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dive, gasping in precious air – clean air without the toxicity of that which existed within the clearing. Kimmel appeared over him, face looming in half-focus, a look of concern and smug satisfaction etched on his face. Fisher didn’t care though; he knew what had to be done. He swallowed, the taste of blood from his cut tongue thick and coppery in his mouth.
    “Now do you understand?” Kimmel said, leaning close enough for Fisher to smell the minty scent of his chewing gum. “Now do you get it?”
    Fisher nodded, unable to shake the vertigo.
    “Then you know what we have to do? Damn it, Fisher, talk to me!”
    “Close it down. Close the whole damn place down.”
    Kimmel nodded, the relief on his face clear. “It’s about goddamn time.”
    Fisher barely heard him. He could still feel the cold on his skin where the phantom hand had grabbed him, and hear the devious, sinister voice which he mistook for Kimmel. Worse than all of that was the fact that he couldn’t explain any of it. All he knew was Kimmel was right. Whatever existed there in the clearing was evil.

CHAPTER 5

     
    Isaac Samson woke screaming again. This time it wasn’t the dream of the man with the knife, but the other one where he was dead, cold and alone in the dirt. Strangers surrounded him, staring, their voices distant echoes as the black things with slimy, slick tentacles emerged from the ground and grabbed him, pulling him under, the soft earth falling onto his open eyes and filling his mouth as he was dragged to whatever lay below. As he thrashed around in his sheets, his mother didn’t run to him, nor did she soothe his cries like she had when the dreams had first started. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table, head resting on her folded arms. This, after all, had become a regular occurrence. Physically and mentally exhausted, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. She had been offered help by the authorities of course; invitations to counseling and therapy sessions for them both. She didn’t want to put her son through that, however, and had decided to ignore the persistent letters. Even child services had made contact in regards to Isaac’s wellbeing. The carefully worded letter had infuriated her, and she suspected that her busybody neighbor had been responsible for having involved them. Like the others, she had ignored all attempts at communication. Her son’s screams faded as he found a calmer place in his dreams. Melody was glad he hadn’t woken up. She was starting to resent him for the almost nightly routine which was getting worse week on week. Her phone pulsed on the table, and she gave it a cursory glance. Another text message from her sister, the seventeenth, along with the twenty or so calls that she’d failed to return. Melody wondered if it was perhaps she who had contacted the authorities out of concern and not Mrs. Richter. God knew she could hardly blame her for it. Although it wasn’t a deliberate decision, she had cut herself and Isaac off from everyone, partly because people wouldn’t understand what they were going through, but mainly because of fear. She only had Isaac left now and was determined to protect him no matter what.
    Isaac started to cry, low moans coming from his bedroom, calling for her as he always did. Still, she didn’t move. Instead she stared at her hands, flat on the tabletop. Her phone pulsed again. Another message from her sister. Isaac continued to whine and beg for her to go to him.
    Three weeks.

    The number reverberated around her mind. Three weeks since she’d had a full night’s sleep. Three weeks since she’d last been able to think, or to function.
    Three weeks since Isaac had slept without crying, or wanting, or needing.
    Three weeks.
    Rage, alien and unexpected, exploded within her. She swept the cup of cold coffee and the fruit bowl onto the floor, both of them shattering. She half turned on her chair, and before she could stop, she was screaming at him to shut up, to