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  “Well, I suppose we’ll be coming by to see you at some point. My brother has a habit of catching the snots, you know?” She smiles, teeth pearly and perfect, glistening against the shimmering snow.

  “Sounds good, Shea.”

  “Now go on. Get inside before you get sick on us.”

  I’m already sick. Very, very sick…

  Winking, she turns away, carrying Bonzo the cat with her as she trails back over her own footprints in the snow. For a moment I wonder how she knew to come here to look for her cat, but quickly guess that she’d followed its footprints here to her closest neighbor’s house at 17 Harlan Road. I watch her as she stomps down my driveway into the plowed road, hoping that she might look back at me one last time with some bit of knowledge in her eyes—of fear that she might know what’s in store for her here in Ashborough, and that she’d come here seeking my help.

  But she keeps on walking…and I keep on thinking of the deer in my bedroom.

  Praying that it’s still alive.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The animal must be alive at the time of sacrifice.

  If one thing holds true here in Ashborough, then this is it. It’s a common yet rarely spoken law that every resident must obey at least once in their life: to perform a sacrifice to the Isolates upon the center stone in the altar. And while doing this, they must make certain that the animal (or person, God help us) is alive at the time of sacrifice.

  Phillip Deighton had tried to make it easy for me by putting the injured deer in my shed. When I opened the shed, the animal charged me, and I had no choice but to kill it with the hammer I’d used to bust open the door. Upon further inspection, I’d found another deer inside the shed, a baby, but it had been dead for some time.

  The Isolates, evidently angered by the lack of respect shown on my part (at the time, all I knew of these demons were the wild stories Phillip shared with me, and I’d chalked them off as the ravings of a pathetic old man—how wrong I’d been), responded by tearing up my patient Lauren Hunter and leaving her on my doorstep, not ten minutes after she arrived up for her appointment.

  Neither instance had proved successful. Phillip had left the animal a bit too alive; the Isolates had left Lauren a bit too dead. All I got out of it were two corpses (three if you counted the baby deer), and a sick dream that had me sleepwalking deep in the woods, my Cocker Spaniel’s neck clutched tightly beneath my fingers as I crushed its skull against the sacrificial stone in their altar.

  But now…it appears the tables have turned. Do as Phillip once did to you. Yes, it all makes sense now, even to my…crumbling…mind. With Ashborough’s prime directive settled firmly into place—the new neighbors rooted in their home at 19 Harlan Road—all I have to do is get them to make the sacrifice. It’s my only course of action, as I haven’t the strength or fortitude to bring my daughter and wife back on my own.

  I must adhere to their demands and pray they show some level of gratitude toward me.

  How foolish that sounds. They are not a grateful race! Still…after I’d healed their sick in the past, had mended their wounded, they’d left me alone to live out my life, despite their constant threat. We’d managed to survive. Until I fought back.

  Same thing happened with Phillip. Somewhere along the line he’d failed their demands of him, and lost his daughter. But when he’d made his amends, resigning himself to a life under the weighty command of the Isolates, his wife was returned to him—deformed but alive. Should all my efforts now bring me back only my daughter in one piece, then it will be worth bowing to their challenge.

  Once back in the house, I shut the door and put all the locks into place. I rush to the front window and peer out through a gap in the barricade, hopeful to catch another glimpse of the girl called Shea, and wondering again what brought her family here—who the Isolates had working for them on the outside in an exchange for freedom.

  When Sam Huxtable came to my office, sent to me by Old Lady Zellis herself (may she rot in Hell), I attacked him and forced him to tell me how the Isolates were able to keep their hold on Ashborough...

  There are five towns within fifty miles surrounding Ashborough. Ellenville, Claybrooke, Townshend, Beverly, and Beauchamp. Between here and all those towns lies thousands of acres of woodland. Within those woods live the Isolates. They’re everywhere…and not just in the den you visited. The Isolates keep their wicked eyes on the people living at the outskirts of these towns. These are their ‘officials’, whose role is to make certain that all order is kept and that no information about the Isolates leaves Ashborough. They keep track of who goes in, and make sure that no one comes out… except for those that are permitted to leave…

  It hit me like a huge wave of water in the face.

