:: The Curse of Pine Shallow by Darrin Wilson

    On the 14th of November 2003, deep in the American Pacific Northwest, a small town would see its first murder in over 200 years.

    It was a slaying unlike anything anyone had ever seen before. But more disturbing than the crime itself was the unusual aftermath. Eight days after the killing, the entire town's population vanished without a trace. The authorities contained any media coverage and shortly thereafter, cut short the investigation with no explanation. The unsolved case was closed mysteriously and all documents pertaining to the investigation were classified.

    Today Pine Shallow is gone. Submerged beneath a vast wetland off of Kane Road between Hwy 101 and the Redwood National Park. Sadly, a single stretch of crumbling asphalt is all that remains of the site and is the only evidence a community existed there at all. The town, its history, and its people are all but forgotten.

    What really happened on Friday November 14th in Pine Shallow, California? No one knows. Or more likely, no one is telling.

    However, if you know where to look, you’ll find people speaking of the beloved town in hushed whispers to anyone willing to listen. To these people Pine Shallow is still nestled within the folds of California’s Redwood Coast. To them, the events of November 2003 never happened.

    But before we drive across the Pine Shallow City Limits, we must take a brief glance into the past.

    To a time before Pine Shallow.
    A time of darkness.
    Paranoia.
    Fear.
    To prepare us for the things we will see.

