” The Briton’s words fell on deaf ears. Junia tightened her jaw. “I suggest you worry about protecting yourself. Now, let’s go.” Gripping his venerable satchel, Sutherland adjusted his cap, staring hard into Junia’s eyes. They seemed suddenly cold … dead … like those of a shark. Whatever the woman’s dark secrets, he could not deny her usefulness. Time was of the essence. “Onward then … quietly. I don’t trust that Mills hick any further than I could throw him.” Sutherland reached for the door, when an eerie trill traveled to his ears: “Aaaaaeeeeeyaaaaayayayayayahahahaha.” It was a hideous yodel, unearthly in its timbre, its message desperate and malign. Faint and forlorn, it seemed to have come from deep within the forest’s abysmal core — and yet beyond it, like an echo out of the vastness of time and space, a ripple from the Outer Darkness. Sutherland knew it for what it was, for he had dreamt it: the voice of the Damned. Junia grabbed the savant. “It knows,” she muttered, rubbing her shoulders as if to dispel an icy draft. “I will not abandon my friend and colleague to whatever blasphemy lies in this wood.” Sutherland steeled himself and passed to the yard. This malignity must be dealt with. “You seem quite certain that your colleague is in the forest,” Junia said with a hint of suspicion. Sutherland’s eyes narrowed. “There is no certainty of that, but there lies the source of greatest peril. Also, Osborn was obsessed with that place, ergo … it’s a good place to start.” “Doctor,” Junia said, her footfalls gentle and synchronous with the Briton’s. “The equinox — ” “Falls two days hence,” said Sutherland, finishing her warning. “I am well aware of what effects that may have on the nexus.” The two plunged into a forest that seemed ever more shrouded in shadow. The air hung lifeless, thick with menace. Of the wood’s nocturnal fauna — down to the tiniest creature — there was no sign. But every so often, just out of eye’s view, Sutherland could make out the menacing glimmer of luminous eyes. No sooner did he turn toward them, they would vanish. Junia’s visage had become masked, her eyes dream-like as she trudged through endless years’ worth of decaying pine needles that layered above the sandy silt of the Barrens. “It … is this way,” said she, in a trance-like tone. Sutherland moved aside and let his partner lead on. The trailer’s porch light flickered away in the background as they bore forward into the gloom. Neither star- nor moonlight could filter through the ravenous canopy; but beyond that, it seemed unnaturally dark. Were it not for Junia’s Gift, the forest might have claimed victory. Before long, Junia stopped, her hand outstretched, fingertips licking the air like the tongues of serpents. “Yes … the line strengthens with every step … the land rises … not much further…” “I can’t see them like you, but I can sense them,” whispered Sutherland. He assumed the heart of the ethereal nexus would be found atop the low hill’s zenith. What else might share that spot he did not want to contemplate. His strides resumed, but his boot suddenly collided against something immovable: “A boulder.” He bent over to study the waist-high rock. “This must be part of the ring Osborn mentioned.” “What can you make out?” asked Junia. “Nothing by sight. It’s too damn dark,” Sutherland said. He could barely see beyond his own forearm. “Wait … I’ve found something … Something sits atop the rock … ” Blinded as if by the shimmering ley line, Junia could see little else. By sound alone could she perceive Sutherland’s furtive rummaging … a peeling sound … unintelligible whispers …“What is it?” she said impatiently. Suddenly, a light burst forth, filling the savant’s fingers with a greenish glow. Junia shook free of her trance, gaping at a spectacle the likes of which she’d never seen: from Sutherland’s left palm, a green flame, little greater than a candle’s tongue, shimmered and danced. “You are … a mystic?!” “I am many things, Love.” Sutherland did not spare a glance at the woman, his own attention drawn by what he’d plucked from the boulder. It was a figurine, not six inches in length, etched from flint stone, its sharp facets glistening under the eldritch flame. Sutherland gasped: though crudely wrought, it was an unmistakable replica of the fiend of antiquity. Filling his lungs deeply of cedar-scented air, Sutherland slowly place the figurine on the boulder and removed his right glove. Storing it, he reached with naked fingers for the idol, eyes closed in concentration. Sutherland let his thoughts cease. All mortal senses receded as he focused his essence, becoming one with the Veil that barred the dead