He turned to peer up at the hill behind him, an inkblot spilling out of the night sky. The earlier clouds had moved on toward the southern horizon, leaving the moon above the hillside free and round and untouched. The moon challenged him. He couldn't bear to look for long at its face. Still, he felt silly holding a flashlight in such a bright landscape, when none of the others had theirs on. After a moment's hesitation, in which he somehow had trouble getting his thumb to move, he switched the flashlight off.

No sooner had he done this when a commotion arose across the cemetery. Whipping back around to face the noise, he fumbled with the flashlight, almost dropping it. At last he got it switched on. But its beam didn't penetrate far enough to illuminate the headstones twenty feet in front of him, let alone the gazebo, over a football field away. Fully embarra.s.sed, he switched the useless light off again.

"What was that?" Kathy's voice was a gasp.

Feral motioned for her to keep quiet. The three of them strained their attention into the interior of the cemetery, hoping to make out what was going on. They could hear voices, but the rise of ground past the gazebo m.u.f.fled the sounds, with only the odd shout breaking through. The glow of the torch Joe carried bobbed along the crest of the rise. Feral couldn't determine what its movement indicated.

"Joe!" he called out at last. He was careful to keep any note of urgency out of his voice.

No answer came, although the torchlight appeared to flare more brightly for a moment. The group continued to watch, listening intently. The silence became all there was in the world.

A sharp report made Feral jump. But as soon as he heard it, he recognized the source of the noise. From beyond the rise, where Joe's team was patrolling, a dog had barked.

Feral released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He also realized he was sweating. He looked at Kathy and Frank, hoping they hadn't noticed his fear.

"Let's go," he said.

They traipsed across the grounds, careful to skirt the grave mounds. Many of these were marked with small, low headstones, dangerous in the dark. It took them several minutes to reach the gazebo. They stood at the top of the rise for a moment, looking down into the shallow bowl where Joe, Eliza, and Harold played with a small terrier. Feral shook his head and moved to join them.

"Look what we found!" Eliza said, laughing. The dog jumped at her outstretched hands, barking and growling.

"It's probably all we're going to find," Feral said, relief in his voice.

"Isn't it cute?"

"Yeah, it's cute. But it isn't exactly dangerous." Feral raised his hands. "I say we call it a night."

"Are you all right?" Joe said.

"Yeah. Nothing's going to happen here. I'm headed back."

Joe peered at him intensely. Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah, okay. Full moon's better for werewolves, anyway." He wrestled playfully with the terrier, which was yapping and snapping and circling among them. "Right, boy? Wolves like you, eh?" He laughed.

The dog, crouching in a ready stance, stared up at Feral with a knowing glare.

Feral awoke groggy and restless the next morning. His knee was stiff, the result of clambering around in the cold the night before. d.a.m.n fool, he thought. He wasn't sure at whom the epithet was directed.

The midmorning air was reasonably warm, so he soon found himself ambling aimlessly along Mound Street. Named to commemorate the old Amerindian burial ground on which the town was built, the street divided the downtown business district from the elegant residential section of Ivy Hill. Brick and colonnades were the order on the north side. The sun cast long westward shadows under the trees, although Mound was open to the sky. Feral luxuriated in the heat flowing through his body, loosening the ligaments in his damaged knee.

He hoped the night's excursion had satisfied the group's vampire l.u.s.t sufficiently to preclude another attempt. He didn't relish spending any more of his nights in such fruitless adventure. This whole vampire scare was utterly ridiculous, in his opinion.

And yet...there was certainly something going on.

He looked up at the ridgeline of Ivy Hill, rising on his left some two hundred feet above his head. Behind that skyline, along the next ridge beyond the hollow, it had long been rumored a "family" of vampires congregated. This rumor had persisted over most of his life, but Feral had never really put any stock in it. Before now. Of course, he wouldn't put it past the rich to practice any eccentricity, and Coldiron Heights was the wealthy section of town. Money made for some strange behavior.

But maybe not that strange.

Man, he thought. This stuff is starting to get to me now.

He was almost to the corner of South Williams Street, the last chance to turn back up the slope toward the town center before taking the switchbacks that wound their way up Ivy Hill. He could see the elementary school, heavy and rectangular like the red blocks that made up its structure, looming on the far side of the street. He slowed, wondering if he should continue up or down. As he considered this, standing in front of the yellow clapboard facade of the Rich Funeral Home, he suddenly jumped at the sound of approaching footsteps behind him. He hadn't realized he wasn't alone on the street.

He also hadn't realized he was so nervous.

"Joe," he said, turning. "d.a.m.n, man, don't do that."

"Feral," Joe said, his voice so low the name came out like a growl. "I think you need to come see this."

"What is it?"

Joe shook his head. "You really need to look at it."

Feral sighed. "Not even a 'good morning' first?"

"Come on." Joe began walking off in the direction he'd come along Mound. He glanced over his shoulder. "Good morning."

Feral followed him.

"How'd you know where I was, anyway?"

"You was looking the other way when you pa.s.sed by my street."

Up at Ivy Hill, Feral thought. And Coldiron Heights. At the vampires.

They turned back one block, then headed south on Third Street, a neighborhood of small, well-kept houses under spare, graceful shade trees. Feral could see a group gathered on the sidewalk up ahead, in front of Joe's place. The looks on their faces made his heart squeeze in his chest. Their voices were subdued as he approached, greeting him in chorus.

"Morning, everyone," he said. "Don't any of you guys ever sleep?"

"Not very well," Charlene said, taking his question seriously. "I've been having nightmares."

