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Eight

EIGHT

I woke, swallowing a sharp cry, sweating. I reached out, flicked on the bedside lamp and sat up. Sickly yellow light spilled onto the floor, throwing the room into a dim glow.

Nothing.

Empty. No one except me, shivering and sweating in my rumpled bed, as it should be.

I blew out a noisy breath, covered my face with my hands, kneading my forehead with my fingertips. Already the nightmare had faded away, leaving me with nothing but a vague foreboding. I recalled scraps of images: those dead dogs in the woods, weird yellow flies buzzing all over them, and that strange altar in the middle of clearing. Something about Reverend McIlvian, also?

The nightmare’s dread fingers finally faded. I turned off the lamp and settled back down to sleep. As I drifted off, however, two thoughts bubbled to the surface. One: I thought I’d finally identified the markings carved on the altar. They were, insanely enough, like the yellow sign on the onyx stone set in McIlvian’s ring.

Two?

Bobby Simm
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