They nodded and jabbered and tugged on our sleeves, anxious to show us.
"Really, Jon," I said. "We should get you to—"
"My arm can wait. This won't take long."
We followed the group in a generally uphill direction along a circuitous footpath unnavigable by any vehicle other than a motorcycle. The trees thickened and soon we were in shade. And then those trees opened up and we were in their "town."
A haze of blue woodsmoke hung over a ramshackle collection of shanties made of scrap lumber and sheet metal. Garbage everywhere, and everyone coming out to look at the strangers. I'd never seen such squalor.
The fellow with the lopsided head who'd asked about the Jeep before pulled Creighton toward one of the shacks.
"Hey, mister, you know about machines. How come this don't work?"
He had an old TV set inside his one-room hut. He turned the knobs back and forth.
"Don't work. No pictures."
"You need electricity," Creighton told him.
"Got it. Got it. Got it."
He led us around to the back to show us the length of wire he had strung from a tree to the roof of the shack.
Creighton turned to me with stricken eyes.
"This is awful. No one should have to live like this. Can we do anything for them?"
His compassion surprised me. I'd never thought there was room for anyone else's concerns in his self-absorbed life. But then, Jonathan Creighton had always been a motherlode of surprises.
"Not much. They all look pretty content to me. Seem to have their own little community. If you bring them to the government's attention they'll be split up and most of them will probably be placed in institutions or group homes. I guess the best you can do is give them whatever you can think of to make the living easier here."
Creighton nodded, still staring around him.
"Speaking of 'here,' " he said, unshouldering his knapsack, "let's find out where we are."
The misshapen locals stared in frank awe and admiration as he took his readings. Someone asked him, "What is that thing?" a hundred times. At least. Another asked "What happened to your arm?" an equal number of times. Creighton was heroically patient with everyone. He knelt on the ground to transfer his readings to the map, then looked up at me.
"Know where we are?"
"The other side of Razorback Hill, I'd say."
"You got it."
He stood up and gathered the locals around him.
"I'm looking for a special place around here," he said.
Most of them nodded eagerly. Someone said, "We know every place there is around here, I reckon."
"Good. I'm looking for a place where nothing grows. Do you know a place like that?"
It was as if all of these people had a common plug and Creighton had just pulled it. The lights went out, the shades came down, the "Open" signs flipped to "Closed." They began to turn away.
"What'd I say?" he said, turning his anxious, bewildered eyes on me. "What'd I sayV'
"You're starting to sound like Ray Charles," I told him. "Obviously they want nothing to do with this 'place where nothing grows' you're talking about. What's this all about, Jon?"
He ignored my question and laid his good hand on the shoulder of one of the small-headed men.
"Won't you take me there if you know where it is?"
"We know where it is," the fellow said in a squeaky voice. "But we never go there so we can't take you there. How can we take you there if we never go there?"
"You never go there? Why not?"
The others had stopped and were listening to the exchange. The small- headed fellow looked around at his neighbors and gave them a look that asked how stupid could anyone be? Then he turned back to Creighton.
"We don't go there 'cause nobody goes there."
"What's your name?" Creighton said.
"Fred."
"Fred, my name is Jon, and I'll give you . . ." He patted his pockets, then tore the watch off his wrist. "I'll give you this beautiful watch that you don't have to wind—see how the numbers change with every second?—if you'll take me to a place where you do go and point out the place where nothing grows. How's that sound?”
Fred took the watch and held it up close to his right eye, then smiled.
"Come on! I'll show you!"
Creighton took off after Fred, and I took off after Creighton.
Again we were led along a circuitous path, this one even narrower than before, becoming less well defined as we went along. I noticed the trees becoming fewer in number and more stunted and gnarled, and the underbrush thinning out, the leaves fewer and curled on their edges. We followed Fred until he halted as abruptly as if he had run into an invisible wall. I saw why: the footpath we'd been following stopped here. He pointed ahead through what was left of the trees and underbrush.
"The bald spot's over yonder atop that there rise."
He turned and hurried back along the path.
Bald spot?
Creighton looked at me, then shrugged.