from the living. An image erupted in his mind’s eye: naked hands held the stone figure even as did he. But they were not Sutherland’s hands: a gem-studded ring drew his eye … it bore the seal of Oxford University. All around, the trees seemed to grope and shiver. Pale, yellow eyes appeared, glowing hungrily as they moved closer. A face surfaced from the darkness that had shrouded those eyes. Ferocious and sinister, its maw was akin to a horse’s, its withered lips bearing fangs that gleamed from blackened gums with a spectral light. And then they struck: mercilessly, with ravenous passion, over and over, eliciting anguished screams that were replaced by the icy shrill of a soul avulsed from its earthly raiment. An emptiness formed before Sutherland, an abyssal darkness that choked the light and belched forth gloom. A shadowy whirlpool of irresistible pull, it burgeoned before him, a yawning void, a doorway to a place where the senses failed and nothingness ruled … Sutherland embraced his pounding head as bleakest despair gripped him. A voice suddenly drummed his skull with ear-splitting savagery: “ki-sikil-lil-la-ke!” The emerald fire failed. Against Sutherland’s breast, the mysterious object shook. The idol of Lilith fell to earth. “No!” Sutherland grabbed his temples and doubled over, a wave of nausea washing over him. The trees spun, his heart fluttered. “I think I’m going to vomit,” he croaked, awash in crimson. Junia watched stoically as the Briton gathered himself, one hand pressed against his chest as if for dear life. Still holding his head, Sutherland risked undoing his squeezed lids: the ground steadied. Wary silence reigned. The malaise began to lift. “What did you see?” Replacing his glove with all haste, the savant let out a sigh. “Whatever it wished me to see.” He did not wish to dwell upon his horrific vision or what it might mean. “It lies ahead. Waiting at the very brink of the Void.” Junia’s fists tightened. Her eyes flared. “What now?” Sutherland shook away the disorientation that threatened to paralyze him. At the heart of the nexus, where the Veil was weakest, lay an entity in wait. Baneful beyond human conception, its dark essence hung on the threshold of the Outer Darkness, its alien will desperate for release. But for every door there is a key, and the key of Zefonith had to be found. He knew her name. From the hellish vision it had reached him. “How this being came to reside here I do not know. It is said that time and space are meaningless to those that dwell beyond the fields of mortality. Here I sense a threat that could unleash a dawn of darkness upon mankind. Destiny may well have brought us here; I am no stranger to such things. This evil … I must face it without delay.” The woman’s face bore a curious blend of amazement and delight. She could hardly take her eyes off Sutherland or his enigmatic paraphernalia. Wordlessly, she complied with his gesture and led the way forward once more. An icy blast greeted their passage through the guarded ring. Uttermost stillness and silence enveloped them as they entered the burial ground of the Minsi. The inky darkness eased, yielding to a spectral twilight that permeated the unholy grounds. The very air was saturated with it; a luminous substance the color of ash, whereas all other things seemed warped by shadow. Never had Sutherland experienced such a place. It seemed as if they had plunged into a sea of oblivion, a place where the senses faltered and the spirit failed. Below the acidic mold, the ground’s substance seemed to fracture beneath each footstep. There were bones in many places, poking inexplicably through the mantle of eons of coniferous decay. What trees could be seen stood bare and lifeless, blackened skeletons shivering in the solitude of ages; it was a world where winter held eternal sway. Junia’s brow furrowed in concentration. To Sutherland, she seemed not at all fazed by the blighted surrounds as she drifted ahead with the focus of a predatory cat. The ground rose gently, and quite conspicuously, given the marshy flat of the Barrens. Sutherland clutched the object that hung beneath his shirt; it vibrated angrily, admonishingly. Looking over a shoulder, the savant thought he’d glimpsed twin discs of pallid light. But in the span of a blink, they were gone, receded into the surrounding haze of darkness. Junia stopped, her arm thrust back in warning. Turning toward him, Sutherland noticed her face had drained of all color, her eyes like smoldering agates in the twilight. Indeed, all things in that netherworld seemed bereft of hue, as though the very laws of perception had been discarded by the