  Those that are permitted to leave.

  Lou Scully.

  It’d never occurred to me until now. Is it possible that Lou Scully once lived here in Ashborough, and through some deal made with the Isolates, was permitted to live beyond the confines of the town? It only stands to reason that, given his out-of-the-blue connection here, and clear knowledge of Ashborough’s demographics (You really can’t refuse, the school is very highly rated. I had it checked out for you), that he’d once lived here, and at some point in time had been placed into a role to recruit new families to move in. My God, if I had to guess, then there was someone else out there, perhaps living in Seattle, who’d set up Shea’s father with a too-good-to-be-true job here in Ashborough.

  Just as Lou Scully did to me.

  I wonder: how many more are there?

  The little man in my head shouts: And what about you, Michael? Go get your family back, and then cut a deal with them. They’ll let you move out. After all, you’ve caused more trouble than you’re worth. In return, all you have to do is bring in new families for them torture and maim.

  I wonder: how they could possibly keep tabs on those they’ve let go. How is it that Lou Scully, living in Manhattan, can still feel the threat of their influence? It’s here that I call to mind the great demon that’d raped my wife and impregnated her with its baby. I saw it in one of their reality-induced dreams, twenty-five feet tall with dark hairy skin and glowing golden eyes that spotlighted six twisting horns and long braided hair atop its head, its entire body rippling like water as though insects were crawling beneath the surface of its skin, mud and wet leaves falling from it in rotten clumps, its penis, a black mottled spade erect and secreting yellow fluid, entering my wife.

  I’d experienced their ability to inflict hallucinations upon me, both before my eyes and in my mind. So then: is it possible that their influence can reach across thousands of miles?

  I shudder at the thought, rubbing my eyes in an effort to erase such a plausibility. And yet…I keep the notion nearby, as the prospect of such a likelihood might be my only way out of here.

  The little man in my head asks: Would you be willing to sacrifice the lives of entire, innocent families, to save the life of your daughter, who may or may not return to you in one piece?

  My mind wants to scream, Yes I would! But for now, I ignore the question. That bridge will be crossed soon enough.

  For now I‘ve got a deer to deal with.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I peer up the stairs to the second floor.

  What are the odds, Michael? the little man in my head asks.

  Not too good. The animal has a jagged laceration in its midsection, not unlike the one sending jolts of agony across my own gut. The baby Isolate had ripped a hunk of skin away from its throat, and I nearly finished it off by planting the hatchet into its hide as I attempted to take the little motherfucker down.

  Still…the animal, it will obey its instincts to remain alive, clinging to life one shallow breath at a time just like I have. And, my…crumbling…mind adds, if I aid it in its temporary survival, then I have a chance. If it’s still alive.

  Disobeying the orders of rest I would’ve given any patient of mine in my condition, I stagger up the st
eps and into the bathroom, where I gingerly hunker down and dig out the first aid bag beneath the sink. As a doctor, I’ve always made certain to play it safe, having kept a bag full of medical supplies in both bathrooms and the car in addition to the complete stock in my office. Grabbing the bag, I turn and face the connecting bedroom door, now partially shut.

  Through the gap, I see the deer’s legs. Beneath them, a swath of blood, cut with streaks.

  The legs are motionless.

  Shit.

  Limping and wincing from the pain lancing across my gut, I step to the door and press a trembling hand against it.

  Creaking, the door opens…and I see the deer.

  Immediately I spot the slow rise and fall of its injured gut. It is still alive! the little man in my head screams in unison with my own inner voice. There’s a lot of blood on the floor, but all its injuries—two in its torso, one in its neck—have coagulated, the blood dark and gummy and plugging the flow.

