"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men, which were of old, men of renown."
Genesis 6:4
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"...and there was war in Heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the Dragon; and the Dragon fought and his angels fought.
And prevailed not and neither was their place found anymore in Heaven.
And the great Dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil and called Satan, which deceiveth the whole world; he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him."
Revelations 12:7-9
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“…they said, “This fellow doth not cast out devils, but by Beelzebub, the Prince of the devils.”
St. Matthew 12:24
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“The Great Mysteries are nae’ as mysterious as we imagine or pretend. If ye subtract the manmade subterfuge and manipulation of Truth, everything becomes quite clear… and may Heaven save us from the Truth. Nar’ laga Dia do lamh. May God not weaken your hand.”
Brother Anglin McCarthy, Holy Order of Watchers, circa 1521, Glasgow, Scotland
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“… for the things that are seen are temporal; but the things that are not seen are eternal.”
2 Cor 4:12
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Chapter one:
***
Sam Conner ran into the busy intersection like the "Devil, himself”, was hot his ass. He paid no attention to the harsh sounds of rush-hour traffic, ignoring the curses of angry drivers, blaring horns, and the whine of tread on wet asphalt. The consequences of being run down by a half-ton pickup truck were insignificant when compared when compared to that of being caught by the Enemy.
As he leapt across a rain-filled pothole, his knees buckled from fatigue. He staggered drunkenly, then caught his balance and continued along the sidewalk, head down, arms and legs pumping. His throat and lungs burned fiercely from the cold, damp air, but it never occurred to Sam that he should rest for a moment. Not yet. Repeatedly, he replayed the Voice's blunt message, "…you stop, you die." For the past half hour, Sam hadn’t considered resting to be an option.
Several minutes later, Sam ducked into a litter-strewn alley and crouched behind a large, overflowing dumpster. He dropped his duffle bag to the pavement and massaged his calf muscles with both hands. He could feel the knots forming, the tale-tell signs of an impending leg cramp. Sam bit his lip and cursed his luck. If the Enemy caught up with him now, he’d be the proverbial sitting duck. "Not now, damn it,” he pleaded, vigorously kneading his leg.
“Oh, man! Please, not now!" He was more than a little surprised, and grateful, as the knots relaxed, then disappeared completely.
Sam continued to massage his strained muscles for a few minutes, then, convinced the danger of cramps had passed, he cautiously peeked around the side of the dumpster. Traffic was still heavy, but he could see a full block of downtown Amarillo in either direction. There was no sign of the Enemy. He considered his options, then closed his eyes and began drawing a detailed mental image of the white Lincoln Continental. Sam knew that he was courting disaster, but he had to know.
Older model beater …'77 or '78 model? Tinted windows all the way around. No, not tinted. Black as ink, like looking into space on a cloudy night. White sidewall tires, curb feelers… long and silver, one on each rim. Bullet-nosed TV aerial on the trunk deck. An overwhelming stench of something dead…Yeah…just like that…
The mental image formed quickly, filling out with minute detail until it had dimension, depth, and texture. Okay, asshole. I gotcha' now. Where are you? Where the hell are you?
With the image locked into his mind, Sam reached. At first, he sensed nothing but the void, a vast, empty nothingness, and his anxiety increased tenfold. He knew from painful experience that sensing "nothing" was always worse than sensing "something”. As long as he could feel the Enemy, he had a chance of staying one-step ahead.
I know he’s out there, so why can’t I feel him? Maybe my radar is on the blink. Or… Maybe he's found a way to hide from me. Shit! He could be anywhere. Anywhere! What do I do now?
Immediately, the soft ringing of wind chimes sounded in his a head. "What kind of answer is that?" he demanded. The Voice didn't reply.
Then, it was there, a tiny, yet unmistakable blip on the far edge of his mental radar screen. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind and focused tightly on the mysterious car. The Lincoln was moving to the south, away from him. Wait… he’s slowing down. Damn! He knows I’m looking for him. I’m busted! Sam broke the connection and sagged to the pavement, and leaned back against the dumpster.
"This shit is SO not funny!" Sam expected a reply, but his invisible companion remained silent. "You picked a hell of time to go quiet on me. Ya’ know, I’m really getting tired of dodging that joker.” No answer. Sam sighed and rested his head on his knees.
