by Brian Keene
“Really?”
“Yeah, back in the seventies and eighties. Before he…you know.”
Maria nodded in encouragement.
“My dad was a beekeeper,” Ken said. “Well, actually, he worked at the paper mill, like everybody else did back in the day. But in his spare time, he kept honeybees.”
“I grew up in New Jersey,” Maria interrupted. “Was the paper mill the county’s main employer?”
“Didn’t think you were from around here,” Ken said. “Your accent gives you away.”
“I have an accent?”
“Sure. Not a bad thing. I figured you for New York or New Jersey. Like a girl from a Springsteen song, you know?”
He paused, smiling. After a moment, Maria smiled back. She felt her cheeks flush.
What the hell’s wrong with me, she thought. He’s, like, twice my age.
She stared into Ken’s soft, brown eyes. Even when he smiled, a great sadness seemed to cling to him.
Poor guy. Maria looked away. I’m just feeling sorry for him. That’s all. Need to keep my mind on work.
“Dude,” one of the college students shouted at his friend. “You can’t un-tap that card this turn!”
His friend turned a few cards and then slammed another one down on the table. “Take that, bitch. Twenty points of damage and you can’t fucking block it! That’s game.”
Everyone in the restaurant glanced at them in annoyance. The waitress walked over and asked the students to keep it down.
“In the seventies,” Ken said, turning back to Maria, “pretty much everybody in York County worked at one of five places. We had the Caterpillar and Harley Davidson plants in York. There was Borg-Warner over in West York, who made stuff for the military—tanks and half-tracks and bomb shelters. All kinds of shit. And then there was the paper mill in Spring Grove and the foundry out in Hanover. That was it, unless you were a farmer or an auto mechanic. But by the mid-eighties, right around the time I graduated from high school, Caterpillar and Borg-Warner had closed down, the paper mill was in the middle of a yearlong strike, and Harley and the foundry had both downsized. But yeah, my dad worked in the paper mill, and in his spare time he tended to his beehives. During the strike, when he wasn’t on the picket line with his union buddies, he was fooling around with his bees. He had hives all over the place. In orchards and on neighbor’s farms. Anywhere somebody would let him. I think he had over forty of them during his busiest year. Every autumn, he’d harvest the honeycomb, extract the honey, and then sell it to the local grocery stores and farmer’s markets. Had his own label on the jars and everything. ‘Ripple’s Apiaries.’ He made a nice little secondary income. I bet if he was still doing it today, he’d make a lot more, what with everybody into all that organic shit.”
“I’m sure. But what does this have to do with Nelson LeHorn?”
“LeHorn had bees, too. More than my dad ever did. Occasionally, my father would go over to LeHorn’s farm and buy beehive materials from him. Frames. Parts for his extracting drum. Smokers. Protective clothing. Stuff like that. It was easier and cheaper to get them from LeHorn than through mail order.”
Maria signaled the waitress, indicating another refill. “So did he ever see LeHorn do any powwow?”
“No. My old man didn’t believe in that stuff. But he did say several times that LeHorn was crazy. I remember this one time, these little microscopic mites got into Dad’s beehives. Killed several of his queens—just destroyed whole hives, you know? My dad asked LeHorn what he should do and LeHorn drew some kind of weird symbol and told Dad to paint it on each hive. It was supposed to keep the mites out.”
They stopped talking while the waitress refilled their mugs.
“Did your father do it?” Maria asked after they were alone again.
Ken chuckled. “No. He bought some pesticide. And that did the trick. When I asked him why he didn’t use the powwow doctor’s method, Dad said, ‘I’d be a damn fool to go drawing that nonsense on my beehives. The boys down at the American Legion would have never let me live it down. Old LeHorn is nuttier than your grandma’s fruitcake.’ And he was right. Another one of my dad’s friends was cutting down a Christmas tree near the hollow. Back on the pulpwood company’s land. He damn near cut his finger off. LeHorn came across him as he was walking out. The old guy told him not to go to the hospital—said he could stop the bleeding by ‘laying on of the hands’ or something like that.”