PROLOGUE

    THREE MIGHTY vessels pitched and rolled across a defiant, rain battered sea.
    Each timber of the vessel’s hulls strained to remain whole under the immense forces pounding against them. Massive surges of brine washed over the decks. The ships wouldn’t last long. Several sailors on each ship, brave enough to challenge the storm and desperate enough to stay alive, struggled to retract vast sails. But watery death was closing its cape. The lashing torrent and hurricane wind would not let go and incessantly ripped the ropes from bloodied hands along with any hope of survival.
    Below deck of the lead vessel, a desperate Captain focused his attention on the sea charts spread before him on a wooden plank in his quarters. Seawater sprayed in from several cracks in the hull drenching everything. Swaying oil lamps hung from iron rings in the timber and lit the hollow with an orange glow that made the wet walls glisten like tangerine foil. The Captain’s English-sewn woolen overcoat, soaked through, now smelled of musty animal hide. His eyes held fear but he maintained composure.
    The Captain’s door swung open with a bang. It was his Bosun, accompanied by two other crewmen.
     “Captain!” the Bosun shrieked. “We’ve lost seven men over the side and we’ve run out of food!”
    The Captain ignored his crewmen, eyes locked on the charts as if he was on the verge of unlocking an ancient secret sheltered within its symbols.
     “Captain!” he repeated. “Did you hear me? I said we’ve lost seven men overboard and there’s no more food.”
    The Captain looked up slowly; his leathery skin taught against antique eyes and hard, pursed lips. The sea had taken his youth and twisted it until only a beaten visage remained. A lightning bolt illuminated the cabin and cast the Captain in a ghostly light. The Bosun stepped back reflexively but maintained his resoluteness. “Captain!”
     “There’s more meat stored in alcohol beneath the Quarter main,” the Captain said.
     “We've already seen it! It's infested with rats. There's nothing left! And some of the men are starting to get sick. If this storm doesn’t finish us, starvation will.”
    The ship rocked and the men staggered to remain upright. The Captain looked back down at his charts as if he didn’t even acknowledge the severity of the statement.
     “No more, Captain. The men are behind me. We're going to turn this ship around. You have no one left.”
    The Captain didn’t bother to look up. “We will maintain course,” he said. “You will return to your post, Bosun.”
    The Bosun squinted. “What did you say?”
    Now the Captain looked at him directly. “You will return to your post. This ship isn’t going to turn around.” Satisfied, the Captain returned his attention to the charts.
    Thwuck.
    It was a dagger. Thrown from the Bosun’s direction, it pierced the left corner of the chart to the table. “Twelve men against one says it is,” the Bosun ratified.
    The Captain regarded the dagger for a moment. He straightened up, came around the table and approached the Bosun, who stood his ground. The Captain stopped mere inches away form his crewmate’s face. Another explosion of lightning illuminated the Captain’s countenance and the ship pitched again. “Do you think we’ll fall off the edge of the earth?” The Captain posed. “Do you think the ocean will just end and we’ll disappear forever? I will not return in shame. Cast yourself overboard if you must, but this ship will maintain course.”
    The Bosun held fast, “No ship was meant to travel this far.”
     “The Santa Maria will maintain course along with the Nina and the Pinta. Return to your post!”
     “No! You’ve signed our death warrants so we’re turning around. You have no more power here. From this moment forward, we are—”
    Screams. Men in terror. Coming from above decks.
    Their attention became riveted.
    The Bosun and his compatriots reacted instantly and made their exit. “This isn’t over, Captain. We’ll be back!”
    As his men disappeared up to the main deck, the Captain’s expression hardened. He whirled around and strode toward a corner of the cabin. He hesitated, then pulled back a secret compartment and looked down toward the floor. Cowering in a ball, clutching a silver cross was an elderly priest. Frail and weak, balding and wrinkled, the priest never looked up. Stooping over, the Captain reached in and grabbed the priest by the collar and dragged him out to face him. The priest was aged and limp, muttering prayers, and refused to make eye contact. “Maintain your course,” the priest whimpered. “Forget your men. Let them die. Maintain your course.”
