"Poppa, somethin' bad happened," Ernest whispered, overwhelmed by the reverence demanded by the room.

"I know, but we'll get out, you'll see. I bet the rest of the men are already halfway through to digging us out." Gene's arm dangled at his side.

"No, not this. To Uncle Russell." Ernest spoke with a grave sincerity.

"What happened?"

"We were fishin'. Sittin' there like we always did, feet dipped into the water, lines cast out. Not expectin' to catch anything-we never did-it was just our excuse to be out in the air. In the light."

"Go on."

"Poppa, it was like a fox raised with hens. They might play nice at first, but eventually the fox will remember it was a fox, and the hens weren't its playmates, but its prey. One moment we're sittin' there laughin'; the next, he suddenly looks like...food."

"What did you do, boy?" Poppa grew even smaller in bearing. Pale, thin, and soft.

"I didn't do nothin'. All of a sudden, his fishing line got tight. We stared at each other, stunned that we caught anythin'. He grabbed his rod with both hands, screamin' about what a fighter it was. Maybe a ten pound catfish. A shadow crept across the water. Next thing I know, somethin' yanked Russell into the water. He fought. Water splashed everywhere, a churn of pink bubbles, and then it stilled. The thing in the water...all I remembered were its eyes. Cold and grey. And I ran."

"You did what you had to. You're still a boy. My boy. You were afraid."

"Except I wasn't afraid. I know those eyes. They felt familiar. That day you and Russell went huntin', the day you met Momma, had you killed anythin'?"

Ernest raked his fingers across his father's throat. Gene clutched at the sputtering gurgle his neck had become. His eyes bulged with an almost alien aspect. Ernest twisted his Poppa's head until he heard a sound that reminded him of the cracking of ice along the creek. He stood, transfixed at the sight of the broken form of his father. Intruding on his small, child-like world, a familiar thrum of a dim voice called across the darkness to Ernest.

Exhausted, running on the fumes of adrenaline, Ernest's head ached. Gene's body dragging behind him, he tromped through a puddle and skidded, re-twisting his ankle. His blood sludged through his veins. Cold and numb, he no longer felt his foot within his boot. Having grown up on a farm, Ernest knew well the smell of an abattoir. He entered a new chamber. An initial wave of panic surged in him at the horror of wounds. The bodies of the men were indistinguishable in the dark. Claw marks within torn flesh. Bodies half stripped, slabs of beef presented as offering. An a.s.sembly line of flesh, fit for little more than stew meat and bones for dogs to grind up.

A wet slithering echoed from behind him, dragging itself toward him. The shadows coalesced into a malformed image. Indistinct, ruined features. A head lolled to the side, its neck too thin to support its weight. An aperture of some sort, not quite a proboscis, but more like a sucker in the center of what pa.s.sed for its face. The affect of a snail, sc.r.a.ping along the wall of the dead, the hole in its face opening and closing. The rest of its body swollen, a shapeless ma.s.s pulled along by its awkward gait. In the bleak light, it produced a s...o...b..ring noise as it slithered more than crawled.

Instinct overtook Ernest; he piled the bodies of the dead about him. An arm draped across him. His skin ached where their cold flesh touched his. Their blood soaked into his clothes. He interlocked his legs with his father's and lay awkward and stiff, a disjointed crook to his neck, within a chrysalis of corpses. His eyes wide open, he waited for the creature to pa.s.s, though he knew there were more where it came from.

"Momma?"

The creature let loose a sputtering mewl. He knew two smaller creatures would one day crawl toward them and join in the chorus. Its lonely, pathetic cries reminded of the stirrings in his own heart. Unnamable. Unknowable. The call of home.

Ernest joined in its strange song.

Minnie rocked back and forth in her chair. Her fingers combed through the soft curls of her little girl's hair. One day she would know the call of the caves, the secret of the hills. Her mind was gripped by dreams not her own, lost in the swirl of grey fog. For the longest time she stared across the hollow they called home. With their cold and grey eyes.

"Spirit Fire"

Robby Sparks.

Originally from the beautiful hills of Southeastern Kentucky where his father worked as a coal miner in Harlan County, Robby now resides in the Sunshine State. An electrical engineer by day, he moonlights as a writer and filmmaker by night. His short fiction has appeared in Apex Digest and the Harvest Hill anthology, available by Graveside Tales. His films, produced under Sour Orange Productions, have been shown at various festivals, including a VIP screening at the Melbourne Independent Filmmakers Festival. Robby would like to express his thanks to Misty, his wife, for her aid in his creative endeavors. You can contact Robby and catch his occasional ramblings at robbysparks.blogspot.com.