“Faith healing,” Maria said. “Did your father’s friend take him up on the offer?”
“Shit, no. He ran to his car and got the hell out of there.”
Maria snickered, then laughed. Smiling, Ken dumped a container of cream into his fresh cup of coffee. Maria composed herself and asked the next question.
“So, will your attraction feature anything based off the LeHorn legend?”
“Not directly, no. At least, nothing about the murders or anything like that. LeHorn’s kids are still alive. That just wouldn’t be right, capitalizing off their mother’s death or their father’s mental illness. There are enough weird stories connected to the hollow without getting into the LeHorn stuff. Bigfoot. Demons. The Goat Man. Native American spirits. We can do stuff featuring them.”
“What about the more recent murders; the witch cult and the mystery writer?”
“Adam Senft?” Ken shook his head. “No. Again, it wouldn’t be right to capitalize off something like that. Like I told you earlier, this whole thing is to honor Deena’s memory. What she stood for. Her strength. She wouldn’t want me using other people’s misfortunes like that.”
Maria reached out and turned off the recorder.
“You really miss your wife, don’t you?”
Ken nodded, glancing down at the table. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
“Yeah, I do. I thought it would get easier with time, but it doesn’t. It just gets worse. I feel haunted.”
Maria arched an eyebrow. “Her…ghost?”
“No, nothing like that. I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts. I just mean her memory, you know? I’m haunted by her memory.”
“Perhaps that’s what ghosts are,” Maria said. “Maybe they’re just memories.”
“Could be,” Ken agreed.
“I’m sorry. Hope I didn’t offend you?”
“No, not at all. It’s something to think about, I guess. I’ll tell you, though. Sometimes, I wish there were ghosts. I wish I could believe in them.”
“Why?”
“Because then maybe I could see Deena again.”
Ken reached out and picked up the check. Then, before they could continue the conversation, he excused himself and slid out of the booth. Maria watched him walk to the register. She collected her recorder and purse and smiled politely at the waitress. On her way to the ladies’ room, Maria mulled over the last part of the conversation, wondering what ghosts haunted her.
The girl didn’t stop until well after midnight. Levi followed her, his dread increasing with every mile. Even before she’d reached her final destination, Levi had guessed where she was heading.
LeHorn’s Hollow.
He knew it well. Nelson LeHorn and Amos Stoltzfus had been peers and associates, if not friends. Occasionally, their individual endeavors had given them cause to consult with each other. LeHorn had called upon the Stoltzfus farm several times when Levi was growing up, and his father had traveled to York County once or twice to visit LeHorn. His father had passed away five years before the events at LeHorn’s farm.
Levi knew what most of society thought—that Nelson LeHorn had gone insane, believed his wife was consorting with the devil, and then pushed her out of the attic window, killing her. Then the old man had disappeared, and no one had heard from him since. Twenty years passed. And then, in a bizarre twist of fate, a local author named Adam Senft became obsessed with the story and committed a copycat murder, slaying his own wife. Now he was a guest at the White Rose Mental Health Facility—a fancy, politically corr
ect title for what amounted to an insane asylum.
Those were the facts, as far as the public was concerned. But the public was wrong. Levi knew the truth. It had taken him several years of painstaking investigation, and had taxed him both physically and psychically. He’d used everything at his disposal—divination, fortune-telling, his grandfather’s seer stone, the bending of wills, and exploring the woods themselves, walking around, poking his nose into things and finding out what was what—and eventually discovered several doorways and standing stones. He was certain that not all of them had been crafted by LeHorn, but he wasn’t sure who had built them. Some looked Native American in origin. Others were even older. But all of them were closed and barred, guarded by circles of protection and other means. There was nothing of concern. Nothing that posed a danger. The hollow was a dead zone, and in the end, his diligence had paid off. He’d finally learned what really transpired.
In a misguided attempt to bring good fortune to his failing farmstead during a statewide drought, Nelson LeHorn had attempted to summon a minion of Nodens. Nodens belonged to a pantheon called the Thirteen, a race of entities that had existed before this universe came into existence. LeHorn was misled by a black magician from Hanover named Saul O’Connor—a foul, degenerate little man who’d foolishly worshipped the Thirteen and eventually paid the price. O’Connor told LeHorn that Nodens’ minions could bless his crops and ensure a bountiful harvest. But he was wrong.
