Lords Of Twilight Read online

  Movement…something moving behind her…near her…near him…but it was so strange…like the whole world was shifting, moving along with her, the entire scene swallowed into a curiously shaped black mirror.

  No. Two black mirrors.

  The strange clicking noises were back. They sounded almost like insects, like shelled bugs scuttling about and…

  That wasn’t Emma. You tricked me, you—how did you get in my head? Get out, I—I don’t want you in my head, it hurts, it—you’re hurting me—stop, don’t, I—I won’t open my eyes. I promise I won’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see, I—I’m afraid to see. I’m afraid so—so afraid so—oh please, the dark it’s—it’s so dark but…

  The darkness took form. There was substance to it. So close but moving slowly away, it took shape.

  Oh God…My God…help me.

  * * * *

  Sharp, high-pitched barks rang through the room and suddenly Lane was standing, staggering from the chair and stumbling about the room. The novel in his lap fell to the floor as Vince, who had at some previous point retreated to the kitchen doorway, cowered and continued to bark at him. Did I fall asleep?

  Lane crouched down to reassure the dog. His throat was sore. Had he been screaming? Is that what had frightened the puppy so? “Come on, it’s OK.”

  Vince, still cowering but no longer barking, began to slowly slink closer. Eventually he sniffed at Lane’s hand and allowed him to pet him. “It’s me, buddy, it’s me.” Lane scooped the puppy up in his arms, kissed his nose and carried him over to the windows, heart racing. “I must’ve fallen asleep and had a bad dream, I…” his eyes began to adjust and it was then that he realized it was darker in the den than when he’d first sat down to read. It was still light out but night was coming fast and the storm had gotten much worse.

  As he glanced at his watch, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. He hadn’t nodded off for a moment or two as he’d originally suspected.

  It was nearly four-thirty. The entire afternoon was gone.

  He’d been asleep for more than three hours.

  FOUR

  He spins, looks behind him. Someone dressed entirely in black stands facing the corner, back to him. Everything about this person is black, the hair, the skin, everything. But it’s not…normal. It’s almost as if the blackbird has somehow transformed itself into a form decidedly more human.

  He laughs a little because that’s not possible but…but there’s nothing funny about it. No. No…there’s nothing funny about any of this.

  They’ve come back for him.

  Who is that? Who is in his room, standing there and facing the corner like a punished child?

  “Child,” he says softly.

  Yes, that’s it. It looks almost like a child. Small…short…

  But this is no child. This is something else.

  I don’t want you to turn around. Don’t turn around—I don’t want to see—

  Screams. Horrifying, piercing screams emanating from someone so frightened that all control has been lost to abject, mindless, uncontrollable terror.

  As he turns back to the window, he realizes the screams are his own.

  Unmoved, the blackbird watches him with its dead eyes.

  And then he realizes something else, something far more sinister.

  That’s not a blackbird. In fact, it’s not a bird at all.

  Behind him, that which he does not want to see—not ever again—not ever, don’t—please dear God don’t ever make me see it again—shuffles closer…

  And as the blackbird that is not a blackbird reaches for him, its long spidery fingers crawling impossibly closer through the glass, something grabs hold of him from behind and snatches him with violent and sudden force, his body awkwardly catapulting backward as if yanked away by unseen hands.

  * * * *

  In the mudroom, Vince did the happy dance as Lane poured some dry food into his bowl. The dog pounced and began devouring the kibble as if he hadn’t eaten in ages. Lane tossed the scoop back into the bin and snapped the lid down tight. “Easy, buddy, no one’s going to take it from you.”

  While the puppy crunched away Lane noticed that just beyond the window several inches had accumulated on the front porch and blown in a growing drift against the door. While he realized he’d likely have to repeat this several times, if he didn’t clear some snow out now, by the time the blizzard was over he’d never get the storm door open. Determined to stay ahead of it, he grabbed a shovel from the closet and slipped on his coat. As he pulled his knit hat down over his ears, the entire house began to tremble. Dishes in the cupboards clinked against each other and unseen things rattled and shook as a low rumble that at first sounded like distant thunder grew steadily louder.

  A flash of light on the road burned through the whiteout just as a large vehicle rolled into view. Several more followed, their yellow emergency lights spinning ominously and slashing at the curtains of snow. Initially Lane assumed they were plows, but their markings suggested military vehicles of some kind, and pulling up the rear were two enormous black SUVs. As the convoy vanished into the storm the house settled and the menacing rumble faded. Lane had counted ten vehicles in all.

  Snow spattered against the lone mudroom window, the wind groaned like a wounded animal, and Lane stood there a while, holding his shovel and trying to convince himself it was a mere coincidence that the convoy had headed in the direction of Dwight Maynard’s farm.

  * * * *

  Lane shoveled a wide area out around the front door and cleared off the porch steps as best he could, but the snow was coming so fast now and with such ferocity that it was essentially pointless. Any evidence he’d shoveled at all would more than likely be lost within an hour or so. Out of breath, he stood at the base of the porch steps, leaned on his shovel and watched the road a while. No more vehicles of any kind.