A stiff, bitter wind swept through the alley, and Sam glanced up. The afternoon sky was a cold, threatening shade of gray, and the temperature was plummeting.
Snow clouds, the Voice offered unexpectedly.
Sam couldn’t resist the impulse to laugh aloud. "It never snows in Texas! Does it? Besides, we're from Arizona. You wouldn't know a snow cloud from a snowplow. "
Hmmmph! The retort was immediate and there was no mistaking the Voice's injured tone.
"Hey, don't cop an attitude with me. It's your fault that I'm in this mess in the first place. Well, kinda your fault…in a way… and besides, it might help if you'd talk to instead of at me. I swear, sometimes you act just like my mom!" No answer.
Sam had the distinct impression that the Voice was ignoring him, and for the moment, that was just fine. He needed hard advice and not some surly attitude from the ghost in his head. Sam huddled down inside his over-sized coat, against the side of the dumpster. He was tired, cold, hungry, and afraid. Sam considered his current situation and figured it was a toss-up as to which of those issues took precedence.
Then, he recalled the paralyzing sense of dread that came over him whenever the Lincoln appeared, or worse, when it dropped completely off his mental radar. "Afraid. Yep, 'afraid' definitely has the lead over 'tired, cold, and hungry'."
Without warning, a ribbon of brilliant, multicolored emotion fluttered through Sam's mind. "Whoa! Ease up. I can't follow all of that." Instantly, the colors dimmed to a rainbow of soft pastels. Sam tried to understand, but the meaning still eluded him. The jumbled mixture of emotions began to coalesce, gradually forming a structured thought.
…Eye of God. Close the Veil.
The familiar words echoed throughout Sam's tired mind.
"Yeah, yeah. I know. You've been telling that for weeks, now. But you still haven't told me what a ‘veil’ is or how I'm supposed to close it."
The wind chimes again fluttered in his head, but this time, louder and more agitated. Clearly, the Voice was warning him. Knowing the routine, Sam paused for moment to clear his senses, then sent out a tentative mental probe. Contact was immediate. Crap! The bastard doubled back. He’s headed straight for me. Five minutes. Maybe less.
Something wet and cold landed lightly on his nose. "What the …"
No worries…probably just a snowplow, chimed the Voice.
“Nobody likes a smart-ass.” Sam struggled to his feet and gingerly tested the muscles in his leg. He was relieved when everything appeared to be in working order. Shouldering the duffle bag, Sam jogged the length of the alley, and emerged onto a busy one-way avenue. Good news, for a change.
Over the past several hundred miles, Sam had learned by experience to use street layouts to avoid or lose the Enemy. Traffic-heavy intersections, and one-way avenues were ideal for giving the Lincoln the slip, and Sam now considered himself a pro at using these devices to his fullest advantage.
Sam turned to his left upon reaching the end of the alley, and followed the cracked and dirty sidewalk past a row of small shops. He walked along at what he hoped would pass for an inconspicuous pace, but his eyes moved side to side, in perpetual motion.
The Enemy was a slick sonofabitch, and had nearly cornered him on a couple of occasions. Sam knew he couldn’t’ afford to relax, not for an instant, or the enemy would have him for dinner. Then, there was the police. Sam wasn’t afraid of the cops, but he was wary, just the same. He had left home two days ago and was certain that by now his parents had reported him as missing. The last thing he needed was some well-intentioned cop hauling him in as a runaway. He had to make it to Tennessee and find this Eye of God.
Head down and eyes darting, Sam continued along the sidewalk for several blocks. The sense of dread was now thick enough to slice with a knife and increasing with every step. Sam fully expected the Lincoln to appear at his back at any moment. The Enemy had fooled him before. It was about to do so, again.
Sam glanced left, then right, before stepping off the sidewalk and into the mouth of another alley. He was half way across and in mid stride when squealing tires and the throaty rumble of dual exhausts sent him tumbling across the asphalt. The Lincoln seemed to materialize from air less than a dozen feet away. With engine roaring and tires squealing, the car bore down on him with murderous intent.
Sam flung the duffle bag ahead, then dove headlong toward the corner storefront. In a single, fluid motion, he rolled to his feet, snatched up the canvas duffle and promptly ran into an elderly woman carrying a Waldenbooks shopping bag.