LeHorn conducted a summoning ritual, opening a door between this world and another. He called forth a satyr named Hylinus, who was indeed a minion of Nodens. However, instead of blessing the farmer’s crop, Hylinus managed to break through LeHorn’s carefully crafted circle of protection and impregnate Patricia LeHorn. A distraught LeHorn bound the creature and imprisoned it, transmuting the satyr into stone. He’d murdered his pregnant wife, so that she wouldn’t give birth to the satyr’s spawn. Then, in his final act on this world, he’d opened a doorway into the Labyrinth and disappeared to somewhere else. Levi wasn’t sure where. Another plane or another world. Nelson LeHorn was never seen again. He closed the door behind him. Somewhere, in the State Police barracks in Harrisburg, or maybe hanging in the corner of a rural post office somewhere, was a wanted poster with Nelson LeHorn’s picture on it, a picture from twenty years ago. But he would never be captured. Never be found.
Years after LeHorn’s departure, Adam Senft somehow came into possession of the farmer’s books. Nelson LeHorn had an impressive collection of esoteric tomes—things like The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses, Jean Bodin’s De la Demonomanie des Sorciers, Johann Weyer’s De Praestigiis, and a partial transcript of the dangerous and deadly Daemonolateria. Most of these had been destroyed in the forest fire, but from what Levi had determined, Senft had made off with LeHorn’s journal, pages from the Daemonolateria, and a complete English translation of The Long Lost Friend. Around this same time, Hylinus had been freed from bondage. Levi was never able to determine how, exactly, but his educated guess was that Senft was somehow responsible. Whatever the cause, Adam Senft became involved in a struggle against the satyr—a confrontation that ultimately resulted in the deaths of several of Senft’s friends and finally, months later, Senft’s wife, Tara, who ultimately suffered the exact same fate as Patricia LeHorn. The courts deemed Senft insane and he was now in a mental health facility.
But neither Nelson LeHorn nor Adam Senft had been insane.
They were just fools.
They’d believed written history. Trusted the words of men. Assumed that Nodens was some Roman or Celtic god of harvest and fertility. And they’d paid the price.
Unlike the others, Levi was no fool. Since the forest fire and the last round of deaths, he’d kept a cautious eye on the region. But the hollow and the surrounding forest had remained quiet. Levi became convinced that whatever evil had lurked there was now purged.
Maybe I was a fool after all…
Levi floated far above the treetops, hovering as the girl disappeared into the forest. He resisted the urge to flee, even though he wanted to. Dread overwhelmed him. A darkness was brewing down there beneath the trees—a pulsing black cloud, more obsidian than the gloom that surrounded it. A twisting, coiling mass that permeated the foliage, the ground, the very air itself.
Levi knew what it was, but he dared not speak the name out loud.
The thing in the forest—and in the girl—was Nodens, greatest among the Thirteen, brother of Ob and Ab. Of Leviathan and Behemoth. Of all the others. He watched the writhing shadows. This was its true form. It was a living darkness, a force that traveled from world to world, consuming everything it touched, sucking the life and energy out of every single thing until there was nothing left. Then it moved on, leaving a barren, lifeless wasteland in its wake.
And now it was here.
Apparently, LeHorn’s summoning spell had worked after all. The effect had just been delayed.
Levi wished his astral form had tears so that he could cry.
Not me, Lord. Please, find somebody else. I can’t fight this. I’m not strong enough. Nobody is.
If God was listening, He did not answer. Levi hadn’t expected Him to, even though, just this once, it would have been nice. Especially now.
Steeling his resolve, Levi drifted closer. The darkness remained finite. Although it moved, it did not grow. Did not expand. That meant it wasn’t completely in this world yet. Most of it was still in another dimension, slowly bleeding through into this world. Obviously, someone—or something—had disturbed one of the portals, accidentally broken one of the circles. Levi cursed his own arrogance. He should have checked back here more often. He’d known those places of power still existed in the forest’s perimeter, but he’d thought them closed and useless.
