Devourer of Souls
The foliage has begun reclaiming sidewalks and parking lots, even poking through the street’s asphalt.
But not here.
Nothing grows here.
“I grew up reading a lot of classic horror, Stephen King, H. P. Lovecraft, especially,” Father Ward says. “Dad did, too. He was a different sort of pastor. A little more relaxed. Anyway, there’s a scrap of poetry by Lovecraft. Goes something like this . . . ”
Father Ward closes his eyes and with a thoughtful expression recites:
The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask
Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide
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