Sarah shook her head. “If he doesn’t know what’s in that box, it’s up to him to find out.” She thought of the wooden case and the uneasy feeling it gave her. Hopefully, some things would never be brought to light. “I have to get back to the courthouse, but let me know what Caden says about the letter. And thanks for getting that stuff to Shawn.” Another nod for the box. She could almost relax knowing the strange case was out of her possession.
Almost.
* * * *
Caden used a flashlight to pick his way deeper into the woods. He’d ended his final shift of the week and decided to do one more sweep of the TNT before heading to the hotel. He’d agreed to meet Eve for a late dinner and a drink. Twilight was still settling over the woodland, but within the tightly congested tangle of trees, night had already fallen. There were few people brazen enough to venture into these woods at night, but he had little to fear. He’d stood in a deserted weapons igloo, conversed with a disembodied voice, then been violently battered by the being’s fury. He’d already encountered an alien named Lach Evening and Evening’s frigidly distant father, Indrid Cold.
Absently, he rubbed the scars hidden beneath the sleeve of his uniform, marks he had carried since his eighteenth year. He’d been driving home from Gallipolis, stuck in traffic on the Silver Bridge when the whole structure abruptly collapsed into the frigid waters of the Ohio River. Trapped in the wreckage, lungs ready to burst, he’d hovered on the brink of unconsciousness. He would have breathed his last had the Mothman not dragged him from the prison of crushed metal. He owed his life to the creature.
Caden paused. Around him, the woods pulsed with the chattering of night insects and the burbling croak of tree frogs. Fireflies flashed between the leafy branches of oaks and elms, nothing to indicate a seven-foot winged creature lurked nearby.
Walking slowly, he swept the beam of his flashlight through the undergrowth. Clusters of toadstools, moss-covered rocks, and pockets of ferns sprang to life in the cone of illumination. Decades ago, the army had cut dozens of footpaths through the woods. He followed a barely discernable trail overgrown with weeds and brambles. The ragged path corkscrewed through the trees, ending at the weapons igloo where he’d encountered Indrid Cold.
The black bulk of the bunker loomed before him, the heavy metal doors at the entrance weathered and seasoned by time. Battered and streaked by rust, they stood slightly ajar. Tall grasses and trees crowned the top of the structure, making it invisible from the air. Had an enemy plane broached U.S. airspace during World War II, the munitions storage shell would have appeared as a natural part of the woodland.
Pausing by the doors, Caden twisted to pan the torch behind him. Shadows fled from the light, leaping into the trees. Crickets and other night insects continued their noisy chatter, a symphony that would have ceased had the Mothman been nearby. Last fall, Caden had promised Cold he’d look out for the creature, ensuring its safety as best he could. He closed his eyes and waited a beat, reaching out mentally. But if there’d been a channel between them, that channel no longer existed. Before, he’d been able to sense the creature’s presence like a whisper on the fringe of his consciousness. Now there was nothing. Could that be why the welts on his arm had changed color?
Stepping into the bunker, he inhaled the heavy odor of must. A denser cloak of blackness settled around him. The dome was windowless, suffocating in some respects. Caden played the beam of his flashlight over the walls. Bits of graffiti jumped out at him. A few stray beer cans and candy wrappers littered the corner. Teenagers often came here to hang out and party. He’d done the same before the Silver Bridge fell. After that life changed. Or maybe, he did.
“Cold.” His voice bounced in the empty shell of the igloo. The sounds of the night didn’t intrude here. Caden turned in a circle. “I’ve tried to do what you asked, but the creature has vanished.” Was it possible the Mothman was gone for good?
No answer, not even the sensation of frost that preceded Cold’s presence. Maybe the best thing to do was forget the commitment he’d made. It was impossible to fulfill a pledge if the object of that pledge eluded him. For all he knew, the Mothman could have crawled away somewhere and died. Every time he’d encountered the creature he’d been blasted by sensations of desolation and melancholy. In some warped way, the thing wanted to die. Maybe death had finally claimed it.
Around him, the silence stretched and grew. He counted off several minutes, but there was nothing to indicate another presence in the igloo. Giving up, Caden returned outside and was immediately bombarded by a sensation of rage. A din grew in his head and the wind turned savage with the whistling bite of a switch. The thunder of wings buffeted him. The clatter in his head swelled until it splintered behind his eyes.
He craned his neck and squinted up at the sky. The creature’s enormous wings blocked stars and clouds from sight. Ducking his head, he staggered backward as the Mothman swept to the ground. The creature towered above him, its flesh the dark gray of wet ash. It had no discernible face, the glowing orbs of its eyes the only indication of where its head should be. Large and bloodred, those hypnotic eyes were nearly impossible to look away from. A being of char and chaos, the Mothman projected and fed on emotion, using the element of fear as a weapon and defense.
Unlike others who encountered it, Caden had never been subject to terror. What the creature routinely broadcast to him was a sense of bleakness and deeply rooted misery, a longing for something it couldn’t attain. But it was fury that pummeled him now. A primal thirst for vengeance. Hatred so deep it left him gasping.
“Stop.”
It wanted death. Craved it. Not for him, but something centuries old and foul. An enemy that stirred listlessly awake, slithering to consciousness after a long, dark sleep.
The sensations and images bulleted rapid-fire through Caden’s head. Bending double, he pressed his palm to his temple. “You have to…stop.”
The brutal punishment ceased as abruptly as it began, the sudden void leaving him dizzy after a flurry of physic bombardment. He sucked down a breath, straightening slowly.
The creature stood before him, unmoving, wings arched high above its back. Then in a burst of motion it shot into the sky, the roar of its wings rolling over him like thunder.
* * * *
Will Hanley settled into his easy chair with an appreciative sigh. After a long day riding his tractor he was grateful to relax for a few hours before calling it a night. He still had ten acres to plow in the lower forty, but for now he was content to unwind with the latest episode of Mama’s Family and a cold Coors. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant he could grab a few extra hours sleep. He’d enjoy the luxury then head for ten o’clock service at the Good Fellowship Bible Church. Pastor Fred had promised a picnic afterward, putting Will in charge of making sure the long tables in the rectory were moved outside. June Sweeting had promised to make her famous Dutch apple pie and he looked forward to complimenting her baking. It had been three years since Grace passed away and he was starting to get lonely.
The thought of his late wife induced an unexpected wave of melancholy. Pastor Fred had been lecturing him to find a hobby. Something besides haunting the dirt track to cheer on sprints, or camping out in front of the TV. In his younger days he’d enjoyed fishing, but Grace had always tagged along. From their silly Saturday afternoon dates to weekend trips after they were married, it had been their special way of relaxing. Once Grace passed, he couldn’t bring himself to go alone. Too many memories.
His thoughts tumbled away, scattered by a shrill whine from the TV.
What the hell?
The