This is my fault. I should have guarded them better. But still, what idiot left the door open? If you leave the barn door open, you know the cow is going to get out. More importantly, what am I going to do about it?
Nodens wasn’t completely through the doorway yet. Its corporeal form in this world was weakened and bound by limitations. It wouldn’t be at full strength until it had completely breached the barriers. That bought Levi some time. Levi considered all that he knew regarding the situation—the events transpiring below, the hollow’s past history, the time of year and position of the stars.
Even though his astral self didn’t need to breathe, Levi felt his breath catch in his throat.
Halloween was only a few days away. It was one of the rare times of the year when the walls between worlds grew thin. If he didn’t figure out a way to stop Nodens before then…
Terrified, Levi recited a benediction against evil. Even though he knew the words were useless against such a foe, doing so still brought him some brief comfort.
Ut nemo in sense tentat, descendere nemo. At precedenti spectaur mantica tergo. Hecate. Hecate. Hecate.
If the thing below heard his prayer, it gave no sign. Levi listened. He heard no birds, no insects, and no wildlife of any kind. The forest was silent. Even the wind had stopped. But despite the stillness, he was sure that the entity was laughing.
Horrified, Levi willed himself back to his body. He rushed backward, away from the hollow, soaring like a rocket past the river and the towns. He zoomed down to his body and felt it jump.
Levi opened his eyes. Blinked once. Twice. Smacked his lips together. His throat was dry and his mouth tasted like Dee had used it for a toilet. Slowly, painfully, his fingers uncurled from around the stick. His knuckles popped. Levi’s upper lip was warm and wet. He touched it gently and looked at his fingers. The tips were red. His nose was bleeding.
Stumbling to his feet, Levi leaned against one of the Dumpsters until he had regained enough strength to walk. After a few minutes, he felt better, but still dizzy and weak. He weaved across the deserted parking lot, using the flying staff for a cane. Dee whinnied in excitement when she saw him. Despite his fears, Levi smiled at her greeting. He pressed his face into her mane and
sobbed. Tears flowed, mingling with the blood. He trembled against her until the storm had passed. When he pulled away, Dee nuzzled him. This made Levi cry again.
“Why me, Lord? What did I do to deserve this? Why not one of Your other warriors? Why is it that You always demand the most from those who love You the most? Should we not be rewarded, given an occasional rest, instead of just running from crisis to crisis, cleaning up Your messes?”
His stomach cramped. Levi bent over and threw up all over the pavement. The bile burned his throat. He brushed the tears from his eyes and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His nose was still bleeding. Straightening up again, he scratched Dee between the eyes. The horse’s tail swished back and forth.
“Come on, girl. Let’s go home.”
Levi climbed up into the buggy and stowed the flying staff. Then he grabbed the reins. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He found a crumpled handkerchief lying beneath the seat and stuffed the ends of it into his bleeding nostrils.
He couldn’t fight Nodens alone. There were things he needed. Items he had no access to. He needed help. Help from one of the people indirectly responsible for this mess.
It was time to prepare.
Tonight, he would begin fasting, so that he might be cleansed for the task ahead.
Tomorrow, he would pay a visit to Adam Senft.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The wind promised blood.
The coyote’s stomach growled in anticipation when she smelled it.
The coyote wanted nothing more than to return to her den before the sun came up, but she had a long way to travel before she could sleep.
The blood called to her. She intended to answer.
It had been a long, weary, and demoralizing night. At dusk, she’d risen from her den to hunt and forage. First she encountered a small dog that had strayed far from home. The coyote gave chase, but the dog was faster. It escaped. She decided not to pursue it. Panting, she drank cold water from a creek and looked for the darting, silver forms of fish. The stream was empty. She flipped a rock over with her paw and found a tiny crayfish. She snapped at it, dancing around to avoid the angrily waving pincers. The coyote devoured the crayfish in one bite, but the small morsel simply fueled her hunger.
