Part 1

They came a little after midnight. It was a cool, crisp evening at the end of August. The moon was a sickly orange, making strange shadows across the landscape. There was a brisk wind blowing, upsetting the leaves and pulling them from the trees. The weather would have been better suited for November.


They entered the bar during a lull, one of those awkward moments when all conversations suddenly stop for no clear reason. They made no fuss. They called no attention to themselves. They sat in the back of the bar, interacting with no one else. 

Nobody in the bar could meet their eyes. Talk resumed, but it was hushed, and each patron felt a prickle of anticipation. A few of the more perceptive ones had an inexplicable urge to rush home and hide under the covers until dawn. They brushed it off as simple paranoia.

By one-thirty everyone was dead, or very nearly. The lucky ones were too drunk to feel much pain. Those who had been unlucky enough to be designated drivers vowed that if reincarnation was real, they’d come back as raging alcoholics. Most of the patrons were too busy screaming to have any final thoughts.

The noise was incredible. Imagine an orgy held at a slaughterhouse with all the participants on amphetamines, including the animals, and you still only have the vaguest impression of what the neighbors heard.

It woke up children halfway across town, frightening them out of restless dreams. Their parents assured them it was just dogs fighting, as they checked the locks on their doors.

Mrs. Abigail Trotts lived down the street from the bar. Her husband Nick owned and ran it, and most nights served as bartender. When she heard the awful din, she knew she was a widow. Mrs. Trotts sat under her window, her silver hair a murky orange in the moonlight, hands over her ears like a little girl, and waited for silence. Even after the silence fell, and she could once again hear the wind through the trees, she waited several minutes before she called the police.

From her window, she thought she saw shadows racing through the trees and up the darkened streets. But it was probably just her imagination.

The police arrived just before two. An ambulance followed, but at that point it was really just for show. The Emergency Medical Trainees stood around, shuffling their feet and getting in everyone’s way until a dazed Mrs. Trotts had them pass out coffee. She weaved between the uniformed officers, handing out steaming mugs with a fixed smile and asking if anyone needed cream or sugar. It was a macabre tea party, with the mad hostess in her white nightgown, her streaming hair making her seem like the ghost of tea parties past. Mrs. Trotts smiled and poured more coffee. It was several hours before she started screaming.

If any of the officers or EMTs saw movement from the corners of their eyes, or heard whispers on the wind, they brushed it off. It was just their imagination.