Only quicksilver reflexes averted another potential disaster. Sam bounced lightly off the startled woman without disturbing so much as a stand of her smoke-blue hair and muttered a quick “Sorry, lady.” He then slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and made for the other side of the street, praying to God that the Lincoln wouldn’t be able to cross the multiple lanes in time to run him down.
Sam reached the other side of the street just ahead of a jacked-up Chevy Dually, and a thoroughly pissed off Stetson-wearing cowboy at the wheel. This time, Sam ran along the sidewalk, back in the direction he’d come, against the traffic. For a second, he was afraid that the driver would leave the truck in the middle of the street and chase him on foot. Sam winced at the mental image. The notion of coming this far only to be beaten to a pulp by “Cowboy Bob” was almost comical. Almost.
Another twenty minutes passed before Sam stopped again to rest. It wasn’t by choice this time. The pain in his leg was back with a vengeance and he couldn’t afford to ignore it any longer. Coming up lame would be the same as coming up dead.
Sam stood in front of an old two-story, built entirely of burnished brick and missing all but a few windows. The front door hung slack from rusted hinges, and from the top of the crumbling concrete steps, Sam could see a metallic graveyard of broken office furniture scattered throughout the vast first floor. He glanced over both shoulders, making sure that he wasn’t being watched, then ducked inside and immediately checked for exits. If he intended to rest here, he would first have to mark the escape routes.
A winding path through the debris led Sam to a backdoor that opened out onto a weed-infested parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, a narrow side street ran north and south.
“Good enough,” he muttered under his breath.
Good enough, echoed the Voice.
Sam opened his duffle bag, rummaged around for a moment, then pulled out a thick, olive-green woolen blanket, the kind found at any military surplus store. For long seconds, Sam stood staring at the blanket, absently fingering the coarse material. It had been a parting gift from Kat, though he couldn’t imagine where she’d found it. Typical twelve-year old girls seldom shopped at Army-Navy stores. Then, Kat wasn’t typical.
Sam smiled, folded the blanket neatly in half, and laid it on the floor. Finally, he unzipped his coat, sat down on the blanket and lay back on the half-filled duffle bag. A quick check beneath the desks revealed a clear view of the front and back exits.
Cozy, the Voice whispered.
Yeah, Sam silently agreed. Might even risk a fire, and catch a nap before hitching a ride out of town later tonight. Of course, I could always backtrack to the bus station and leave outta’ here on a Trailways.
The Voice didn’t reply with words. It didn’t need them. Sam heard the angry clang of chimes and clearly understood their meaning. From the start, the Voice had been adamantly opposed to Sam taking either a bus or plane to Tennessee. Once before, when Sam had pressed for a reason, the Voice whispered a single word in answer. Trap.
“Easy, dude. Just kidding. No buses, no planes, no covered wagons. No traps.”
Immediately, the Voice responded with a satisfied melody of softly stirring wooden chimes. Sam recognized this as the “all clear, time to relax” message. He didn’t question the message, as the Voice and its chimes never played false.
Sam dosed fitfully for an hour or so, until the temperature inside the building dropped to uncomfortable level. Shivering, he dragged the duffle bag into his lap and unfastened the simple clasp. After rummaging inside the bag for a moment, he pulled out an empty one-pound coffee can, a roll of toilet tissue and an unopened bottle of isopropyl alcohol. He smiled as he prepared his “heater.” Amazing what a guy can learn from watching the Discovery Channel.
Sam stuffed the roll of tissue into the can and slowly added the alcohol, allowing ample time for the tissue to absorb every drop of the liquid. Next, Sam pulled a disposable lighter from his pocket and touched a tiny flame to the top of the tissue. The result was a clean burning fire that consumed the alcohol, but left the tissue untouched. Sam knew the paper wouldn’t burn until all of the alcohol had been exhausted. Best of all, it was reusable. He only had to lay something across the mouth of the can, a board or the sole of his shoe, to douse the flame, then allow the can to cool for a couple of minutes before replacing the plastic lid. Thank God all this stuff is cheap!