    The Captain’s teeth ground. “I trusted you! Why are you steering us into oblivion?”
     “You don't understand. This ship is cursed. It's already traveled too far. We have entered into the unknown.”
     “You’re insane. India is mere days away!”
    The priest rolled his eyes up to the Captain’s face. “I wasn't sent to guide you to India. I was sent to lead you to the end of the earth. This ship was never meant to reach land. It was to be my punishment. To die with you.”
     “What are you talking about, old man?”
     “The Queen believed this ship had been infected with dark forces. This expedition is to be lost at sea.”
    The Captain shook him, “You’re insane!”
     “Can’t you feel it, Captain? Infesting every timber of wood, every fiber of flesh. Even I have been compromised. We have crossed the great boundary. Hell itself has opened its gateway for us. God has let us go.”
    The Bosun burst through the door and into the cabin, drenched. “Captain!” he cried, panicked and shaken. “You’ve got to see this!”
    For a brief moment, the Bosun and priest locked eyes. The Captain was to keep the priest a secret. Now all of them wondered if the other was enough to save them.
    The Captain followed his Bosun out of the cabin.
    Rain pummeled into them as the Captain was lead to the main deck. “What is it, Bosun?”
    Ten men restrained the Captain and the Bosun turned to face him. “This is the only way, Captain. We’ve got to turn around. We’re dying!”
     “Noooo! Let go of me! We’ve got to keep going!”
     “You leave us no choice! Your death will mean all of us will live. I'm sorry. You were a good Captain.”
     “Kill me then! Cowards! Take the Santa Maria in shame!”
     “I’m sorry, Captain.” The Bosun was handed a large dagger and he wielded it seductively in front of the Captain. “May the sea have mercy on your soul,” the Bosun said with icy finality. He raised the dagger and, at the last possible instant, turned the knife upon himself and slit his own throat. The Bosun fell back, much to the shock of the other crewmates, blood pouring out of the slit. Lightning flashed, revealing the horror played out before the Captain. Crewmen squirmed and shouted. Some, knocked back by the fallen Bosun, got up, ran to the side decks and leapt overboard into the roiling storm. Others, dazed and mystified, adopted terrifying expressions as if some evil force had reared itself up from the middeck and infected everyone with a hysterical insanity.
    One by one, crew pitched themselves overboard without explanation.
    Left unrestrained, the Captain ran to starboard and gazed overboard. He was horrified at what he saw. Instead of his crewmen struggling and splashing in the rolling sea and battering rain, they were still. Carried over crests and troughs in the unforgiving waves with arms still to their sides. Each man staring at the Captain in a silent avowal of death. One by one, crewmen slipped beneath the surface, seemingly of their own accord.
    The Captain gazed across the chasm at his sister ships, the Nina and the Pinta. Through the darkness he thought he could make out something in the ocean around the base of the hull. Lightning flashed and brought his fears to glorious life: crewmen from the other ships had hurled themselves into the sea as well, and were bobbing silently staring at the Santa Maria before each slipped under the surface to their deaths.
     “What’s happening?” The Captain screamed.
    He turned toward the middeck and saw the priest, smiling.
     “You did this!” The Captain yelled, approaching the frail figure.
    The priest raised his silver cross, turned it toward his face, rested the base of the cross against his right eye and pushed. The priest’s eyeball popped as he rammed the cross into his head. He pulled out the bloody artifact and did the same to his left eye. Rain cascading over his brow and pooling inside the gaping eye wounds, the priest turned toward the Captain. “It is only with cleansed vision do we finally see the path we were meant to travel. You need not concern yourself with India, Captain. You and I will maintain this course together. The New World awaits my arrival.”