"Got your machete handy, Mac?"
"No, Bwana."
"Too bad. I guess we'll just have to bull our way through."
He rewrapped his burned arm and pushed ahead. It wasn't such rough going. The underbrush thinned out quickly and so we had an easier time of it than I'd anticipated. Soon we broke into a small field lined with scrappy weeds and occupied by the scattered, painfully gnarled trunks of dead trees. And in the center of the field was a patch of bare sand.
... a place where nothing grows.. .
Creighton hurried ahead. I held back, restrained by a sense of foreboding. The same something deep within me that had feared the pine lights feared this place as well. Something was wrong here, as if Nature had been careless, had made a mistake in this place and had never quite been able to rectify it.
As if. . .
What was I thinking? It was an empty field. No eerie lights buzzing through the sky. No birds, either, for that matter. So what? The sun was up, a breeze was blowing—or at least it had been a moment ago.
Overruling my instincts, I followed Creighton. I touched the tortured trunk of one of the dead trees as I passed. It was hard and cold, like stone. A petrified tree. In the Pinelands.
I hurried ahead and caught up to Creighton at the edge of the "bald spot." He was staring at it as if in a trance. The spot was a rough oval, maybe thirty feet across. Nothing grew in that oval. Nothing.
"Look at that pristine sand," he said in a whisper. "Birds don't fly over it, insects and animals don't walk on it. Only the wind touches and shapes it. That's the way sand looked at the beginning of time."
It had always been my impression that sand wasn't yet sand at the beginning of time, but I didn't argue with him. He was on a roll. I remembered from college: You don't stop Crazy Creighton when he's on a roll.
I saw what he meant, though. The sand was rippled like water, like sand must look in areas of the Sahara far off the trade routes. I saw animal tracks leading up to it and then turning aside. Creighton was right: nothing trod this soil.
Except Creighton.
Without warning he stepped across the invisible line and walked to the center of the bald spot. He spread his arms, looked up at the sky, and whirled in dizzying circles. His eyes were aglow, his expression rapturous. He looked stoned out of his mind.
"This is it! I've found it! This is the place!"
"What place, Jon?"
I stood at the edge of the spot, unwilling to cross over, talking in the flat tone you might use to coax a druggie back from a bad trip, or a jumper down from a ledge.
"Where it all comes together and all comes apart! Where the Truth is revealed!"
"What the hell are you talking about, Jon?"
I was tired and uneasy and I wanted to go home. I'd had enough, and I guessed my voice showed it. The rapture faded. Abruptly, he was sober.
"Nothing, Mac. Nothing. Just let me take a few readings and we're out of here."
"That's the best news I've heard this morning."
He shot me a quick glance. I didn't know if it conveyed annoyance or disappointment. And I didn't care.
8. Spreading Infection
I got us back to a paved road without too much difficulty. We spoke little on the way home. He dropped me off at my house and promised to see a doctor before the day was out.
"What's next for you?" I said as I closed the passenger door and looked at him through the open window.
I hoped he wouldn't ask me to guide him back into the Pines again. I was sure he hadn't been straight with me about his research. I didn't know what he was after, but I knew it wasn't the Jersey Devil. A part of me said it was better not to know, that this man was a juggernaut on a date with disaster.
"I'm not sure. I may go back and see those people, the ones on the far side of Razorback Hill. Maybe bring them some clothing, some food." Against my will, I was touched.
"That would be nice. Just don't bring them toaster cakes or microwave dinners."
He laughed. "I won't."
"Where are you staying?"
He hesitated, looking uncertain.
"A place called the Laurelton Circle Motor Inn."
"I know it."
A tiny place. Sporting the name of a traffic circle that no longer existed. "I'm staying in room five if you need to get hold of me but. . . can you do me a favor? If anybody comes looking for me, don't tell them where I am. Don't tell them you've even seen me." "Are you in some sort of trouble?" "A misunderstanding, that's all." "You wouldn't want to elaborate on that, would you?" His expression was bleak. "The less you know, Mac, the better." "Like everything else these past two days, right?" He shrugged. "Sorry."
