Mark entered the park. After about thirty yards of trudging through the snow, he stopped. The muffled stir of the Explorer’s engine was lost behind him.
Trees aside, the park had changed.
It was almost imperceptible, in that subtle way a woman might change her hair with just a splash of new color; a man might notice something different about her, but could not define it if pressed. He cast the beam from his flashlight along a breadth of trees—they were taller, he was certain now—but they were not the source of his apprehension. Something lay in wait, just beyond the edge of his senses. It was as if the place had been altered in its makeup, its very fabric manipulated at some invisible level.
As if it was coming to life.
He limped ahead, the beam leading him toward the playground. He made but ten yards when something dark, something legged, streaked across his path and vanished into the blackness.
Mark shone the light to his left, then quickly to his right.
A deer.
The thing stood fixed in the beam, its eyes wide and terrified. It trembled, its legs struggling to support its fragile frame. A fierce gash bled profusely in its belly.
He switched off the lamp. “Easy,” he said, and to his utter surprise, the doe stayed as he approached. He steadied her, calming her with gentle strokes. When he earned her trust he turned the light back on, blocking the bulb with his hand so he didn’t frighten her.
“Jesus.” The doe was dying. The cuts were wide and deep, as if something had sunk a claw into its flesh. They were so wide, in fact, he had to look twice to be certain it was a single wound. His mind told him bear, but his gut told him otherwise. It was not unheard of to spot one in winter, but any hunter would tell you they were growing scarcer in these parts every year. Apparently, the Dark’s thirst for blood extended beyond human.
The deer turned its head quickly and he followed its lead. Bringing the lamp around, the animal bolted. He shone the light after it, only to hear it flee for its life.
Mark did a swift about and directed the light to the playground. Something lurked amid the snowy forms, something that had frightened the doe. He let the beam run slowly across the extent of the grounds, his eyes peeled. He drew the Beretta.
There was movement to the left. He tried to catch it with the light, but couldn’t. He trained the light on the largest slide. It was half buried, but he could not shake an unsettling sense of it, of the entire playground, in fact, that the snow was but a mask disguising its true face. That what lay beneath would drive one to madness on sight.
Something—he dared not imagine what—was eyeing him up. He could feel it. These were not the eyes that he felt all around him, rather separate entities all their own. They were possessed by a sole owner, trained on him as if he were its next meal.
He fired into the air. The report breached the night and echoed through the woods. He swept the light right as a rushing sound carried amid the cloaking darkness. He tried to follow it, only to lose it in an instant.
Susan called to him.
“Everything’s all right!” he shouted back. “Stay in the vehicle.”
Mark hobbled past the playground, the beam roaming side to side in a wide, defensive swath. Tracks, human and animal, ran every which way through the snow. He stopped to examine a rather large set and determined that indeed, a bear must have made them. Like the opening in the doe’s belly, they were long and wide and deep. He knelt closer and saw they were fresh.
He rose at a rustling in the woods. The beam of his flashlight cut through the night and danced across the edge of the forest.
Silence.
He took a deep breath. If he could sense a child’s spirit, then perhaps he could sniff out a bear. After all, the woodsman had smelled him.
His eyes narrowed. He could not be certain he had picked up the scent of an animal, but then again, he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t. There was the expected deadness, yes, but something more.
Blood. He smelled blood.
He made his way farther toward the slopes, and within steps of them he stopped. A trail of deep scarlet ran to his left, and he followed it with his light.
“Omigod.” An animal barely the size of a small dog had been ripped in two. Remnants of its flesh and fur remained, its entrails long since eaten. The skeleton was gnawed bare, some of the bones crushed by powerful jaws. But the skull was not that of a dog’s—it appeared more human than not. He had no idea what it might have been.
At the Run now, his gaze rose slowly with the awesome stature of the oak. It loomed large and fat and ugly against the inky sky, its uncountable limbs eclipsing the stars. The sheer awesomeness of its form begged fear and respect, for it now towered eighty feet above him, perhaps ninety.
The weathered sign hung precariously high, its warning laughable now. Still, it did serve a purpose, one far greater than its intended one. It reminded him of Harmon’s words when they’d parted in the woods.
You do what you gotta do.
Mark clutched the Beretta tighter. Its weight suddenly seemed to double in his grasp.
Kelan Lisk was safe—for now—but could the Dark still reach him? It was certainly possible given its power, more likely than not. Should the situation take a worse turn and force his hand, could he sacrifice everything he believed in for the sake of the woodsman’s insistence? Did the greater good justify such sweeping judgment?
No. This line of thinking was ludicrous. Obscene. There were other options. If he failed against the Dark, he could move the boy to another town. Another country, if that’s what it took.
Yes, but if you had to—if the Dark leaves you no choice—could you kill the boy?
The muted rush of the water slowed his racing mind. He broke from the train of thought he had been riding on, and brought his light down the slope until the beam found the edge of the creek. Crimson splatters perverted the whiteness there. If only he had made it in time.
Mark whipped the light left … to the growling. He readied his weapon.
Had he seen a flash of eyes?
The beam darted side to side.
He stiffened as the snarl came again. It began low, almost inaudibly, yet rose quickly with the pounding in his chest. He moved as slowly as he could, stepping back from the slope. The sound carried with him and he stopped.
Mark raised the pistol skyward. As he went to squeeze the trigger, the ground began to rumble beneath him. The snow caved under his bum leg, and he fell sideways, the pain rippling along his arm as he struck the hard-packed snow. The flashlight slipped from his grasp and rolled, the beam cutting wildly through the night. He reached for it, but another tremor struck, the force of it buckling the ground in waves. Earth and snow drove up around him, and his body pitched into the darkness before it came crashing down on his injured side.
He rose to all fours, unable to steady himself in the quake. He had lost his gun. Like his flashlight, it was buried in snow. He crawled forward, only to realize he’d been turned around; he now faced the Run. Faced the oak.
The thing screeched, its bark and limbs stretching beyond belief. The wood cracked and split, threatening to tear itself apart. Still, it remained intact, flexing its overworked frame as it adjusted to its new growth.
It struck him: All of the trees were shrieking.
Mark backed away, the ground still rolling. He managed to point himself toward the playground, and after what must have been twenty yards on his hands and knees, got to a standing position. The ground shook again and he stumbled ahead. When he could see the Explorer, he turned to his right.
The slides and the swings were changing—evolving—into strange, terrifying forms. Their wooden frames were splitting, their metal supports bending and twisting with piercing wails. He decided he couldn’t wait to see what they would become … decided he didn’t want to.
A stand of trees stood between him and the street. As he made his way through them, he endured a sound thrashing. A branch struck him broadside, nearly toppling him. He cried out as others lashed at his legs. Another swept down and nearly decapitated him.
He kept low and leapt over the bank. He rolled into the street in front of the four-wheel-drive, and Susan, who had been screaming his name, dragged him alongside the vehicle and helped him into the passenger seat. As they raced away from the park, the earth was still rocking.