with the tobacco.
Nancy snorted in frustration and grabbed her sister’s hands between her own. They finally managed to get the cigarette lit, and Nancy sucked on it like a drowning woman at an air hose. “Fuck us, huh?”
Faint howls and angry screams reached Liz’s ears. She couldn’t quite see the bottom of the pit, but she imagined movement down there, pale-white things dragging the dead away. She didn’t want to know what had happened down there, didn’t want to carry the burden of those images with her when she left. She flicked the smoldering butt of her cigarette into the hole and took her sister’s hand.
“Let’s get out of here.”
They found the van’s spare key in a little magnetic box under the front bumper, and drove away.
21
R andall struggled to keep up with the woman, but he didn’t fall. Whenever he fell behind, someone shoved a burning crystal in his face or rammed a snort of powder up his nostril. Randall had never done drugs before, and he had to wonder why he’d avoided them. He felt alive, electric, for the first time in his life.
The woman eventually fell back, letting her companions lead. She stared at him with questioning eyes. “Why?”
Randall struggled to find the words. They walked in silence for a bit, then the woman jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp fingernail. He jumped and then spit out the first words that came to his mind. “I wanted to live.”
She smirked. “You’ll regret that.”
They walked in silence for what felt like hours. Randall drifted in and out of a dreamy fog, pain anchoring him to earth before the drugs wafted him away again. By the time they left the cave, it was late afternoon, and the fiery autumn sun was crawling down behind the sloped backs of the Saint Francois Mountains.
There were near to a hundred of them: men, women, even a few children scattered around. All deformed and marked by their time beneath the earth, all burning with an intensity that frightened and thrilled Randall. He was one of them now, part of their tribe.
A caravan of vehicles stood ready to accept them. Randall nodded toward the cars and vans and pickup trucks that were being loaded with heavy jugs. “Where are we going?”
The woman shielded her eyes from the burning sun and bared her fangs in a smile that made Randall look at his feet. “Away. To find a new home, for the Haunter in Darkness. And for us.”
Randall met her eyes again. “And then?”
Her grin split into a full smile, wide and terrible. “Then there will be blood aplenty for all believers, and a tide of fire and pain for our enemies.”
Randall shuddered, arms wrapped around his gut. He followed the woman into the back of a van. The rumble of the engine and the sound of the tires lulled him to sleep.
He dreamed of a dark new world and smiled in his sleep.
About the Author
Sam Witt writes dark thrillers infused with the supernatural. Informed by a rural Midwestern childhood and a big city adulthood, he combines downhome folklore and legends with a hard-hitting, take-no-prisoners writing style.
His Pitchfork County series follows the dark and twisting lives of a family intent on using their own cursed abilities to protect the place they call home from all manner of threats, from mad gods to meth cults.
For more information about current and future projects, as well as other cool stuff from Sam, check out his website here:
http://www.samwitt.com
Stay in touch:
www.samwitt.com
Shit the Author Says
S ometimes, ideas come to me with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses and request I lovingly craft them into intricate novels with tons of subplots and interlocking character motivations.
Ghost Hunters wasn’t that kind of idea.
It showed up on my front door with blood on its hands, a knife in its teeth, and all the intensity of a bad meth binge. It woke me up out of a dead sleep and I wrote the whole goddamned thing over the course of the next two days.
While I poured it out of my head
Nancy snorted in frustration and grabbed her sister’s hands between her own. They finally managed to get the cigarette lit, and Nancy sucked on it like a drowning woman at an air hose. “Fuck us, huh?”
Faint howls and angry screams reached Liz’s ears. She couldn’t quite see the bottom of the pit, but she imagined movement down there, pale-white things dragging the dead away. She didn’t want to know what had happened down there, didn’t want to carry the burden of those images with her when she left. She flicked the smoldering butt of her cigarette into the hole and took her sister’s hand.
“Let’s get out of here.”
They found the van’s spare key in a little magnetic box under the front bumper, and drove away.
21
R andall struggled to keep up with the woman, but he didn’t fall. Whenever he fell behind, someone shoved a burning crystal in his face or rammed a snort of powder up his nostril. Randall had never done drugs before, and he had to wonder why he’d avoided them. He felt alive, electric, for the first time in his life.
The woman eventually fell back, letting her companions lead. She stared at him with questioning eyes. “Why?”
Randall struggled to find the words. They walked in silence for a bit, then the woman jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp fingernail. He jumped and then spit out the first words that came to his mind. “I wanted to live.”
She smirked. “You’ll regret that.”
They walked in silence for what felt like hours. Randall drifted in and out of a dreamy fog, pain anchoring him to earth before the drugs wafted him away again. By the time they left the cave, it was late afternoon, and the fiery autumn sun was crawling down behind the sloped backs of the Saint Francois Mountains.
There were near to a hundred of them: men, women, even a few children scattered around. All deformed and marked by their time beneath the earth, all burning with an intensity that frightened and thrilled Randall. He was one of them now, part of their tribe.
A caravan of vehicles stood ready to accept them. Randall nodded toward the cars and vans and pickup trucks that were being loaded with heavy jugs. “Where are we going?”
The woman shielded her eyes from the burning sun and bared her fangs in a smile that made Randall look at his feet. “Away. To find a new home, for the Haunter in Darkness. And for us.”
Randall met her eyes again. “And then?”
Her grin split into a full smile, wide and terrible. “Then there will be blood aplenty for all believers, and a tide of fire and pain for our enemies.”
Randall shuddered, arms wrapped around his gut. He followed the woman into the back of a van. The rumble of the engine and the sound of the tires lulled him to sleep.
He dreamed of a dark new world and smiled in his sleep.
About the Author
Sam Witt writes dark thrillers infused with the supernatural. Informed by a rural Midwestern childhood and a big city adulthood, he combines downhome folklore and legends with a hard-hitting, take-no-prisoners writing style.
His Pitchfork County series follows the dark and twisting lives of a family intent on using their own cursed abilities to protect the place they call home from all manner of threats, from mad gods to meth cults.
For more information about current and future projects, as well as other cool stuff from Sam, check out his website here:
http://www.samwitt.com
Stay in touch:
www.samwitt.com
Shit the Author Says
S ometimes, ideas come to me with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses and request I lovingly craft them into intricate novels with tons of subplots and interlocking character motivations.
Ghost Hunters wasn’t that kind of idea.
It showed up on my front door with blood on its hands, a knife in its teeth, and all the intensity of a bad meth binge. It woke me up out of a dead sleep and I wrote the whole goddamned thing over the course of the next two days.
While I poured it out of my head
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