"Me, too. Look. Stop by before you head back to Razorback. I may have a few old things I can donate to those folks."
He waved with his burned hand, and then he was off.
Creighton stopped by a few days later on his way back to Razorback Hill. His left arm was heavily bandaged in gauze. "You were right," he said. "It got infected."
I gave him some old sweaters and shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans that no longer fit the way they should.
A few days later I bumped into him in the housewares aisle at Pathmark. He'd picked up some canned goods and was buying a couple of can openers for the Razorback folks. His left arm was bandaged as before, but I was concerned to see that there was gauze on his right hand now.
"The infection spread a little, but the doctor says it's okay. He's got me on this new antibiotic. Sure to kill it off."
Looking more closely now in the supermarket's fluorescent glare, I saw that he was pale and sweaty. He seemed to have lost weight.
"Who's your doctor?"
"Guy up in Neptune. A specialist."
"In pine light burns?"
His laugh was a bit too loud, a tad too long.
"No! Infections."
I wondered. But Jon Creighton was a big boy now. I couldn't be his mother.
I picked out some canned goods myself, checked out behind Creighton, and gave the bagful to him.
"Give them my best," I told him.
He smiled wanly and hurried off.
At the very tail end of August I was driving down Brick Boulevard when I spotted his Wrangler idling at the Burger King drive-thru window. I pulled into the lot and walked over.
"Jon!" I said through the window and saw him jump.
"Oh, Mac. Don't ever do that!"
He looked relieved, but he didn't look terribly glad to see me. His face seemed thinner, but maybe that was because of the beard he had started to grow. A fugitive's beard.
"Sorry," I said. "I was wondering if you wanted to get together for some real lunch."
"Oh. Well. Thanks, but I've got a lot of errands to run. Maybe some other time."
Despite the heat, he was wearing corduroy pants and a long-sleeved flannel shirt. I noticed that both his hands were still wrapped in gauze. An alarm went off inside me.
"Isn't that infection cleared up yet?"
"It's coming along slowly, but it's coming."
I glanced down at his feet and noticed that his ankles looked thick. His sneakers were unlaced, their tongues lolling out as the sides stretched to accommodate his swollen feet.
"What happened to your feet?"
"A little edema. Side effect of the medicine. Look, Mac, I've got to run." He threw the Wrangler into gear. "I'll call you soon."
It was a couple of weeks after Labor Day and I'd been thinking about Creighton a lot. I was worried about him, and was realizing that I still harbored deeper feelings for him than I cared to admit.
Then the state trooper showed up at my office. He was big and intimidating behind his dark glasses; his haircut came within a millimeter of complete baldness. He held out a grainy photo of Jon Creighton.
"Do you know this man?" he said in a deep voice.
My mouth was dry as I wondered if he was going to ask me if I was involved in whatever Creighton had done; or worse: if I'd care to come down and identify the body.
"Sure. We went to college together."
"Have you seen him in the past month."
I didn't hesitate. I did the stand-up thing.
"Nope. Not since graduation."
"We have reason to believe he's in the area. If you see him, contact the state police or your local police immediately."
"What's he done, officer?"
He turned and started toward the door without deigning to answer. That brand of arrogance never failed to set something off in me.
"I asked you a question, officer. I expect the courtesy of a reply."
He turned and looked at me, then shrugged. Some of the Dirty Harry facade slipped away with the shrug.
"Why not?" he said. "He's wanted for grand theft."
Oh, great.
"What did he steal?"
"A book."
"A book?”
"Yeah. Would you believe it? We've got rapes and murders and armed robberies, but this book is given a priority. I don't care how valuable it is or how much some university in Massachusetts wants it, it's only a book. But the Massachusetts people are really hot to get it back. Their governor got to our governor and ... well, you know how it goes. We found his car abandoned out near Lakehurst a while back, so we know he's been through here."
"You think he's on foot?"
"Maybe. Or maybe he rented or stole another car. We're running it down now."
"If he shows up, I'll let you know."
"Do that. I get the impression that if he gives the book back in one piece, all will be forgiven."
