“This is everything.” My hands fisted, the skin damp. “It’s all I found. You saw me find it.”
“This isn't all of it,” he shouted. “Where’s the rest?”
“I don't know.”
Vincent's face contorted. He clenched his fist and stepped toward me.
The world changed again to shimmering light. Vincent morphed into a sparkling shadow, striding toward me, in my vision, and in the real world too.
It shouldn’t have been possible, but it was definitely his form. Or maybe only a vision of Vincent. I stood.
A shark fin of stygian darkness rose, sending the light particles skittering away. The blackness grew, towering above me, smothering the golden arcs of the mountains. Vincent’s glowing form vanished. Anger flashed through me. This was my vision. Whatever this was didn’t belong here.
A tentacle shivered past, ice burning my cheek, and my anger drowned in a sea of fear. I looked into the abyss, and there was only emptiness.
My moan was soundless. It splintered into a scream not even I could hear. Something was coming, and I was nothing. Not even an ant. Not a speck of dust. Was this all there was? But it had to be. I could see it, feel it.
Something slammed into me.
My hand touched pain, and that was real. That was here.
I focused on that sensation, on the soft crumble of dirt beneath my fingers.
The void blacked out the stars, blasting me in a foul wind, and I realized I could feel that too. I could smell the thing's rank odor, feel its clammy presence.
And if I could feel, I was real. There was a physical world, and I was still a part of it.
I inhaled a ragged breath. The void rushed away. Stars reappeared. The mountains resumed their guard. Ordinary reality returned, earth and oak and me. I fell backward onto my elbow and looked around, dazed.
The thing was gone.
Vincent was gone too. Had it taken him? Or had I—?
“Lenore!” Willard jogged toward me. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“I'm fine.” My voice cracked. Something cold and metallic nudged my fingertips. My flashlight. I turned it on.
“I saw Vincent creeping around,” Willard said. “I don't know why I followed him tonight, but… Are you sure you're okay? I saw him knock you down.”
I drew slow breaths, focusing on the feeling of the air flowing into and out of my lungs, feeling the beat of my heart.
Whatever that monstrous void had been, it was gone, and this was real.
Willard helped me to my feet. He found my bag and phone and handed them to me.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice wobbling. “I need to call the sheriff.”
“Do you have to?” Willard's broad brow furrowed. “Vincent didn't really hurt you. I know he's got issues, but–”
“I have to,” I said tartly. Then in a calmer tone, “Thanks for scaring him off. I'll get out of your hair.” I walked toward the trail and called Sheriff McCourt.
“Lenore,” the sheriff said. “What now?”
“I saw Vincent.” I rubbed my throat and told her about the coins in my vision, about finding the oak and the single gold coin.
I glanced over my shoulder. Willard stood twenty feet away, watching. I lengthened my strides and rejoined the trail to the haunted oak.
“I told you I'd handle Vincent,” she said and paused. “You said you found a gold coin?”
“Yes.”
The sheriff cursed. “I wish you'd told me about the coins in your vision sooner. Ten years ago, a set of gold coins was stolen from a so-called museum in Las Vegas. A security guard vanished at the time and was blamed for the theft. He was also blamed for the disappearance of one of the interns who worked there—a young woman. Her body was never found.”
Sandy. “Does she look like my sketch?” I asked.
“Maybe. Those sketches are more art than science. Do you still have the gold piece?”
I deflated. “Vincent took it.”
“Can you describe the coin?”
“It was so dirty... I could barely make out it was actual gold.” I should have taken a picture and texted it to her. But Vincent had appeared so quickly—
“And you say he attacked you?”
“He shoved me.”
“That's enough for a warrant,” the sheriff said. “Go home, Lenore. We'll take care of the rest.” She hung up.
I slumped. At least I'd figured out—maybe—Sandra had been the intern. She must have been involved in the theft—partners with Vincent? And she’d come here… to lay low? Willard had said Vincent hadn’t been around then. Had she double crossed him? If only I could talk to her...
I straightened my spine. What was wrong with me? I was a shaman. If her spirit lingered, I could talk to her.
I stared into the deepening night and shuddered. Not here. Not so close to where I'd nearly touched... whatever it had been. The vision of the thing was still scarred in my mind.
Something twinkled in my peripheral vision.
Not now. Not again. Control, get control. I refocused on my breath, on the physical me—the feel of my blouse against my skin, the ache of my palm where it had scraped the ground. There were other aches, and I noticed them as well.
The twinkle faded and vanished.
I relaxed. I’d done it. I could keep the visions at bay, if I just stayed present.
Out of the darkness came a whisper: You know what I am.
My flesh prickled. I swallowed my rising horror.