  Kneeling down before it, I unzip the bag and remove the small pouch inside containing the needle and stitches. There’s a variety of antiseptics here as well, but I quickly remind myself that I’m not here to treat the animal of infection, as I have hundreds of sickly Isolates. My goal here is to patch up its wound good and tight so its guts don’t spill out when I attempt to move it, to keep it alive until Shea or someone from her family brings it up onto the center stone for sacrifice.

  No…no…no…that makes no sense.

  The inanity of this strategy hits me abruptly, like a hot knife through butter, sinking deeply into me and churning my insides. How the hell will they know what to do with the animal? I’d had a head start from Phillip, having been exposed to the supposed ‘legend’ of the Isolates, of how they’d required the folks of the past to make a sacrifice. Of course he’d never told me was how active this legend was—how its sick premise was still in play. Thinking back, even if he’d fitted this portion of the puzzle in place for me, I still might not have followed its lead.

  So then…what to do?

  My…crumbling…mind sees only one alternative.

  And I know, if it doesn’t work, I might as well kiss my family goodbye.

  Get to work, Michael!

  And work I do. Despite my blurring vision, my trembling hands, my…crumbling…mind, I am able to thread the needle. Piercing the animal’s pelt, I begin a crude job of sewing the wound in its gut closed. I can see the depth of the laceration, far down enough so that its drowning organs are damaged. Had this been my own wound, I would have been as close to death as this animal is now, unable to move, to help myself.

  Puncturing its pelt with the needle is laborious work, as the tool I’m forced to employ is meant for human skin and not the leathery hide of an animal. The animal jerks slightly with each thrust of the needle, devoid of the strength to defend itself any further. Every minute or so it raises its head an inch off the floor and produces a hoarse bleating sound that sends wicked shivers down my aching spine.

  Time passes. I continue to sew, and at some point halfway across the eight-inch gash, the seam begins to unravel. So I go back over my work, crudely doubling over the stitches until the blood stops oozing through the tacky gaps. Finally, after an endless string of minutes, the wound is closed, and the animal is saved from losing any more blood.

  I fall back against the nightstand, taking deep breaths as the tension of the moment lifts. I take a look around my bedroom, how it is a model of disaster, the bed sheets stained with dried blood and clots of Christine’s afterbirth, hunks of hair dressing the stains like patches of growth in the desert; the floor, coated with layers of blood, deer urine and feces, the footprints of many—the baby Isolate, Christine’s bare feet, the sneakered feet of my daughter Jessica, and my own twisting footsteps—cutting irregular swaths through it all. And then the deer, still alive, but barely, its glassy eyes bulging from its skull, praying for a sign of impending death.

  I close my eyes, praying for it to be all gone when I eventually allow the scene back in. But I know: it will remain until I make my next move…a move I have no strength for. So I keep my eyes closed, and allow myself to fall victim once again to a waiting swoon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I awaken to the sounds of flatulence and the horrible stench of something gone to rot. I open my eyes and find my body now lying sideways alongside the nightstand, my head near the entrance to the bathroom, cheek glued to the bloody floor. The wound in my gut is screaming bloody murder, and even some of the smaller injuries I’d sustained, like the scratch on my forehead, are making themselves known. I grope for the medical pouch and dig out four Tylenol, pop them in my mouth and chew until the bitter chalk begins to foam on my tongue and gums. Struggling to rise, I make it to my knees and peer over at the deer. Its eyes seem bigger, bulging farther out from their sockets in a way that reminds me of a woman I once saw on a talk show that could make her eyes pop halfway out of her skull—that nifty little feat had made the studio audience groan with morbid laughter, and if I had to guess, made a few of them sick to their stomachs. Like I am now.

  I begin to dry-heave, nothing but bile and white Tylenol foam making its way out of me. The stench I’d smelled earlier hits me again, like blast from a furnace, and when I look over at the deer I become a studio audience of one, witness to its wet bowels spurting out onto the floor and adding to the mess already there.