evil intellect that held dominion therein. Junia spoke, but no sound reached Sutherland’s ear. Dismissing her words with a wave, she pointed forward and down, beckoning the Briton. Sutherland followed his guide as the ground suddenly fell away. They had crossed what seemed the lip of a bowl or crater, down into which they now descended. The temperature had plummeted. A glacial chill had begun to gnaw away at their very beings. Amid all, a heart-wrenching odor assaulted the mind; it was not the sweet, festering scent of the newly dead, but the stale, haunting stench of damnation. Chanting arose, resounding from beyond the encircling shadows. Dark whispers, monotone humming and fragments of tribal song filtered through the dreary miasma. Amid the hellish cacophony, a crow-like rant wove its words in a tongue Sutherland knew was not Lenape; lišanum akkaditum it was named, a gift from the Nephilim to the forefathers of Babylon. Slowly making his way down the face of the misty basin, Sutherland could hear faint, fading howls of anguish and despair; bone-chilling cries of infants and wails of torment merged with shouts of ardor in a blasphemous chorus that hinted of unspeakable practices. So terrible was that alien choir that Sutherland reached for his ears, then shook his head with sudden insight: No sound reaches this astral domain, only the spectral echoes of a cursed people, cast into perdition long ago. They speak to my soul … Junia halted, her body stiff as if gripped and smothered by an unseen hand. Behind a face racked with bewilderment, she seemed rooted in place, unable to signal … unable to think. But an arm’s length away, Sutherland scanned the surrounds. Stark silence had replaced the hideous music. The gray mist deepened. A shadow of dread fell over the savant like a brooding cloud that blots out the sun. They had reached the very heart of the desecrated hollow. Dragging himself beside Junia, Sutherland’s eyes widened to saucers: mere paces ahead, a dark monolith loomed. All around its tenebrous frame lay the skulls of human infants heaped against its walls in a macabre throng. Half again as tall as a man, it seemed hewn of some otherworldly stone. Black as obsidian, tinged with the rich, green luster of malachite, it emitted a faint, lurid glow that seemed to blend with its unearthly substance. The main bulk formed a trapezoidal shape — as far as Sutherland could tell — approachable on all sides by nine steps chiseled in bizarre, geometric contours. Too large for an altar but too small for temple, it was a ghastly shrine, an odious monument to the dark, unfathomable being of the Barrens. Ominous and brooding, the monument’s very design was antithetical to Vitruvian concepts of proportionality, scale and symmetry; its geometry was a challenge to sanity. Undulating as if caught along a plane between warring dimensions, it was surrounded by an unseen force, so malign that it threatened to drown Sutherland in madness. Following its alien rise, the savant soon beheld the object of their woes: black as the deepest pit of hell, saturated with evil, orbited by hungering chaos, the statue of Zefonith sat atop the unholy shrine. Just as Osborn described … that … is the key … Sutherland spared a glance at his companion: Junia stood paralyzed, speechless behind a rictus of terror, her eyes darting to and fro as if caught in internal struggle with that which haunted the monument. Bracing himself, Sutherland ripped open his shirt and thrust forward an object that shimmered in golden brilliance: “Ki-sikil-lil-la-ke! Aka-ni-zu Heru’ur ne tana!” Tethered to a leathern cord, in Sutherland’s outstretched hand lay an amulet; a lid-sized, octagonal curiosity, its lustrous onyx coating was host to a gilded embossment that graced its disk-like form: that of an all-seeing eye. Surrounding its hieroglyphic oculus were etched characteres: of all glyphs from antiquity, the most feared for their ominous power. Within the eye’s iris, set in reddish gold, was an upside-down crucifix. At the eye’s four corners lay cunningly-crafted, inward-pointing sabers, and ringing the talisman’s face was the ouroboros, the symbol of a snake devouring its own tail. Sutherland straightened with new-found vitality. Holding the amulet before him, his limbs bolted into action. Three long strides placed him at the foot of the malefic altar. “Aka! Aka-ni-zu Heru’ ur ne tana!” Sutherland’s speech struck the alien temple with the force of thunder: never before had sound traversed the chaos of Zefonith’s grounds. A luminous shape suddenly pounced before the savant: a fell creature, its naked frame child-like in stature, its