"I'll tell him that if I get the chance."
As soon as he was gone, I got on the phone to Creighton's motel. His voice was thick when he said hello.
"Jon! The state cops were just here looking for you!"
He mumbled a few words I didn't understand. Something was wrong. I hung up and headed for my car.
There are only about twenty rooms in that particular motel. I spotted the Wrangler backed into a space at the far end of the tiny parking lot. Number five was on a corner of the first floor. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the knob. I knocked on the door twice and got no answer. I tried the knob. It turned.
It was dark inside except for the daylight I'd let in. And that light revealed a disaster area. The room looked like the inside of a dumpster behind a block of fast-food stores. Smelled like one, too. There were pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, submarine sleeves, Chinese food cartons, a sampling from every place in the area that delivered. And it was hot. Either the air conditioner had quit or it hadn't been turned on.
"Jon?" I flipped on the light. "Jon, are you here?"
He was in a chair in a corner on the far side of the bed, huddled under a pile of blankets. Papers and maps were piled on the night table beside him. His face, where visible above his matted beard, was pale and drawn. He looked as if he'd lost thirty pounds. I slammed the door closed and stood there, stunned.
"My God, Jon, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm fine." His hoarse, thick voice said otherwise. "What are you doing here, Mac?"
"I came to tell you that the state police are cruising around with photos of you, but I can see that's the least of your problems! You're really sick!" I reached for the phone. "I'm calling an ambulance."
"No! Mac, please don't!”
The terror and soul-wrenching anguish in his voice stopped me. I stared at him but still kept a grip on the receiver.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm begging you not to!"
"But you're sick, you could be dying, you're out of your head!"
"No. That's one thing I'm not. Trust me when I say that no hospital in the world can help me—because I'm not dying. And if you ever loved me, if you ever had any regard for who I am and what I want from my life, then you'll put down that phone and walk out that door."
I stood there in the hot, humid squalor of that tiny room, receiver in hand, smelling the garbage, detecting the hint of another odor, a subtle sour foulness that underlay the others, and felt myself being torn apart by the choice that faced me.
"Please, Mac," he said. "You're the only person in the world who'll understand. Don't hand me over to strangers." He sobbed once. "I can't fight you. I can only beg you. Please. Put down the phone and leave."
It was the sob that did it. I slammed the receiver onto its cradle.
"Damn you!"
"Two days, Mac. In two days I'll be better. You wait and see."
"You're damn right I'll see—I'm staying here with you!"
"No! You can't! You have no right to intrude! This is my life! You've got to let me take it where I must! Now leave, Mac. Please."
He was right, of course. This was what we'd been all about when we'd been together. I had to back off. And it was killing me.
"All right," I said around the lump in my throat. "You win. See you in two days."
Without waiting for a reply. I opened the door and stepped out into the bright September sunlight.
"Thanks, Mac," he said. "I love you."
I didn't want to hear that. I took one last look back as I pulled the door closed. He was still swaddled from his neck to the floor in the blankets, but in the last instant before the door shut him from view, I thought I saw something white and pointed, about the circumference of a garden hose, snake out on the carpet from under the blankets and then quickly pull back under cover.
A rush of nausea slammed me against the outer wall of the motel as the door clicked closed. I leaned there, sick and dizzy, trying to catch my breath.
A trick of the light. That was what I told myself as the vertigo faded. I'd been squinting in the brightness and the light had played a trick.
Of course, I didn't have to settle for merely telling myself. I could simply open the door and check it out. I actually reached for the knob, but couldn't bring myself to turn it.
Two days. Creighton had said two days. I'd find out then.
But I didn't last two days. I was unable to concentrate the following morning and wound up canceling all my appointments. I spent the entire day pacing my office or my living room; and when I wasn't pacing, I was on the phone. I called the American Folklore Society and the New Jersey Historical Society. Not only had they not given Creighton the grants he'd told me about, they'd never heard of him.
By nightfall I'd taken all I could. I began calling Creighton's room. I got no answer. I tried a few more times, but when he still hadn't picked up by eleven o'clock, I headed for the motel.
