I hunted for it that day. Searched for tracks, smelled for a scent. I followed the tracks I’d made, the path I’d cut through the woods, ranging out from it on both sides. It had to be there, it had to have left some sign.
None of my enemies here had ever left a trail before. Why should they start now?
I walked for miles and lost track of time. Once again, Ben came for me, calling my name, following my scent, probably, whether he knew he was doing it or not.
When he finally caught up, he said, “Any luck?”
I had to say no, and it didn’t make any sense. I should have found something.
He said, “I take it we’re not leaving tomorrow.”
“No. No, I have to figure this out. I can figure this out. It’s not going to beat me.” I was still searching the woods, my vision blurring I was staring so hard into the trees. Every one of them might have hidden something.
“It’s after noon,” Ben said. “At least come back and eat something. I fixed some lunch.”
“Let me guess—venison.”
He donned his familiar, half-smirking grin. How long had it been since I’d seen it?
“No. Sandwiches. Would you believe Cormac took most of the meat with him?”
Yes. Yes I would. “He uses it for bait, doesn’t he?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
“No, I don’t.”
I worked while we ate, going online to search whatever relevant came to mind: barbed-wire cross, blood curses, animal sacrifice. Red eyes. Red-eyed monsters, to try to filter out all the medical pages and photography advice I got with that search. I found a lot of sites that skirted around the topics. A lot of people out there made jewelry that was supposed to look like barbed wire but wasn’t nearly vicious enough to be the real thing. A lot of sites bragged, but few had any kind of authority.
As usual, the people who really knew about this stuff didn’t talk about it, and certainly didn’t blog about it.
I found one thing, though. A long shot, but an interesting one. The Walsenburg Public Library’s electronic card catalog was online. Their three titles on the occult were checked out.
I called them up. A woman answered.
“Hi,” I said cheerfully. “I’m interested in a couple of books you have, but the catalog says they’re checked out.”
“If they’ve been checked out for more than two weeks I can put a recall on them—”
“No, that’s okay. I was actually wondering if you could tell me who checked them out.”
Her demeanor instantly chilled. “I’m sorry, I really can’t give you that information.”
I clearly should have known better than to ask. In retrospect, her answer didn’t surprise me. I tried again anyway. “Not even a hint?”
“I’m sorry. Do you want me to try that recall?”
“No, thanks. That’s okay.” I hung up. I wasn’t interested in the books. I wanted to know who in the county was studying the occult. What amateur had maybe gotten a little too good at this sort of thing.
Again, we slept curled up together, looking for basic comfort. Rather, I tried to sleep, but spent more time staring at the ceiling, waiting for that moment of pressure, of fear, the sure knowledge that something unknown and terrifying was out there stalking me. The feeling had
changed from when it was dead rabbits on my porch. This new force didn’t just want me to leave—it wanted me dead. It made me think there was nothing I could do but freeze and wait for it to strike me.
Nothing had been slaughtered on my porch in days. The barbed-wire crosses had disappeared. Did that mean the curse was gone, or had it turned into something else?
I waited, but nothing happened that night. A breeze whispered through winter pines, and that was all. I thought I was going to break from listening, and waiting.
The next morning, Ben chopped wood for the stove. He was getting his strength back, looking for things to do. Normal, closer to normal. I watched him out the window, from my desk. He knew how to use an ax, swinging smoothly and easily, quickly splitting logs and building up the pile next to the porch. For some reason this surprised me, like I assumed that a lawyer couldn’t also know anything about manual labor. It occurred to me that I knew as little about Ben’s background as I knew about Cormac’s. Ben had definitely spent some time in his past splitting logs.