"And it's no wonder," Joe said. "Take a look at this."

The group parted as Feral stepped up. In the gutter lay the little terrier from the night before, its throat ripped out.

"Jesus," Feral said.

"Been laying here all night, by the looks of it," Joe said.

Feral shook his head. "That's just wrong."

"So what do you think did it?" Kathy said. Her voice quavered; she seemed more anxious this morning than she had in the cemetery.

Maybe she was beginning to believe, Feral thought hopelessly. "Coyote, maybe?" he suggested.

"Nah," Joe said. "Coyote'd eat the whole thing."

"Dogfight?" said Randy.

Feral nodded. "That would make sense."

"Except," Joe pointed out, "this here dog shows no sign of having been in a fight. His throat was just tore clean out. Nothing else on him was touched."

Feral grunted. "That is kind of weird."

"d.a.m.ned straight it's weird. It's a sign."

Feral sighed. He stared at the carca.s.s. Somehow the horror of it seemed even more grotesque in the clear morning sunlight. His stomach turned. This wasn't the sort of thing he needed before breakfast. "A sign of what, exactly?"

"I don't know. Maybe we're too close. Something's trying to warn us."

"To keep us from wandering around the graveyard? Do you know how stupid that even sounds, Joe?"

"All I know is, there ain't no blood in the gutter."

Feral looked again. Joe was right. There was a small stain on the concrete from some residual dripping, but otherwise the street was clean.

"So the dog didn't die here." He hated having to admit it.

"Nope. Someone killed it, then brought it here afterward. Put it right in front of my house."

Jesus, Feral thought.

Joe said, "This is the dog from the cemetery last night."

"Are you sure?"

Joe glared at him. "It's the d.a.m.n dog, Feral."

Feral nodded. There was no use arguing the point. Besides, he was pretty sure Joe was right.

"So now what?" he said.

"We should bury it," Eliza said. She wiped away a tear.

"Or at least tell the owner," Frank said. "Anyone know whose it is?"

No one did.

"Shouldn't we report it?" Harold said. "I mean, this is pretty scary."

"Yeah," Feral said. "Animal control can take care of it."

Harold pulled out his cell phone and moved off to make the call.

"This has to be stopped," Joe said.

"Joe, we don't even know what happened."

"Well," Randy said, "we have to do something."

"I wonder," Charlene said, "what it was doing in the cemetery."

"Hunting," Joe said. At Feral's glare, he pointed at the dead dog. "There's dirt on his front paws. He's been digging." He squinted up at Ivy Hill. "We should've stayed last night."

"And done what, Joe?" Feral said. "Do you really think that, after we left, some vampire broke out of a grave, chased down this dog, bit off its throat, walked the four miles here, dropped it in the gutter, and then went back? Or that we could've stopped him even if he did?"

Joe didn't remove his gaze from the tree-studded hill.

"One way to find out," he said.

And so once again Feral found himself, against his better judgment, in Resthaven Cemetery.

The place looked less sinister in the daylight, as most places do. But not all, he decided. Southeastern Kentucky Baptist Hospital, out in Corbin, was downright creepy. Boarded up now, awaiting the order to be torn down, the red brick building exuded an otherworldly horror. The place was just wrong. Feral had no trouble believing the stories he'd heard of demented patients throwing themselves through what used to be plate gla.s.s windows on its facade. Or any other bizarre rumor about the place. Even today, in full direct sunlight, a misbegotten visitor could still all but hear the screams emanating from its empty black heart. No one tarried on its misshapen grounds for long.

Considering such things, he wondered how long it would be before he embraced Joe's a.s.sertions about vampires invading Harlan.

Something just was not right about this county, he concluded.

"Where do we even start?" he asked to the group in general, and Joe in particular.

Joe considered for a moment. "Prob'ly over where we found the dog," he said, gesturing toward the gazebo.

They headed there. Feral glanced around at the group surrounding him as they walked. It appeared he was now the only one who doubted. Everyone else wore looks of stricken determination on their faces. He felt defeated.

Am I the only sane person left in Harlan? he wondered. And immediately, he had to doubt his own sanity as well. After all, wasn't he there with them?

They clambered down the small rise to where Joe's group had encountered the terrier the night before, just beyond the gazebo. Everything seemed normal there.

"Now what?" Feral said.

Joe scrutinized the area, finally settling on a course. "Over there," he said.

Feral followed dutifully. But as it turned out, Joe knew what he was doing. As they crossed the small bowl of gra.s.s to its opposite side, they spotted a disturbed piece of ground off to their right. Approaching it, they saw that it was a newly dug-up grave.

Several of the women gasped.

"It's okay," Joe said. "Nothing can hurt us now."

Feral stared at the broken earth. The hole was considerable, given the hardness of the soil. Loose dirt was piled haphazardly around the indentation, indicating that whatever-or whoever-had dug it had been in a hurry. If that something had indeed been the small terrier of the night before-the dog that was now lying dead in the gutter in front of Joe's house-then its efforts had been determined. The hole lay at least two feet deep, and more than that in diameter.

"This doesn't look right," he said.

"Dog was hunting," Joe said.

Feral shook his head.

"Why would a dog dig into a grave?" Charlene asked.

"d.a.m.ned strange," Feral said. He stepped up to the grave and squatted down to look more closely at it. He motioned with his hands as he spoke. "Look at the dirt around this hole. It's all over the place. When a dog digs, he uses his front paws to push dirt behind him. Most of it ends up as a single pile on one end of the hole."