I was almost relieved to see the Wrangler gone from the parking lot. Room five was still unlocked and still a garbage dump, which meant he was still renting it—or hadn't been gone too long.
What was he up to?
I began to search the room. I found the book under the bed. It was huge, heavy, wrapped in plastic with a scrawled note taped to the front:
Please return to Miskatonic U. archives
I slipped it out of the plastic. It was leather-bound and handwritten in Latin. I could barely decipher the title—something like Lihen Damnatus. But inside the front cover were Creighton's maps and a sheaf of notes in his back-slanted scrawl. The notes were in disarray and probably would have been disjointed even if arranged in proper order. But certain words and phrases kept recurring: nexus point and equinox and the lumens and the veil.
It took me a while but eventually I got the drift of the jottings. Apparently a section of the book Creighton had stolen concerned "nexus points" around the globe where twice a year at the vernal and autumnal equinoxes "the veil" that obscures reality becomes detached for a short while, allowing an intrepid soul to peek under the hem and see the true nature of the world around us, the world we are not "allowed" to see. These "nexus points" are few and widely scattered. Of the four known, there's one near each pole, one in Tibet, and one near the east coast of North America.
I sighed. Crazy Creighton had really started living up to his name. It was sad. This was so unlike him. He'd been the ultimate cynic, and now he was risking his health and his freedom pursuing this mystical garbage.
And what was even sadder was how he had lied to me. Obviously he hadn't been searching for tales of the Jersey Devil—he'd been searching for one of these "nexus points." And he was probably convinced he'd found one behind Razorback Hill. I pitied him. But I read on.
According to the notes, these "nexus points" can be located by following "the lumens" to a place shunned equally by man, beast, and vegetation.
Suddenly I was uneasy. "The lumens." Could that refer to the pine lights? And the "bald spot" that Fred had showed us—that was certainly a place shunned by man, beast, and vegetation.
I found a whole sheet filled with notes about the Razorback folk. The last paragraph was especially upsetting:
The folks behind Razorback Hill aren't deformed from inbreeding, although I'm sure that's contributed its share. I believe they're misshapen as a result of living near the nexus point for generations. The semi-annual lifting of the veil must have caused genetic damage over the years.
I pulled out Creighton's maps and unfolded them on the bed. I followed the lines he had drawn from Apple Pie Hill, from Gus's firing place, and from our campsite. All three lines represented paths of pine lights, and all three intersected at a spot near the circle he had drawn and labeled as Razorback Hill. And right near the intersection of the pine light paths, almost on top of it, he had drawn another circle, a tiny one, penciled in the latitude and longitude, and labeled it Nexus!
I was worried now. Even my own skepticism was beginning to waver. Everything was fitting too neatly. I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty-two. The date read "21." September 21. When was the equinox? I grabbed the phone and called an old clam digger who'd been a client since I'd opened my office. He knew the answer right off:
"The autumnal equinox. That's September twenty-second. 'Bout a half hour from now."
I dropped the phone and ran for my car. I knew exactly where to find Jon Creighton.
9. The Hem of the Veil
I raced down the Parkway to the Bass River exit and tried to find my way back to Gus Sooy's place. What had been a difficult trip in the day proved to be several orders of magnitude more difficult in the dark. But I managed to find Gus's red cedar. It was my plan to convince him to show me a short way to the far side of Razorback Hill, figuring the fact that Creighton was already there might make him more tractable. But when I rushed up to Gus Sooy's clearing, I discovered that he wasn't alone.
The Razorback folk were there. All of them, from the looks of the crowd.
I found Gus standing on his front step, a jug dangling from his hand. He was obviously shocked to see me, and was anything but hospitable.
"What do you want?"
Before I could answer, the Razorback folks recognized me and a small horde of them crowded around.
"Why are they all here?" I asked Gus.
"Just visiting," he said casually, but did not look me in the eye.
"It wouldn't have anything to do with what's happening at the bald spot on the other side of Razorback Hill, would it?"