    OCTOBER 2ND
     4 a.m.
     ATLANTIC OCEAN
     1492

    Three ships, each devoid of human life save the lead, pitched and rolled into the storm toward a dark horizon illuminated only by the ghost light of distant lightning.

::

     CHAPTER 1

     Friday, November 14, 2003
     The hamlet of Pine Shallow, California
     The Lady of the Divine Harmony Catholic Church
     8:04 p.m.

    THE FLESH on the back of Father Benjamin Hannah’s neck unexpectedly prickled when he turned to the middle of his psalm book and closed his eyes. Startled, he rose from his knelt position facing the altar and turned his attention to the front vestibule.
    A brief shock of icy cold wind struck his face and he flinched. He watched the candles flicker in the gust.
    The church door was closed and no windows were open as far as he knew.
    He moved past the pews to the heavy oaken door in the entry hall and stopped before it.
    Shaking off the odd sensation, he reached for the great door’s wrought iron handle. As he pulled it open, it cracked its joints like the timber of a great ship pitching in the grip of a cruel storm. He peered outside, hesitated, and stepped softly onto the fieldstone steps of The Lady of the Divine Harmony.
    Exeter Street was quiet and deserted. He saw the lush sycamores lining the edges of neighbor’s yards. Picturesque bungalows stood silently on this calm Sunday evening, warm lights radiating from their shuttered windows. No cars or even ambient noise resonated from the neighborhood intersection just a few meters away.
    No noise at all.
    He watched the traffic lights, suspended on wires above the road, change from red to yellow to green then back again twice. Not even the faint murmur of television shows that were sometimes audible on Sunday nights from neighbor’s homes.
    Such odd silence.
    He held his breath just for a moment in a brief experiment.
    Nothing.
    The pulsing of blood in his arteries became deafening.
    It was as if people were sitting stone-faced and comatose in their living rooms, waiting for dawn to break. Afraid that, if they moved or made noise, something horrible would happen. In his mind he could see their faces: staring blankly at walls and dark television screens like pallid mannequins of death. Father Ben—as he liked to be called—lent an ear to the wind one more time.
    Strange, not even insects.
    It was if he had entered a vacuum.
    He cautiously descended the steps, stood by the curbside, and gazed upward.
    What a peculiar sky.
    It was if the heavens had become an expanse of marbled limestone. Fingers of luminous green color weaved throughout the vastness like a web of veins. Vaporous tendrils moved and undulated like snakes closing in on prey. It was a vast conquest of dusk by something unique, awesome. All the surrounding single-story clapboard homes and shrubbery were bathed in the same green radiance. An emerald shimmering that seemed to come from the air itself.
    Father Ben took in a deep breath and found the air thick with the pleasant scent of honeysuckle.
    As he watched, a single cloud approached from the east, pulled along by the fingers of this green heavenward luminescence. It dominated this magnificent sky: dark and impenetrable. It wasn’t a storm front, as Father Ben had first suspected. It was something more. It moved quickly, pulsing and rippling as if pushed by wind that wasn’t there. It was out of place. It didn’t belong and imbued a nascent wickedness as if it had a life of its own. In fact, its billows appeared so depthless and cold that it didn’t give the impression of a cloud at all—more like a rip in the tapestry of the heavens.
    Nausea swelled in the pit of Father Ben’s stomach and his throat tightened.
    Something was wrong in Pine Shallow tonight.
Standing there, he was overcome with an uncanny sense of decay. He shivered and dashed back inside. He nervously locked the large door behind him with a solid clank. Leaning back against the oak.
    He shook his head.
    What’s the matter with you? You’re behaving irrationally.
    Starting back into the church, the oldest in Pine Shallow, he settled down, almost embarrassed about his behavior. He swallowed hard, and drew in a long, relaxing breath. Up ahead, near the altar, someone knelt in the pews. Strange, no one was there a moment ago.
    The figure appeared dim in the flickering candlelight and Father Ben was unsure if the person was a man or a woman. He was pleased nonetheless that he had a visitor, and approached smiling, not wanting to disturb the person if in prayer.
    Father Ben thought quickly of the people of Pine Shallow.
    An odd thought. Why did he think of that? Perhaps the town’s annual barbecue. It was just last week and everybody was always invited. He remembered sixty-year-old Sally Jacobson, who ran the town’s dog shelter. He made a point to visit her there once a week to help her reunite any lost strays with their owners or place orphans with good homes around the area. Sally had a good heart. And Father Ben felt blessed to know her.
    When he neared, the person in the pews unexpectedly rose and hurried off to the rear of the church.
     “Excuse me,” Father Ben said, wanting to draw attention.
    The person hastily vanished around a corner without answering. Watchful, Father Ben followed. “Excuse me…”
    Rounding the corner he saw a rear exit door creak shut and figured the individual must have slipped out. Probably wanting to get a quick prayer in without disturbing anyone.
    Oh well, he thought.
    The act pleased Father Ben regardless, and he smiled. Lightning flashed outside and illuminated the pews through the stained glass. Thunder quickly followed.
    There, he thought. It was a storm after all. Nothing to be afraid of.
    Just a storm.