Now fully awake, he hovered close over the flame, enjoying the warmth. In no time, the worst of the shivering stopped, and he again dug into the duffle bag and pulled out a worn Road Atlas. He flipped through the pages until he located the detailed map of Tennessee and the circle, drawn in red ink, that marked his destination; Abbotsville. He remembered the night he drew the circle around the name of the tiny backwater Appalachian hamlet.
Has it really been six months? With his finger, Sam traced the route he had chosen before leaving Arizona. If his luck held out, he would be in Tennessee by the weekend. Two more days on the road, three at most. Then what?
The Voice remained silent, though Sam hadn’t expected an answer. He trusted that he would learn all he needed to know once he reached Abbotsville. He had to believe that.
Sam glanced at his watch. 7:20 PM. Thanks to the damned Lincoln, he had missed making his call to Kat and that was bad news. If for any reason he failed to call her tomorrow, he knew his sister would go to his parents. She’ll bust me out bigger’n shit and I won’t get within a hundred miles of Abbotsville. Sam closed his eyes, and drew his sister’s image to his mind, the echoes of their last conversation still ringing in his head.
“You can’t tell mom and dad any of this, not a word! I have to go to Tennessee, Kat. It’s the only way we’re going to beat the Enemy. The only way. You understand?
Kat had surprised him by not pressing for more details. Instead, she nodded, and then said, “Okay, I won’t say anything… as long as I know you’re okay. And you’ll call me every evening, between, uh, let’s say, 5 and 7 o’clock. No, wait. Let’s make it every other day, just in case you have, you know, something come up. Sam knew damn well by “something”, she meant the Enemy.
Kat wasn’t finished. You can call collect and just ask for yourself. At least, I’ll know you’re okay. If mom or dad answers, just hang up. I’ll still know it’s you. But two days is the max, Sam. I mean it. Miss one call, I’m telling mom everything.”
Sam started to object. The Voice had warned him that to tell his parents about the dreams or the Enemy would only place them all in extreme danger. He tried to explain this to Kat, but she would have none of it. The brat. In the end, Sam could only nod that he understood. Kat, being Kat, added a final, “And I mean I’ll tell them everything.”
Sam wasn’t sure how much his sister really knew, and he supposed it was possible that she was bluffing. Still, he couldn’t take the chance. The jut of Kat’s jaw told him that further negotiation was pointless. Reluctantly, he had agreed to her terms and now, he was stuck with them.
If only he could contact Kat, mentally, but that was forbidden. The Voice had warned him explicitly against using the talent, saying that, one, that she was too far away and it probably wouldn’t work, and two, if by some chance it did work, it would only alert the Enemy and further endanger his family. That was enough for Sam.
He stretched out on the blanket, and huddled closer to the makeshift heater. For now, he was bone-tired, and mentally exhausted.
“Just need a nap… a couple of hours, maybe. Then we’ll be… yawn… up and on our way.” Grateful that he no longer had to contend with the vicious nightmares, he snuggled deeper into the folds of his over-sized coat. With the Voice keeping silent vigil, Sam drifted off to sleep.
#
Chapter Two
#
Little Stevie Berlain desperately needed some gas, the kind that came from a syringe filled with liquid fire. He hurried across the deserted parking lot, one trembling hand holding a Kool ‘short’ to his cracked and bleeding lips, the other in his jacket pocket, holding the ‘point’.
To most, it seemed another typical January night in South Bronx, bitterly cold with a bone-chilling wind. All the talking heads said that coast to coast, it was the coldest winter in modern history. Stevie didn’t mind the weather. In his clouded mind, it was springtime and all the birds were singing. He had just scored and the party was on.
“Forty dollars!” he grumbled. “Forty Goddamned dollars! Fuckin’ rip off!”
Still, he knew he would have paid ten times that amount for the 10CCs of dirty brown dishwater in the insulin syringe. Or, he would have cut the guy’s head off, and stole his dope. If he couldn’t buy it, he’d take it; simple as that.
Little Stevie had a hefty reputation as a heavyweight cranker, a mad tweaker, and no price was ever too high to pay in either cash or violence. For eleven years, the drug had been both his savior and his demon.
Now, he only needed to make it back to Connie’s apartment where he could do himself some serious good. Little Stevie figured he had too much class to shoot up on the street corner like some common addict. He thought of his former girlfriend and spat out a wad of phlegm. "Lousy bitch!"