"Damn you! You've been snoopin' around, haven't you? You and your friend. They told me he was coming around, askin' all sorts of questions. Where's he now? Hidin' in the bushes?"
"He's over there," I said, pointing to the top of Razorback Hill. "And if my guess is correct, he's standing right in the middle of the bald spot."
Gus dropped his jug. It shattered on the boards of his front step.
"Do you know what'll happen to him?"
"No," I said. "Do you?" I looked around at the Razorback folk. "Do they?"
"I don't think anyone knows, leastmost them. But they're scared. They come here twice a year, when that bald spot starts acting up."
"Have you ever seen what happens there?"
"Once. Never want to see it again."
"Why haven't you ever told anyone?"
"What? And bring all sorts of pointyheads here to look and gawk and build and ruin the place. We'd all rather put up with the bald spot craziness twice a year than pointyhead craziness every day all year long."
I didn't have time to get into Creighton's theory that the bald spot was genetically damaging the Razorback folks. I had to find Creighton.
"How do I get there? What's the fastest way?"
"You can't—"
“They got here!" I pointed to the Razorback folks.
"All right!" he said with open hostility. "Suit yourself. There's a trail behind my cabin here. Follow it over the left flank of the hill."
"And then?"
"And then you won't need any directions. You'll know where to go."
His words had an ominous ring, but I couldn't press him. I was being propelled by a sense of enormous urgency. Time was running out. Quickly. I already had my flashlight, so I hurried to the rear of his shanty and followed the trail.
Gus was right. As I crossed the flank of the hill I saw flashes through the trees ahead, like lightning, as if a very tiny and very violent electrical storm had been brought to ground and anchored there. I increased my pace, running when the terrain would allow. The wind picked up as I neared the storm area, growing from a fitful breeze to a full-scale gale by the time I broke through the brush and stumbled into the clearing that surrounded the bald spot.
Chaos. That's the only way I can describe it. A nightmare of cascading lights and roaring wind. The pine lights—or lumens—were there, hundreds of them, all sizes, unaffected by the rushing vortex of air as they swirled about in wild arcs, each flaring brilliantly as it looped through the space above the bald spot. And the bald spot itself—it glowed with a faint purplish light that reached thirty or forty feet into the air before fading into the night.
The stolen book, Creighton's notes—they weren't mystical madness. Something cataclysmic was happening here, something that defied all the laws of nature—if indeed those laws had any real meaning. Whether this was one of the nexus points he had described, a fleeting rent in the reality that surrounded us, only Creighton could say for sure right now.
For I could see someone in the bald spot. I couldn't make out his features from where I was, but I knew it was Jonathan Creighton.
I dashed forward until I reached the edge but slowed to a halt in the sand before actually crossing into the glow. Creighton was there, on his knees, his hands and feet buried in the sand. He was staring about him, his expression an uneasy mix of fear and wonder. I shouted his name but he didn't hear me above the roar of the wind. Twice he looked directly at me but despite my frantic shouting and waving, did not see me.
I saw no other choice. I had to step onto the bald spot . . . the nexus point. It wasn't easy. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to run in the other direction, but I couldn't leave him there like that. He looked helpless, trapped like an insect on flypaper. I had to help him.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and stepped across—
—and began to stumble forward. Up and down seemed to have a slightly different orientation here. I opened my eyes and dropped to my knees, nearly landing on Creighton. I looked around and froze.
The Pine Barrens were gone. Night was gone. It seemed to be predawn or dusk here, but the wind still howled about us and the pine lights flashed around us, appearing and disappearing above as though passing through invisible walls. We were someplace ... else: on a huge misty plain that seemed to stretch on forever, interrupted only by clumps of vegetation and huge fog banks, one of which was nearby on my left and seemed to go on and up forever. Off in the immeasurable distance, mountains the size of the moon reached up and disappeared into the haze of the purple sky. The horizon—or what I imagined to be the horizon—didn't curve as it should. This place seemed so much bigger than the world—our world—that waited just a few feet away.
"My God, Jon, where are we!"
He started and turned his head. His hands and feet remained buried in the sand. His eyes went wide with shock at the sight of me.