limbs emaciated yet rippling with unearthly strength. An equine maw protruded from its withered head, baring fangs that shone like a forest of silver daggers. Its eyes glowed with fury above a torso crouched low in murderous intent. At its dorsum sprouted draconian wings whose span was twice a man’s height. Clawed, spidery fingers danced while a shrill, brassy bark welled up from its throat as it gathered itself … Recoiling from the fiend’s stench, Sutherland thrust the amulet at its face. “Aka ni-zu, gallu-ne tana!” With an evil shriek, the demon-goat hurled aside ruinously, as if overcome with agony, its black maw spewing ochre fluid in its rave. Wasting no time, Sutherland rushed up the steps, mindful of their bewildering architecture. Almost there, he thought, reaching at last for the idol of Zefonith; its image seemed to shiver and shift, its emanations black with fury. Sutherland’s trembling fingers closed around the statuette’s throat, his gloves instantly smoldering under the impossible cold it radiated. Ravenous hunger, gnawing desolation and a simmering malice poured forth from the idol like an infernal sun. As he hoisted the statue, a hiss reverberated in his mind, its evil an assault on his faculties. Whispering unintelligibly, eyes bulging with effort, the savant made to open the satchel secured to his wrist — when he suddenly toppled backward, dragged violently down onto a pile of skulls that crackled in his plunge. Sutherland’s head swam, his eyes blurring from the impact. Ice-cold fingers fastened themselves to his throat as he glared at the author of his dilemma: Junia! Junia’s visage was trance-like, her eyes exuding a shadowy vapor as she squeezed the Briton’s throat with unbelievable strength. Vision darkening as consciousness ebbed, Sutherland held the idol tightly with one hand while gesturing desperately with the other. In an instant, twin flames of emerald hue erupted against each of Junia’s eyes, eliciting a scream as she recoiled in agony. Sutherland tried to kick the woman away; he had managed to loosen her grip, but her inhuman strength still pinned him. Despair began to overtake the savant, when a demonic bark erupted in the twilight: with speed that stunned, the goat-fiend flew upon the woman, sinking fangs and claws into her flesh in a sanguineous torrent. Rolling away frantically, Sutherland negotiated the precarious footing and righted himself, whispering words over his satchel. In an instant, its aperture parted. Sutherland hadn’t lost his grip on the idol; his fingers were fastened to it for dear life. Sparing a glance at the savagery being visited upon Junia, he held the simulacrum of Zefonith above the bag, then began easing it therein. The idol’s alien substance seethed and hummed as it passed into the widening maw of the satchel. Like a python, the bag stretched to accommodate — almost impossibly — the much larger object. Shadowy tendrils thrust forth from the idol as it sank into the ancient bag, groping and writhing like angry serpents. It issued a sudden shrill in its drowning, an icy blast that struck the core of Sutherland’s being and turned his limbs to jelly. Seizing, the fiend released Junia’s mutilated body and whirled around to face Sutherland, its face a mask of desperation. It sprang upon the savant in a frantic attempt to save the idol, but it was too late: the key to Zefonith’s unleashing disappeared into the vacuous interior of the mysterious relic, its mouth shutting with a pop. In that instant, the lurker of the Barrens released a howl of such horror that Sutherland withered under its onslaught. Stunned as if by a clap of thunder, overcome with horror and pain, the savant fell to his knees, then onto his face as darkness enveloped him.
The taste of stale conifer greeted Sutherland as the world suddenly bloomed into his awareness. Spitting out a mouthful of pine needles, the Briton pushed himself off the ground with a groan. Rubbing the blur out of his eyes, he stood carefully, feeling his body for evidence of injury … miraculously, he was none the worse for wear. A stirring of leaves sent Sutherland into a defensive crouch as his eyes darted helter-skelter in search of danger. His hand clasped the amulet instinctively. “Good grief,” he moaned, his gaze falling onto a rummaging squirrel not twenty paces away. Amid a cacophony of sparrows and goldfinches from the canopy above, Sutherland realized that the forest had changed. Its ominous disposition had lifted, replaced by a sobering tranquility that surprised the parapsychologist. Frowning at his crumpled demeanor — and his mutilated frock coat — Sutherland bent over to grab