Phantoms

he’d found another enormous puddle back at Brookhart’s, and they agreed it might mean something. Tal Whitman told them about the message on the mirror—and about the severed hand; sweet Jesus!—at the Candleglow Inn, and no one knew what to make of that, either.
    Sheriff Hammond turned toward the shattered front of the market and said what Jake was afraid he would say: “Let’s have a look.”
    Jake didn’t want to be one of the first through the doors. Or one of the last either. He slipped into the middle of the procession.
    The grocery store was a mess. Around the three cash registers, black metal display stands had been toppled, Chewing gum, candy, razor blades, paperback books, and other small items spilled over the floor.
    They walked across the front of the store, looking into each aisle as they passed it. Goods had been pulled off the shelves and thrown to the floor. Boxes of cereal were smashed, torn open, the bright cardboard poking up through drifts of cornflakes and Cheerios. Smashed bottles of vinegar produced a pungent stench. Jars of jam, pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, and relish were tumbled in a jagged, glutinous heap.
    At the head of the last aisle, Bryce Hammond turned to Dr. Paige. “Would the store have been open this evening?”
    “No,” the doctor said, “but I think sometimes they stock the shelves on Sunday evenings. Not often, but sometimes.”
    “Let’s have a look in the back,” the sheriff said. “Might find something interesting.”
    That’s what I’m afraid of, Jake thought.
    They followed Bryce Hammond down the last aisle, stepping over and around five-pound bags of sugar and flour, a few of which had split open.
    Waist-high coolers for meat, cheese, eggs, and milk were lined up along the rear of the store. Beyond the coolers lay the sparkling-clean work area where the meat was cut, weighed, and wrapped for sale.
    Jake’s eyes nervously flicked over the porcelain and butcher’s-block tables. He sighed with relief when he saw that nothing lay on any of them. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see the store manager’s body neatly chopped into steaks, roasts, and cutlets.
    Bryce Hammond said, “Let’s have a look in the store-room.”
    Let’s not, Jake thought.
    Hammond said, “Maybe we—”
    The lights went out.
    The only windows were at the front of the store, but even up there it was dark; the streetlights had gone out, too. Here, the darkness was complete, blinding.
    Several voices spoke at once:
    “Flashlights!”
    “Jenny!”
    “Flashlights!”
    Then a lot happened very fast.
    Tal Whitman switched on a flashlight, and the blade-like beam stabbed down at the floor. In the same instant, something struck him from behind, something unseen that had approached with incredible speed and stealth under the cover of darkness. Whitman was flung forward. He crashed into Stu Wargle.
    Autry was pulling the other long-handled flashlight from the utility loop on his gun belt. Before he could switch it on, however, both Wargle and Tal Whitman fell against him, and all three went down.
    As Tal fell, the flashlight flew out of his hand.
    Bryce Hammond, briefly illuminated by the airborne light, grabbed for it; missed.
    The flashlight struck the floor and spun away, casting wild and leaping shadows with each revolution, illuminating nothing.
    And something cold touched the back of Jake’s neck. Cold and slightly moist—yet something that was alive .
    He flinched at the touch, tried to pull away and turn.
    Something encircled his throat with the suddenness of a whip.
    Jake gasped for breath.
    Even before he could raise his hands to grapple with his assailant, his arms were seized and pinned.
    He was being lifted off his feet as if he were a child.
    He tried to scream, but a frigid hand clamped over his mouth. At least he thought it was a hand. But it felt like the flesh of an eel, cold and damp.
    It stank, too. Not much. It didn’t send out clouds of stink. But the odor was so different from anything Jake had ever smelled before, so bitter and sharp and unclassifiable that even in small whiffs it was nearly intolerable.
    Waves of revulsion and terror broke and foamed within him, and he sensed he was in the presence of something unimaginably strange and unquestionably evil.
    The flashlight was still spinning across the floor. Only a couple of seconds had passed since Tal had dropped it, although to Jake it seemed much longer than that. Now it spun one last time and