"No! You shouldn't be here!"
His voice was thicker and more distorted than yesterday. Oddly enough, his pale skin looked almost healthy in the mauve light.
"Neither should you!"
I heard something then. Above the shriek of the wind came another sound. A rumble like an avalanche. It came from somewhere within the fog bank to our left. There was something massive, something immense moving about in there, and the fog seemed to be drifting this way.
"We've got to get out of here, Jon!"
"No! I'm staying!"
"No way! Come on!"
He was wracked with infection and obviously deranged. I didn't care what he said, I wasn't going to let him risk his life in this place. I'd pull him out of here and let him think about it for six months. Then if he still wanted to try this, it would be his choice. But he wasn't competent now.
I looped my arms around his chest and tried to pull him to his feet.
"Mac, please! Don't!"
His hands remained fixed in the sand. He must have been holding onto something. I grabbed his right elbow and yanked. He screamed as his hand pulled free of the sand. Then I screamed, too, and let him go and threw myself back on the sand away from him.
Because his hand wasn't a hand anymore.
It was big and white and had these long, ropey, tapered, root-like projections, something like an eye on a potato when it sprouts after being left under the sink too long, only these things were moving, twisting and writhing like a handful of albino snakes.
"Go, Mac!" he said in that distorted voice, and I could tell from his face and eyes that he hadn't wanted me to see him like this. "You don't belong here!"
"And you do?"
"Now I do!"
I couldn't bring myself to touch his hand, so I reached forward and grabbed some of his shirt. I pulled.
"We can find doctors! They can fix you! You can—"
It was a shout and it was something else. Something long and white and hard as flexed muscle, much like the things protruding from his shirt sleeve, darted out of his mouth and slammed against my chest, bruising my breasts as it thrust me away. Then it whipped back into his mouth.
I snapped then. I scrambled to my feet and blindly lurched away in the direction I'd come. Suddenly I was back in the Pine Barrens, in the cool night with the lights swirling madly above my head. I stumbled for the bushes, away from the nexus point, away from Jonathan Creighton.
At the edge of the clearing, I forced myself to stop and look back. I saw Creighton. His awful transformed hand was raised. I knew he couldn't see me, but it was almost as if he was waving good-bye. Then he lowered his hand and worked the tendrils back into the sand.
The last thing I remember of that night is vomiting.
I awoke among the Razorback folk who'd found me the next morning and watched over me until I was conscious and lucid again. They offered me food but I couldn't eat. I walked back up to the clearing, to the bald spot.
It looked exactly as it had when Creighton and I had first seen it in August. No lights, no wind, no purple glow. Just bare sand.
And no Jonathan Creighton.
I could have convinced myself that last night had never happened if not for the swollen, tender, violet bruise on my chest. Would that I had. But as much as my mind shrank from it, I could not deny the truth. I'd seen the other side of the veil and my life would never be the same.
I looked around and knew that everything I saw was a sham, an elaborate illusion. Why? Why was the veil there? To protect us from harm? Or to shield us from madness? The truth had brought me no peace. Who could find comfort in the knowledge that huge, immeasurable forces beyond our comprehension were out there, moving about us, beyond the reach of our senses?
I wanted to run . . . but where?
I ran home. I've been home for months now. Housebound. Moving beyond my door only for groceries. My accounting clients have all left me. I'm living on my savings, learning Latin, translating Jon's stolen book. Was what I saw the true reality of our existence, or another dimension, or what? I don't know. Creighton was right: Knowing that you don't know is maddening. It consumes you.
So I'm waiting for spring. Waiting for the vernal equinox. Maybe I'll leave the house before then and hunt up some pine lights—or lumens, as the book calls them. Maybe I'll touch one, maybe I won't. Maybe when the equinox comes, I'll return to Razorback Hill, to the bald spot. Maybe I'll look for Jon. He may be there, he may not. I may cross into the bald spot, I may not. And if I do, I may not come back. Or I may.
I don't know what I'll do. I don't know anything anymore. I've come to the point now where I'm sure of only one thing: Nothing is sure anymore.
At least on this side of the veil.