Yes, I knew what the wave of darkness had been. Tentacles? Bigger than a mountain? There was only one Lovecraftian monster that fit the bill. The thing I’d seen had been a manifestation of the book. If that was what was waiting behind the door to be released…
Grabbing my things, I hurried to my car.
Stay present. Keep it away.
I hesitated outside my Volvo. There was no way I could drive. It would be too easy to slip into autopilot, and if I did, the vision would return.
I called Connor, and this time it did not go to voicemail. Twenty minutes later, his SUV was pulling beside my car. He stepped out.
I walked into his arms. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m always here for you, even if it’s just to play taxi service.” He ran his thumb lightly along my jawline.
And Connor always was there for me. We simply stood there. My head rested against his chest, love and gratitude surging through me.
He stepped away a little, his gaze scanning me from top to toe. “I wish you hadn’t come here alone, but I’m glad you’re okay.” He opened the passenger door for me. “You are okay, aren’t you?”
“I've been deep breathing since we talked. I think I might have hyperventilated a little.”
He flashed an uneven smile as I got into the car.
We buckled up, and he pulled from the dirt lot.
“I hate this,” he said abruptly. “I hate not being able to help you. I hate…”
My chest hitched. “What?”
His smile was rueful. “Being the sidekick.”
And then we were both laughing, that helpless, stupid laughter you can’t stop, even though nothing was really that funny. His shoulders shook. I snorted inelegantly, until I hiccupped into silence, wiping my eyes.
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“It’s partly true, you know. I became a cop because I wanted to help people. But we’re called after something bad’s happened. I’ve kind of gotten used to not being the hero. But this is different. This is about you.”
“Think of all the people you’re saving from my bad driving tonight.”
A passing car illuminated his face, set, grim. “From driving under an influence. How long can you hold this off?”
It was the right question to ask. At some point, I’d have to face this vision. The monster was still there, waiting. “I journey by getting out of my body,” I said slowly. “But I’ve always been able to control it. Journeys don’t just happen to me. I make them happen.”
“Until now?”
I stared out the front windshield. “Whenever I started to drift while I was waiting for you, it came back.”
“It?”
I didn’t respond. We were entering territory that was… crazy. Even for Doyle.
“What sort of thing?” he persisted. “What did it look like?”
I gnawed my lip, focusing on the scrape of my teeth against skin.
“Look,” he said, “you're the shaman. But don't you think identifying whatever it is could help? The things you see in visions all mean something, don't they?”
“Not all visions are symbolic,” I said. “Most are, but— The point is, this was something else.”
“What?”
“Please don't make me say it.”
“That bad?”
“That embarrassing.”
He slowed at a bend in the road and leveled a glance at me.
“The spell book,” I said. “It's based on Lovecraftian magic.”
“And?”
“What's Lovecraft’s most famous horror?”
His brown eyes widened slightly. “Seriously? Cth–”
“Don't say it. Just... don't say it.” Cthulu. An eldritch horror, ancient god, and sort of monster you really don’t want hanging around your hometown.
“Are you sure?” He turned onto Main Street. “Isn't the sight of it supposed to drive people mad? You don't seem crazy.”
“Thanks,” I said. My seatbelt suddenly felt too tight, and I tugged it away from my body. Why hadn't I been reduced to a gibbering mess at the sight of... it? I’d been scared witless, but I hadn’t lost myself. Not completely.
“I don't know what it was,” I said, “but it was awful. Really awful. I've never seen anything like it before, and I've—we’ve both seen some crazy things.”
His SUV glided past the Visitors center—Mad Mike’s hut. Its thatched roof burst into flames. A masculine shriek split the air.
The dashboard lost its form, melting into a sea of glowing particles. Disoriented, I swayed in my seat. I hissed and pressed my nails into the palm of my hand.
The car reformed. The fire vanished.
“Lenore?”
“I just need to stay present, and everything will be fine.”
“Yeah… But what happens when you go to sleep?”
A chill tightened my insides. That was a very bad question.
“Why don’t you stay at my place tonight?” he asked.
“I’m not letting that… thing… drive me out of my own house.”
He looked sideways at me.
“Drive me out of my own house again,” I said, sheepish.
We drove on, and he turned into my neighborhood.
“All right. Here’s another question. Why have things been getting so bad so fast?” He reached across the seat and took my hand. “You’ve had that book for months. Is it a cumulative thing? Did the book get stronger?”
“I don't…” I frowned. That was a very good question. Something had changed. The book’s effect on my magic could have been cumulative, as Connor had suggested, but–
Something sparkled on the other side of the passenger window. I pressed my nails harder into my palms. Just breathe. Pay attention. Stop thinking.