    Before heading down the long hallway at the rear of the church to the rectory, he made a quick stop into the men’s room, shaking his head at his earlier foolishness. He was starting to relax. And that was good. His doctor had advised him not to over exert himself in any way. Father Ben suffered from high blood pressure and had been put on medication for it. For anyone else, it might have seemed unfair that a man in his mid thirties would have such a problem, but he didn’t mind. God would take care of him. And he would return the kindness with devotion and faith.
    Lightning lit up the men’s room with a flash of cold light and an icy chill ran up father Ben’s spine.
    One more time he was overcome by the irrational sense that this wasn’t a storm at all. It was a deception. A lie.
    He lamented in silence.
    This feeling was more than just hyperactive emotion—something else was at work here. Something strong and dark.
    He walked into the first stall, locked the door, and tried to forget.
    Within five minutes, he heard the sound of the rest room door opening and someone walking in. The unknown person casually walked across the floor and took the stall next to Father Ben. Was this the same man who was in the pews? Tension coiled around Father Ben’s neck and caused an ache to slowly creep down his back. He tried to ease his growing anxiety by faking a cough—just to let the person know someone else was in the room.
    Sitting there, minutes dragged on and when Father Ben jerked at the pain of a sharp crick in his neck, he realized it was from actually listening for sound. But that was the strange thing. There was nothing. No rustling of clothing. No breathing sounds, nothing.
    Dead silence.
    Perhaps this visitor was deaf—or needed help.
     “Are you all right, my friend?” Father Ben asked, hopeful a sound would come from the blank partition separating them.
    But none did. The silence was extraordinary. He could almost hear his own blood pumping through the valves in his heart.
    Just as Father Ben was about to knock on the partition wall and ask again, he heard something that made his skin crawl—the soft tearing sound an exposed razor would make if it slid across bare flesh to cut forcefully into dense muscle underneath. Then, almost immediately, he heard droplets hitting the hard tile floor just out of sight.
    A moment later, a pool of blood started to seep under the partition into Father Ben’s stall. His heart pounded like a locomotive and frosty fingers wound themselves tight around his spine causing him to quiver. What was going on behind that partition? Was this a suicide? A self-mutilation? The very next moment, a heavy chunk of red flesh hit the floor with a wet splash. Specks of blood splattered over Father Ben’s shoe from under the partition.
     “Mother of God…”
    A torrent of blood started to puddle around the feet of the terror-stricken priest and all he could do was stare at it, paralyzed in absolute shock, unable to speak.
    Then the sound of flushing.
    Father Ben’s eyes widened in fear and revulsion. The inescapable sensation of a centipede crawling around inside his bones took hold and caused his neck muscles to stiffen.
    The unknown person unhinged his door, took two steps over, and stood motionless right in front of Father Ben’s stall. A deep shadow loomed on the floor on the other side. The stranger’s silent presence had an almost unbearable weight to it that was noticeable even through the closed stall door. Father Ben held his breath. Had he glanced at his hands, he would have found them shaking uncontrollably. There was no mistaking it—the air was thick with the cold company of pure evil.
    Knock, Knock, Knock on the stall door.
    Shaking, Father Ben started to involuntarily intone, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”
    The stall latch started to unhinge slowly, painfully, from the outside.
     “…For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they… comfort… me…”
    Father Ben’s eyes fixated on the turning latch.
    He could see his breath. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees in the last twelve seconds.
    What was happening?
    The latch passed the halfway point and Father Ben was riveted to it as if every degree it turned was going to bring him closer to some kind of unholy damnation. He had trouble inhaling and was gasping for air now.
    Something inhuman was on the other side of that door. And still Father Ben couldn’t find the reflex to scream for help. He couldn’t even move his muscles.
    He had no idea what was coming. No idea his death would set into motion a chain of events designed to unleash an unspeakable evil upon Pine Shallow and wipe out an entire town. He was sweating, his hands moist. His tongue felt thick and parched. His scalp tingled with pins and needles. It was fear. Pure and absolute. He realized he was sliding into the place where the certainty of death takes over all thought processes. Blood drained from his head making him dizzy. His face turned ashen and he moved his tongue along the roof of his mouth to moisten it.
    He had forgotten to breathe. Quickly, he opened his mouth and inhaled. Sweat trickled down into his eyes but the salty sting paled in comparison to the absolute terror he was experiencing. So his eyes remained open, unblinking. Fixated on the turning stall latch.
    What could possibly produce such a physical response? He could think of only one thing. But that wasn’t possible. It couldn’t—
    The latch.
    It had reached the end of its cycle. The door remained shut. It was as if Father Ben had entered a coma—he was conscious but couldn’t move. Frozen in absolute terror.
    The door creaked open.
    It was then Father Ben saw something that no man should ever see.