the satchel. Mercifully sealed and intact, he thought with relief. Mere paces away stood the ring of boulders, now curiously bereft of tribal markings. No longer did sight or soul languish under the fell airs of the once-haunted surrounds; the ashen haze had vanished, replaced by the sunless clarity of blossoming dawn. It was as if he’d awakened from a nightmare fast receding into the recesses of memory. Markings or not, Sutherland dared not cross the mystic demarcation of the Minsi; he’d leave Junia’s corpse to be discovered by the police. Of Russell Osborn’s body, there was no sign, though admittedly he hadn’t conducted a thorough search. He wondered how to break news of such strangeness and loss to the university. He would find a way to preserve his colleague’s esteemed reputation. The main priority was to return to Sutherland Manor, the family estate nestled in the sleepy hamlet of Stow-on-Wold, deep in the Cotswolds of England. There he would deposit the unearthly idol of Zefonith within his sacred Sanctum, its nefarious emanations kept in check by the wards of Solomon. He needed to make haste: already, the venerable satchel gave an occasional rumble in protest of what occupied its innards. It was enough to remind the savant that what he’d experienced was no fictitious working of the mind. Beyond that, Sutherland longed for the comfort and quiet of his study, the crisp breeze of the English countryside, and tea and biscuits with maid Harriet. Besides her expert management of the estate, the Irish maid had become his sole companion. For no woman had Sutherland wed, no children had he fathered. His was a secret calling, its mastery bought with asceticism and piety. Getting his bearings took little time; the return to Mills’s property was astoundingly effortless. Pursing his lips in consternation, Sutherland gave the hick’s trailer a knock. Sutherland’s eyes narrowed at the look worn by Mills as the door parted. “Surprised to see me, Mr. Mills?” “Well, there you are Mr. Sutherland, I’ll be damned,” said Mills as the door flew open. “Was kinda worried when you didn’t show up last night, what with all the weirdness.” “Oh, really?” said Sutherland. “Do tell.” “Well, I heard some noises a few hours back — can’t say I was sleepin’ — like someone was in a real hurry to be on their way … ” Sutherland spun about to face the street. Mills’s pickup loomed beside his Saab … but the Jaguar was gone! The Briton’s jaw hung limply. “Who … who left in that car?” “Well, by the time I got a good look she was in the car and peelin’ off, but it was Ms. Alani, or I’m a sun-dried salamander.” Sutherland looked up at the sky. The forest’s dizzying stature held back the sun’s brilliance in its nascent climb. “Have you a phone, Mills?” With a nod, the Piney directed Sutherland into his rude habitation. Making haste, the Briton dialed into his office answering machine, hoping to speak with Harriet. Sutherland’s body suddenly froze, his eyes ballooning at the voice that smote his ear:
“William … hello. I’m terribly sorry for not having called sooner. It’s Friday morning, September 19th. I’ve had a terrible time of it. I’ve been ill for days, holed up in a hospital in New Jersey. Apparently, they found me wandering the highway near Milmay, delirious. I was diagnosed with ‘equine encephalitis’ … I’m nearly cured … but the dreams I’ve had …terrible. The neurologist I spoke with said I had been hallucinating, calling the lizard stone I found in the forest ‘the idol of Zefonith.’ I suppose that’s what I thought it was… but here it lies beside me: a simple Lenape lizard stone. None of this has panned out. I am mortified and pray we can keep my lunatic ravings between us. I shan’t be returning for my things where I was staying in the Barrens; it is an ill-favored place. And my university ring has gone missing … damn rustics and their scavenging. I shall be on a plane back to Oxford by this afternoon. Dominus Illuminatio Mea.” Click.
Sutherland turned to his host in a near-daze. “I won’t tarry. I’ll just get a change of clothes and be on my way.” “Hey, whatever happened to that fella you were lookin’ for?” Mills asked with a perplexed look. The Briton’s gaze burned into his host’s like lasers. “Your years of depravity are finished, Mr. Mills. Take that as a warning.” Mills wrung gaunt haunts, a gleam of fear passing across his face. “W-what’re you talkin’ about?” Sutherland did not answer, his eyes drifting to the trailer window. In the distance, he thought he’d caught the faintest of echoes; a familiar call seemed to sift through the pervasive whisper of the Pinelands: “Aaaaaeeeeeyaaaaayayayayayahahahaha.” |