But Connie was still good for something. She had an apartment that wasn't being watched by the cops, and he still had a key to the back door.
Stepping over the broken curb and out into the street, he saw headlights slowly emerge from an alley to his left.
Fuck me! Cops... or preds!
Little Stevie grew up in the streets of South Bronx. He knew that it was unlikely that anyone else was out in this neighborhood past midnight unless they were looking to score, haul you to jail, or shoot your ass in a drive-by. He knew all the dealers and most of the preds on sight. No, the car was moving too slowly, stalking him.
"Yep, gotta be the cops."
Little Stevie hurried across the street, flicking the stub of the Kool out into the freezing mist. Connie’s brownstone was only three blocks away and he didn’t need any problems. Not that he really gave a damn who was in the car, either. Nothing or nobody was going to interfere with him getting ripped out of his skull, tonight.
As he reached the sidewalk, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed the car had turned in his direction and continued to pace him. The glare from the dual high beams prevented him from making out the model but Little Stevie thought it looked like a long Lincoln. He knew that no narc worth his salt would be caught dead in a Lincoln. He was only a little relieved.
Little Stevie fought back the instinctive urge to run the remaining couple of blocks. You never, ever ran through this neighborhood unless bullets were flying. Running always resulted in one of two things and both were bad. Either some cop would see you and snatch your ass up just to ask you some idiotic question like, “Hey buddy, where’s the fire?” or, the neighborhood predators, or ‘preds,’ would smell you and go into a feeding frenzy.
Running through this neighborhood was like hanging a bloody steak around your neck in a pool full of sharks. Even if you couldn’t see them, the preds could always see you. Always. It never occurred to Little Stevie that he might simply be experiencing the legendary paranoia associated with his personal ‘demon.’ Crankers always saw the Bogeyman, didn’t they?
Slowly, the car picked up speed, passed him by, and disappeared from sight. The windows were heavily tinted, too dark to make out the occupants, but Stevie knew they weren’t bangers or preds. No bullets or nail-studded baseball bats came flying at him as the car drew even, then sped away. Now, more than a little relieved, Little Stevie reached the next intersection and hurried across the wet pavement. Anticipation wore on him. God, I need to hit that point!
“Two more blocks,” he muttered. “Just two…” The words froze on his lips.
Up ahead, beneath the dingy yellow glow of a street lamp, stood a solitary figure wearing a wrinkled tan trench coat; one of those ‘Bond, James-fucking-Bond’ numbers that comes down to your knees and belts at the waist. Predators, most of whom were gang-bangers, loved those coats, a perfect length to hide a sawed-off shotgun or a piece of lumber.
The collar of the coat was pulled high against the face and Little Stevie wondered if it was some whacked out hooker working the ‘shit-shift’. And, where in the hell had the person come from, anyway, he wondered?
Little Stevie was certain that the sidewalk had been empty only seconds earlier. He cursed again and spat out another wad of brown phlegm. Screw it. Too close now to worry about it.
In another 10 minutes, Little Stevie would be sitting in a cozy apartment, with a needle in his arm and joining the ranks of the demigods. Maybe Connie would be home.
It might be cool to tap her one more time…the stinkin’ bitch. He grinned as he considered the possibilities.
As he drew nearer to the street corner, some of Little Stevie’s concern melted away.
The ‘thing’ beneath the street lamp looked a little anemic, kind of light in the ass-pockets. The top of his… or her head wouldn’t reach the middle button on Little Stevie’s shirt.
In reality there was nothing “little” about Little Stevie. He carried the nickname by virtue of being the youngest of five thuggish brothers. Two of them were dead, capped by the cops in a convenient store robbery-gone sour. Joe, the brother nearest to him in age, was doing time on Rikers for rape and Kenny, the oldest, was upstate doing a hard forty for aggravated robbery.
Little Stevie was the youngest, but at six feet-five inches, and an even two hundred and twenty pounds, he was by no stretch the smallest. And, in another 10 minutes, he would be a foot taller thanks to the demon in the syringe.
Lowering his head against the cold mist, Little Stevie walked on. The person up ahead was just standing there, waiting… watching.