    Saturday, November 15, 2003
     11:51 a.m.
     The Countdown Begins.
     Day 8

    AT THE foot of the ladder, which leaned against the rear of the house, Matthew Blackwood stood gaping toward an unusual dark spot under the roofline.
    He heard the thump thump of a basketball hitting the backboard just out front. His ten-year-old son, Eric, was shooting hoops with his school chum, Toby Davis. The Blackwood’s home was a quaint clapboard bungalow settled comfortably on the southwest side of Pine Shallow. From the backyard you could see the bell tower of the Pine Shallow Theater just across the rooflines of the next street. Matt caught a glimpse of the bell as he looked around the yard trying to think of what to do next. When he was younger, not much older than Eric, Matt snuck into many Hollywood horror flicks in that old mock-Victorian movie house without his parent’s knowing. It was just a matter of time, Matt thought, before Eric got the bug to do the same.
    The basketball net, an inexpensive model bought at the local sporting goods store, rocked on its sandbagged foundation as the basketball bounced off of the net’s rim.
    Eric looked a lot like his dad. The same soulful blue eyes, the same mop of dark, wavy hair. And a wily smile that could convince you to do anything. Eric was growing fast as well. Matt figured by the time he reached his teens he would be as tall as his dad’s six-foot frame. Maybe taller. Eric also had his mother’s high cheekbones and devil-may-care manner. Matt was proud of his son. He loved him more than anything in the world. Now more than ever.
    Pine Shallow was a former mining town nestled fifteen miles inland along the spectacular, craggy coastline of California’s famous Redwood Coast and was where the Blackwood’s enjoyed life. With a population of just four thousand it was small enough to serve as a cozy corner away from the horrors of real life—just as Matt and his wife liked it.
    Matt raised his hand over his eyes to block out the glare of the midday sun. He had just finished painting the entire house with a beautiful light shade of ochre this past August and planned, eventually, to finish the last remaining unpainted part—the eaves trough. Since it had been sunny all morning, he decided to finish the job today. “I recommend you seal the paint with this,” Bernie had said about the sealant. “This product is guaranteed in writing for twenty years. It’s the best-selling sealant on the market.” That’s why it seemed impossible that wood rot had even occurred in less than three months—yet there it was.
    A short, powerful gust of wind turned leaves on the ground like a playful mini-tornado causing a couple of birds sitting on the fence nearby to fly off into the soft autumn sky. Strong winds were almost unheard of in Northern California, yet Matt hadn’t noticed the brief squall. He was too busy staring at the damn black spot above him.
     “Sonuvabitch,” he muttered, and started up the ladder.