  No signs of life at all.

  He wondered if at that very moment there was even one other human being on the planet thinking of him. If he ceased to exist or was suddenly swallowed up and carried away by the storm, would anyone notice? He supposed Clyde would when he eventually came to plow him out, but beyond that, would anyone truly care? Russell would mourn him, and surely Claire would feel badly. Hopefully some of the students he’d taught over the years might remember him fondly and be saddened to hear of his passing. But soon as those fleeting regrets faded, he’d become a distant memory, a footnote in time with no other proof or legacy to prove he’d ever existed at all. In all the years he’d spent teaching he’d had a handful of students thank him, usually those who had moved on through college and become successful. But they were few and far between. Until he’d had such vast amounts of time to think and reflect on his life, Lane had always assumed that had more to do with the students than it did him. But perhaps he hadn’t been the teacher he thought he was. Maybe when it was all said and done he’d only reached those few kids, and had failed the rest.

  I should’ve been a better teacher, he thought. I could’ve been better, made more of an impact. And therein lay the problem, because the same could be said of nearly every other avenue of his life as well. He could’ve been a better husband, a better friend and a better son. And that was just the start. The list was longer than he wanted to admit.

  Then there was Claire. God, he thought, how I miss her.

  It was the quiet things he missed most. The Sunday mornings snuggled up in bed, talking about everything and nothing at all, the walks after dinner and how even after all their years together they’d always hold hands, the laughter, the love, the safety, the trust. And all of it gone in a heartbeat, lost to memories and dreams. Who could’ve known life was so fragile? He knew it was over; the divorce papers were final. There was no going back now. But he still felt the need to make things right with her. He owed her that much. If only he could get her to sit and listen to him for a minute, to talk with him a while and understand how much he loved and needed her. She knew those things were true, deep do
wn she had to, and while what had happened had certainly been the catalyst for their breakup, the decision to either work things out or end it had ultimately rested with her. He knew she still loved him, or at least she had, but no longer wanted him. That much was clear. And although he couldn’t blame her, he still struggled to understand how she’d been able to simply walk away from what had otherwise been a long and successful marriage. They’d had something special once and had been deeply happy together for a very long time. Hadn’t they?

  He remembered her face the last day they discussed things, her eyes red and ringed with dark circles, face contorted with emotion, trembling hands fumbling with tissues and desperately wiping at her runny nose. She’d looked so impossibly frail that day, as if the slightest touch might shatter her to pieces. “Is it true?” she asked, voice cracking. “Lane, is it true?”

  “No. It’s not.”

  Her body bucked as she sobbed. “Yes it is.” She brought the tissue to her eyes, dabbed them. “You’re lying. I can tell.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Nothing happened,” he insisted. “And that’s precisely why Emma’s made these accusations. She’s a scorned kid getting revenge, don’t you see?”

  “Then fight it.”

  “You heard what the lawyer said. If I do then this will be made public. There’s likely to be a media frenzy where I’ll be demonized, tried and convicted before we ever get anywhere near a courtroom, and even when we do it’s her word against mine. In these cases the child is usually believed, even without any evidence and even when the teacher has no previous record or accusations of such behavior.”

  “Do you know why that is? Because the child is usually telling the truth.”

  “For God’s sake, why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because you’re frightened.”

  “Of course I’m frightened. This girl has made accusations against me that could cost me everything. How am I supposed to feel?”

  “It’s the truth that scares you,” Claire said evenly, a hint of disdain in her voice where before there had only been sorrow. “It always has.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’m in no mood for riddles, all right? Here’s the reality of the situation. Even if I were to fight this and was found innocent of the charges, the publicity alone will ruin our lives. It’ll ruin my career. We’ll lose everything.”

  “We already have.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way. We can go somewhere else, start over.”

  “At our age? After all this?”

  “What difference does it make as long as we still have each other?”

  She lowered her gaze to the floor.

  “Claire?” He stepped closer. “We do still have each other, don’t we?”

  He was still waiting for her answer.

  A dark smudge moved along the edge of Lane’s peripheral vision, snapping him back to the present. A large blackbird had landed on the porch and was sitting on the railing staring at him. He’d seen blackbirds in the yard many times before, but never one quite that size and never so close. He stood there a moment, his eyes locked on the bird’s, and it seemed as if something passed between them, an understanding perhaps, unspoken and primal.

  Neither moved for some time.

  The sudden sound of branches breaking high up in the trees behind the house rang out through the storm. He spun in that direction but the house blocked his view of the forest behind it. It sounded like someone or something had fallen from one of the monstrous trees out back, snapping branches as it went.

  When Lane looked back at the railing, the blackbird was gone.