Little Stevie quickened his pace and kept walking. Within seconds he drew abreast, and then passed the figure in the overcoat, averting his eyes the way addicts often do in public, as if the act somehow made them smaller or invisible. As he moved past the trench coat, Little Stevie felt the light caress of icy fingers on the back of his neck.
Startled, he let out a loud guttural “Whaaa…!” and whirled about. Still standing nonchalantly beneath the street lamp, the frail, emaciated figure looked almost anything but threatening.
“What the hell is your problem, dude?” Stevie yelled. The person said nothing, but took a slow step, shuffle forward. Stepping back in surprise, Stevie raised his scarred fists, threateningly. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of a hideously disfigured face buried inside the high collars but dismissed it as a trick of the poor lighting.
Regardless, Little Stevie was no stranger to going “knuckle-up” on some fool and this Mr. Dude was asking for it. “You got two seconds to move your skinny ass down the street before something really bad happens to you.” Suddenly, rolling this guy seemed like a great idea.
"Maybe Mr. Dude has a couple of bucks on him"
Mr.Dude said nothing. Instead, he took another slow, shuffling step forward and for a moment, the air seemed to waver. Little Stevie felt a strange sensation of vertigo, as the fog seemed to shimmer.
Stevie thought it was like looking at heat waves coming off of dry asphalt on a 105-degree day. As his muddled mind tried to puzzle out the odd visage, an ungodly pain announced itself just above his belt buckle.
Looking down, he saw that Mr. Dude had somehow closed the ten-foot gap that had separated them, and buried his arm in Stevie’s stomach, up to the not-so-scrawny elbow. Talon-tipped fingers closed around his spinal column and all feeling drained from Little Stevie’s legs. With a pitiful moan, the stunned addict collapsed onto the sidewalk.
“Ugh! Fuck me! Th--this ain’t… ain’t happening.”
Mr. dude bent down, closer, until his eyes were scant inches from Stevie’s own. The high collar of the overcoat fell away and for the first time, he had a clear look at Mr. Dude’s face. Little Stevie screamed.
Grasping Stevie by his mop of dirty blonde hair, Mr. Dude dragged him into the deep shadows of a nearby ally.
“Hold, Drammach!”
Stevie fell heavily to the wet pavement as the grip on his hair disappeared. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mr. Dude backing away, coming to a stop just at the edge of his vision. Over the pounding of his own heart, he heard the sharp click of hard soles on asphalt and a man suddenly appeared over him, peering down and smiling. In stark contrast to the hideous, malformed Mr. Dude, the man seemed pure perfection.
“It would seem that you’re having an extremely bad day,” the man said pleasantly.
“F--fuck me, I’m dying! Keep him off me, man! For God’s sake, j—just help me!”
“You really shouldn’t use that name, you know. After all, He doesn’t know you, anymore than you know Him. As for my associate, well, he’s a bit overzealous in his work.
"Yes, I’m going to help you, and in return, you’re going to help me. You’re going to find someone for me. A boy. And you’ll kill him. Do you understand?”
Little Stevie only understood that he was dying. But if this guy could somehow help him… if he could keep Mr. Dude away…
“Y—yes, anything, any…” Little Stevie coughed and bloody froth spilled from his lips.
“Splendid! Now, I’m going to give you something… a gift. And you’ll thank me. Oh, how you will thank me.”
The dark haired man with the beautiful face leaned forward until his mouth hovered above Stevie’s own. He paused for a moment, then said, “Then again, perhaps not.”
The man’s mouth descended and covered Little Stevie’s and for the first time, the addict considered that perhaps not all demons came in a syringe.
This is a tight story so far, let me know when you actually get the novel done. Liam you do have a definate voice and an author I wish I told sooner about Reality Check. I think we spoke a few times on Absolute Write, I hope you end up finding a home for this somewhere. I will be definately keeping an eye on you in the future. Perhaps we might end up on an anthology together.
In the end they'll all be dancin'--all them ones that didn't die.... Dance with me in the shadows amidst the lightning and the thunder, and all that nu-cu-lar debris. See the big bang from the other side, and then open that cellar door. Go down into
WEIRD RHODY is a short story collection featuring five strange tales all set in Rhode Island and written by five Rhode Island authors. The anthology is a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, the Ocean State's famed author of pulp horror.