::
    The dark blotch became clearer the closer he got. It was a black semi-circle about the size of a dinner plate, tucked right underneath the eaves. Matt paused briefly as the ladder shimmied beneath him. He took the last two rungs carefully putting his head directly under the eaves and up close to the damage. The hole went back through the exterior clapboard siding, through the wooden stud and buttress into the insulation and stopped just short of the interior drywall. “Holy shit,” he said aloud. There was also a pleasant honey-sweet odor wafting out of the hole like honeysuckle flowers. One more thing of interest made him recoil: the whole area was slathering in some sort of massive insect infestation. Matt drew in for a closer look hoping it wasn’t termites.
    It wasn’t. They were larger, more segmented. Matt thought they looked like those huge Madagascar roaches you always saw on the Discovery Channel, but these weren’t roaches. He stood there precariously on the ladder gaping at the insects with a scowl, trying in his mind to identify them.
    He singled out one, and stood gazing. It was about three inches long with large segmented mandibles protruding from its head. Eight, long, spindly legs led up its body, which was also segmented and noticeably translucent. It had no wings (which was good as it couldn’t fly into his face). Through its dark brown skin you could see something else move. Its guts, he thought. No. No way. It was another insect, squirming and turning over within its belly. The thing’s pregnant. Sure enough, a fully matured duplicate of its host spewed out of its mother with everything the glorious insect world had to offer.
    As the swarm moved and crawled, an ill feeling churned in his gut. It was then the mother turned on its strangely mongoloid offspring, regurgitated on it, then ate it. Matt shivered in disgust and descended the ladder to head back to his tool bench under the carport.
    Eric and Toby were in the middle of a nice game of one-on-one in the driveway when they saw Matt rush under the carport from the backyard and disappear behind the Dodge Quad cab. Matt had the pick-up decked out with a bank of halogen lamps across the roof and four high-intensity fog lamps down by the bumper. The big black truck was so immense, Matt had to raise the roof of the carport to accommodate it.
    “What’s the matter, dad?” Eric asked, spotting his dad rummaging.
     “We’ve got some sort of bug infestation,” he said, shifting odds and ends under the workbench at the rear of the carport.
    In the middle of a lay-up shot, Toby caught the ball and held it still at the news, “Where?”
     “In the back. Eric, have you seen the bug killer?”
     “It’s on the top shelf.”
    Matt pulled his head out from under his cluttered tool bench and craned his neck upward. There it was plain as day. “Thanks,” Matt said, already on his way to the back, spray can in hand.
    Eric and Toby exchanged a curt cool, let’s go glance and followed dad to the backyard, basketball still tucked under Toby’s arm. They rounded the corner and gathered at the foot of the ladder. “Is it termites?” Toby asked. “Last year my dad had to spray our house. They put a big tent up and we couldn’t go in for days.”
     “No. I don’t think it’s termites,” Matt said, climbing the ladder.
    Eric smiled, “You want some help?”
    “No, I’m fine. Just stand back some. If I spray these guys some of them might start falling on your head.”
    Both boys obeyed quickly, eyes never straying from the blotch near the roofline.
    The bugs were still there, squirming and seething inside a sanctuary of rot. The smell was stronger now and Matt tried to place it. He was sure it smelled like honeysuckle but much more pungent. It was actually quite pleasing and vastly contrasted the scene of decay being played out in front of him.
     “It’s weird,” Matt said.
     “What’s weird?” Eric replied.
     “Smells like flowers up here. It’s really strong. It’s almost like perfume.”
    He raised the can above the swarm when something strange happened; the swarm started to swell and boil out of the hole in large wet clumps. Eric and Toby jumped back as mounds of insects hit the ground and scattered. “Whoa! That’s gross!” Eric squealed. “Guess they didn’t like the spray, huh?”
    Matt glanced down. “I haven’t started spraying yet.”
    He waited a moment, then raised the can again. In that moment he thought how it almost seemed the swarm had reacted to his presence—instantaneously multiplying when he drew near. He brushed off the thought like a stray leaf, and started spraying. The can made a solid (and somewhat comforting) whoosh as it covered the mass in poisonous white foam. The swarm didn’t even flinch. In fact, he thought he saw one of them actually turn and face him in mock amusement.
     “Is it working?” Toby asked.
    Matt kept the pressure on the nozzle, “I’m not sure. Give it a second.”
    Still no change. He gave the mass another blast, this time closer and longer. The foam just piled up. It was at that moment he saw one of the bugs merrily eating the foam with gusto.
    This was ridiculous.
    Matt stopped and looked at the swarm, puzzled, then descended the ladder. When he reached ground, the boys were gone. “Guys? Eric, Toby?”
     “Over here dad! Quick!”
    His son’s voice came from the far side of the house. Thinking Eric might have hurt himself, Matt spun around and bolted. When he rounded the corner, he found both boys standing motionless at the side of the house, staring in wonder. A section of rot, at least five feet across, identical to the damage Matt had just finished spraying, moved and writhed with the same type of infestation. Only this damage was shaped like a huge ring—in the center of which was a symbol he didn’t recognize:

The mark of Moniades

     “What the hell is that?” Matt said.
    Eric stepped in closer and Matt pulled him back, “Keep back! I swear this wasn’t here yesterday… Get in the house we’re calling an exterminator.”

    9:12 pm

    Every night since the beginning of the weekend, a rare jade moon had filtered Pine Shallow in a bizarre green haze that fixed to the buildings and asphalt like paint. Even shadows cast a peculiar sea-green hue. The foothills beyond Condor’s Point became especially eerie after six o’clock under the unexplainable murk. A sweet honeysuckle scent wafted through the town, which was strange, as no honeysuckle was known to grow around The Shallow or anywhere within forty miles.
    The town itself was infected with a new and unsettling sense of unease. Whatever it was, people weren’t immune. Citizens were no longer seen strolling through the town square or across the rolling hillsides. They were staying inside after dark, making the town seem deserted—unnaturally quiet. Even the once-familiar sound of barking dogs was absent. And the birds and insects. There were none. It had nothing to do with the chilly time of year. In fact, it had been quite mild. Except for the people, it seemed all life had either fled the city limits of Pine Shallow or had simply vanished.
    The town was changing. And that’s what was keeping people behind locked doors. Something terrifying was happening. And for the first time in the history of Pine Shallow, people were frightened.

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