  Shovel in hand, he descended the steps then trudged his way around the side of the house until he had a clear view of the outbuilding and forest beyond. His eyes squinted through the blowing flakes, slowly scanning the forest for evidence of fallen branches. Nothing. Maybe it had happened deeper in the woods. Yes, he decided, that had to be it, because he’d definitely heard branches snapping. He pushed on, taking a few more steps into the deeper drifts along the side of the house, his breath escaping him in whirling clouds.

  And then he saw them, and stopped where he was.

  Unlike any he had ever seen before, pressed into the otherwise pristine snow covering the slanted roof of the outbuilding in a thick undisturbed layer, running up one side and disappearing over the summit…

  Footprints.

  Lane pawed snow from his face and eyes in a frantic attempt to make certain he was, in fact, looking at tracks of some kind. The snow was slowly covering them, absorbing them back into the white, but there was no mistaking the set of footprints on that roof. The first thought that came to mind was bird tracks, but these were far too big. Whatever had left them appeared to have three thick, long, distinct toes, and a very narrow heel, and their depth signaled whatever made them had far more weight behind it than any bird.

  But no indigenous animal of that size left tracks even similar to that.

  Gripping the shovel tight and holding it out before him as a weapon, Lane slid laterally through the snow, away from the house and toward the forest to his left, hoping for an angle where he could see the other side of the sloped roof without having to go behind the building. He’d nearly reached the trees when he saw that the tracks proceeded down the backside of the roof all the way to the edge. He craned his neck in an attempt to see the ground below, but there were no impressions there. If it hadn’t dropped off the roof then it must’ve jumped into the trees. He looked to those closest to the backside of the roof. They seemed undisturbed, but for occasionally rocking in the wind, their branches covered in snow and ice.

  This is crazy, he thought. They’re bird tracks that became distorted in the storm. Of course that’s it. They were made hours ago, maybe by that blackbird I saw on the porch, and as the wind and snow grew worse the tracks became altered, causing them to appear larger than they were when they’d been made.

  Suddenly something darted across a branch and dove from one tree to another.

  Startled, Lane staggered back a few steps and nearly fell, only to realize it was just a squirrel. “Jesus H.,” he said breathlessly, one hand still gripping the shovel, the other covering his pounding heart. A burst of laughter escaped him, equal parts nerves and relief. Watching the critter scurry along another branch before disappearing into the forest, Lane chuckled softly.

  But then, emerging from the forest and headed in his direction, came a blur of movement, slow and methodical. A swath of shadow separating from the snow and growing darkness, it lumbered steadily closer through the trees.

  And this was no squirrel.

  Lane turned and ran for the house as best he could in the mounting snow, his eyes tearing, skin stinging in the cold and his mind racing in an attempt to logically explain his terror and what was happening. He’d nearly reached the porch when just above the cries of the wind he heard someone call his name.

  Without slowing his stride, he looked back over his shoulder and saw that the shadow had cleared the trees and taken shape. It was three individuals running side-by-side rather than a single being. Three men, two holding up a third between them as they did their best to hurry through the storm.

  Clyde Reeve and his two hunting buddies, Curly Briggs and Jed Hutch, struggling through the snow as fast as their legs would carry them. Clyde and Curly each had one of Jed’s arms and were pulling him along. Both were clearly terrified and Jed looked only barely conscious, his head hung low and his legs dragging limply beneath him.

  “Clyde?” Lane called out. “What’s happening?”

  “Get inside!” he screamed back. “You’ve got to get inside!”

  Expecting them to join him and seek refuge in the house, Lane waited. But they remained where they were as if they’d encountered an invisible barrier they were unable to cross. Clyde handed Jed off to Curly and they staggered back into
the woods from which they’d come, quickly swallowed by the snow.

  “Where are they going, what—what’s going on?”

  “Get inside,” Clyde said again, this time more evenly, his eyes heavy and sad. And like a vision from a fever dream, just before he turned and vanished into the snowy forest with the others, he gave a final woeful wave goodbye.

  It was only then that Lane realized Clyde’s hands were stained with blood.

  * * * *

  Vince sat in the corner, unsure if he should be excited or concerned to see Lane frantically bounding into the house.

  Once through the door, he made sure he closed it tight and locked it behind him, and as he stepped through the mudroom and into the kitchen, he saw the dog and said, “It’s OK, buddy. Everything’s OK.”

  His tail softly tapped the floor, but without its usual enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, you’re not buying it either, are you.” He sighed, wiped his face free of ice and snow and leaned against the door. What the hell had just happened? Had he hallucinated or had Clyde and the others truly been there? If so, what was going on and why would they stop him simply to tell him to go back inside? And why wouldn’t they join him in the house? Clearly Jed Hutch was badly injured and even Clyde had blood all over him. Had there been a hunting accident? None of it made a bit of sense.

  Shaking, Lane led the puppy into the den then dropped onto the couch and tried to sort things out, but he was lost in a tangle of memories and nightmares, an ever-growing labyrinth he now feared he might never find his way out of. Just calm down and think, goddamn it. Think.