There — He-s Out

Sammy. Sammy, where are you?

I’m not angry, son. I just want to show you something.

Sam walked out into the honeysuckle and the dark, and the woods swallowed him whole. He-s Out There

Sammy. Sammy, where are you?

The thing tilted its head—his father’s gesture, the one he made when he was disappointed. “He’s out there.” I just want to show you something

Behind him, the thing in the chair began to hum—an old song, one his father used to whistle while he worked. The one about the long black veil.

“He’s out there, Sam. He’s always been out there. And he’s still calling.” Sammy, where are you

The sign at the county line had been bullet-riddled for twenty years: WELCOME TO PACKER’S CORNER. POP. 312. Now it was just a ragged metal ghost, like everything else in his memory.

In the dark, Sam heard the front door swing open. He heard the crickets start up again, loud and frantic. And he heard his father’s voice, clearer now, coming from the edge of the woods.

The thing pointed through the shattered window, toward the tree line. The woods were blacker than the sky, blacker than anything Sam had ever seen. They pulsed like a heartbeat.

“The search party—”