  I struggle to move, fighting against the pain riddling every inch of my body. There’s an odd lightheadedness in me, one this doctor might diagnose as severe lack of nutrition, or dehydration. I can’t remember the last time I ate, and all I’ve had to drink since coming out of the cellar is some water and a few swigs of bourbon.

  Feeling desperate and a bit out of my mind, I crawl across the blood-streaked tiles of the bathroom floor to the tub, slide the curtain aside, and run the cold water. Gripping the edge of the tub, I take a deep breath and pull myself to my knees, struggling painfully as I accomplish this meager feat. I cup my hands together and place them under the cold water; it feels like heaven raining down on my skin. I splash my face then eagerly lap up the water from my hands, repeating this action over and over again until I can feel my body shifting back onto the road to normalcy—a road with no immediate end in sight.

  After an indiscernible amount of time, I stand and peer out through the window, at first gazing at the sloping snow-covered roof and the fallen piece of plywood now sitting crookedly on it…then at the woods, its bare trees huddled close in the gathering darkness. I look up to the sky, a fading strip of gray, and only now do I come to realize that I’ve been passed out for a number of hours, the day now long gone, my night’s planned adventure looming on the horizon. Cocking an ear, I listen to the wind, and out of habit stand there for a few minutes waiting for the golden eyes of the Isolates to appear, but they do not.

  Finally, as the water makes its way through my body, returning to me a sliver of strength and determination, I head back into the bedroom and contemplate my next move.

  The deer is still alive, thank God. So in a sense this is my green light to move on with my plan—that there’s still a chance for me to make good on their demand of me.

  Do as Phillip once did to you…

  I reach over and turn on the bedside lamp. A hundred watts fills the room, spotlighting everything in all its gory detail.

  The deer kicks its legs in a pathetic last-ditch attempt to stand, as though it knows a horribly uncomfortable—and most deadly—situation is about to be imparted upon it. Shuddering with fear and the goddamned burning pain in my gut, I step around the animal and peel the comforter off the foot of the bed, which has miraculously avoided being stained by the wealth of blood and shit in the room. I lay it down on the floor alongside the deer, covering the largest puddle of fluids with a montage of flowers and twirling designs.

  Now the hard part. Moving the animal.

  Having never lived in the country before moving here, and then never really acquainting myself
with much of Mother Nature’s offerings while here (having to play doctor to a race of woodland-dwelling demons will do that to you), I couldn’t even begin to explain what a deer might look like up close (the months-old image of the deer charging at me from out of the shed is all a blur to me now), much less what it would take to move an injured one out of my bedroom.

  There aren’t too many choices, it seems.

  So I simply grab the deer by the hooves and pull.

  It doesn’t move. Not a goddamned inch. It does make a terribly loud honking sound though, and it sends my fragile state into an immediate downward spiral of fear and confusion. The world around me grows elastic, swelling and flickering as if I’d just been dropped into a room filled with funhouse mirrors.

  And then I begin to cry, my strength—what little of it I’d been able to reacquaint myself with—taken away by overwhelming grief. Tears sprout from my eyes, and if I were able to gaze at myself from afar, I would tell the tale of a man who’d been weeping tears from every damn pore in his body. I trip back, knowing that the wall behind me will keep me from collapsing down to the floor.

  After a bit of time, the tears dry up and world settles back down into its familiar horrific norm. Looking at the deer, I consider my dilemma. Clearly, yanking it by the legs isn’t a smart course of action. Sure, if I can find it in me to lure back the bit of strength my sudden tears just washed away, then I might be able to budge it enough so that its bulk would push up on the edge of the comforter. But without some food in my system (what I really need is an intravenous hookup), then I won’t be able to drag it anywhere without some help.

  And the little man in my head asks, How are you gonna get it downstairs without killing it?

  Shit.

  The common sense in me, what little of it still remains, tells me to get it up onto the blanket, wrap it good and tight and shoulder it down the stairs one step at a time. But utter frustration forces me to shake my head in vain. I do not have the strength in me to do this! More tears form in my eyes, a miraculous feat considering the level of dehydration I must be suffering at the moment.