“You're right,” I said loudly. “Something might have changed. If we can figure out what that is, maybe we can stop it.”
“Could it be a spell?” He frowned. “But that means someone was around to cast it.”
It could be. Black Lodge activity in the area. And there had been that open window. But both Connor and I had checked the house, and hadn’t found any indication of an invader. “I didn’t sense anyone got into my house,” I said carefully, before my mind could drift.
“I didn’t either. But people have been in your yard.”
The supposed solar salesman. Could someone have cast a spell on the house’s exterior? Was dark magic working its way indoors?
It didn’t seem likely. “But if someone had spellcast outside,” I said, “there may be signs.”
We pulled into my driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. “Tell me what to look for,” he said.
“I'll look with you. We’re searching for anything out of the ordinary. Anything that seems odd or wrong to you.”
“Got it.”
I turned on the interior and exterior lights. Flashlights in hand, we walked through my yard, scanning the bushes, the pines.
Connor rattled the door of the shed. “Locked. You got the key?”
I handed it to him and kept walking. The beam of my light made wavering circles on the house’s shingles.
A shadow skittered beneath an eve, and my hand froze.
Slowly, I skimmed the flashlight beam backward, along the roofline.
An odd circle was affixed to the shingles.
Heart speeding, I walked closer. From the circle's edge shot broken twigs. They aimed inward, creating a sort of inverted starburst. A bird's wing stuck between the twigs. And a massive, dead beetle. The decaying corpse of a mouse.
I'd heard of these before—the opposite magic of a dream catcher, which warded against nightmares. These funneled bad dreams toward the victim.
It shouldn’t be enough on its own to make me lose my hold on reality. But combined with the spell book weakening me, it might do the trick.
Bile rose in my throat. Connor had been right. There was a human agent at work. “I found it.”
Connor appeared at my side. “What is that?”
“A nightmare catcher,” I choked out. Someone had put it there, someone who wished me harm. Someone who knew magic. Black Lodge activity in the area. “That's what's been keeping me up at night.”
The black stain beneath my bed hadn’t caused my nightmares. It had been the result of them. I was cracking like my wards.
“Earlier today,” he said, “I interviewed your neighbors. You were right, Mrs. Heron was no help. No one else noticed any strangers.”
And we had no idea who had put the catcher on my house. “I’m not surprised. Whoever it was probably cast a spell on her or wore a cloaking spell.”
“We need to figure out who this guy was. He’s got to be the one who put that there. It's coming down tonight. I'll get a ladder.”
“There are gardening gloves on the third shelf. Don't touch it with your bare hands.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t going to.” He returned to the shed.
Fascinated and repelled, I walked closer, craning my neck.
Something glinted at eye level. Involuntarily, I looked through my kitchen window.
Boyd’s ghost, neck corded, stood beside my work island. Sandy lay at his feet on the tile floor.
Boyd shouted, wild, incomprehensible, as if through water.
A shock of realization washed over me. What he was shouting wasn't important. He was shouting at someone. “Someone else was there when Sandy died,” I whispered.
Connor's footsteps crunched behind me.
Boyd's edges rippled, and I turned from the window.
The pale young ghost in the Edwardian collar stood inches away, blocking me.
I sucked in a breath, stumbled backward against the window ledge.
“Who are you?” I managed to ask.
“Stop.” The ghost pushed past me, through the wall and into the kitchen.
Astonished, I turned. But Boyd and Sandy were gone.
The ghost attacked the stove. His fists rebounded off the metal as if it were solid for him. The ghost tugged vainly at the oven door.
My stomach tightened. What if he could get to the book? I didn’t know what he wanted with it, but this couldn’t lead to anything good.
“Get away from that.” I banged on the window.
And then my face was pressed to another window, low and dirty. Inside a root cellar, the young man lay strapped to a wooden table, his white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
I went rigid. I tried to raise my hands to cover my eyes, but my arms stuck to my sides.
Tubes, red with blood, extended from the young man’s wrists. The liquid dripped into glass bottles on a filthy floor. Shadows slithered across the paving stones.
A sea of blackness swept the vision away. I stood outside my own kitchen window again, my breath a low rasp.
Inside my kitchen, black cords seeped from beneath the door of the broom closet. Inky tentacles writhed toward the ghost.
The young man turned, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. He shrieked.
The blackness swelled, surging across the floor.
He pulled more frantically at the oven door. The wave of black oil swamped him, and the spirit was gone.
Black tentacles flooded the kitchen. They rose higher, rippled along the floor. It sped toward the sink, toward the window where I stood.
The freezing weight of its awareness bowed my spine.
It saw me.