PJ was exhausted. Even as the mantrip rolled through the mine, jerking and jostling along the iron tracks, its diesel engine clacking like the barrels of a Gatlin gun, he could hardly keep himself awake. He had just finished a ten-hour shift in a section that stood four feet at its highest point. Drained, he lay back, squeezed between the shoulders of two other men. In his lap, along with a lunch box and battery pack, sat a strange and peculiar relic.

Another mile of darkness pa.s.sed before the boxy railcar shimmied out from the Kentucky mountainside. It squealed to a halt in the middle of a wide clearing, surrounded by a plethora of oaks and pines. Everywhere, heavy machinery lumbered about. Scooping coal. Hauling coal. Dumping coal. Pushing coal. All to the backdrop of the rolling green hills of Appalachia. Harlan County.

As PJ rose out of the transport, his joints popped. His back ached from having to hunch all day, while the cracking of his knees sounded like the seal breaking on a new bottle of Jim Beam. He wished he had some Jim right now. He usually poured a little into his thermos before he left for work, but this morning he had forgotten. His mind had been too clouded from all the drinking the night before, and probably the night before that, too. He wasn't sure. His mind was always clouded these days.

Walking toward the parking area, PJ noticed five miners approaching from the supply shed. Filthy and soiled, they looked as if they'd been rolling with swine.

"Wha'chya got thar, PJ?" one of the men called out. It was Randy Hoskins, or "Slick," as some of the other guys called him. The nickname was etched out with reflective tape across his hard hat. "Di'ja hyer me, ol' timer? I said wha'chya got."

PJ glanced down at the object dangling from his calloused handan old lantern of sorts that he had found while digging. It resembled the ones used in mining years before, but with unusual wire coils wrapped around its stained red gla.s.s and foreign markings carved upon its base.

"None of yer d.a.m.n business what I got," PJ snapped.

Slick grinned, a wad of tobacco pooching his bottom lip out like a tumor. "c.u.m'on. Y'gonna let yer ol' buddy Slick see wha'chya got, ain'chya?"

Before PJ could reply, the big-bellied man s.n.a.t.c.hed the lantern and started studying the item with a distasteful scowl.

"Looks like a stupid antique to me," he huffed. "Kinda like you, huh, PJ? A worthless, good fer nuthin' antique." And he laughed. His buddiesFlea, Beanpole, Tennessee, and Hawkall joined in, their white teeth gleaming like pearls against their blackened cheeks.

"Give it back!" PJ fumed, reaching for the lantern.

Slick held the relic away. "Whoa, now. I'm still lookin' at it."

PJ persisted. "Give it back, I said!"

"What fer? It ain't no count."

"Cause it's mine! Now give it!"

Slick puffed out his chest, inflating his body like a blowfish. "Why don'chew make me? c.u.m'on. I know y'wont to."

There was no denying, PJ did want to, for Slick had been tormenting him for yearsfrom stealing his tools to sabotaging his battery pack to carving obscenities into what good paint was left on his truck. Once, Slick had replaced the contents of PJ's lunchbox with dog feces, though he never owned up to it. PJ knew he had done it. No one else would have had the nerve. At this point, PJ had just about all he could take from the arrogant, two-bit slob, and the open invitation to give him a good a.s.s-whipping was one he was willing to take.

"Don't say y'didn' ask fer it!" he said, clenching his fists. But as he c.o.c.ked his arm to swing, the muscles in his lower back froze, seizing him with a horrible spasm. PJ grabbed his side. Cramped in pain, he stumbled awkwardly and, without even throwing a punch, fell face-first into the dirt.

Slick doubled over, wheezing from laughter. Meanwhile, PJ coughed up the dust he had swallowed.

"Wha'sa matter?" Slick jeered. "Y'got the black lung? Maybe y'should retar."

Flea squeaked in, "He cain't retar, Slick. He's gotta have money to buy his liquor."

"And pay that alimony," piped Tennessee. "I hyer it's a doozy."

"But di'ja hyer the latest?" said Hawk, hovering behind the other men. "His ex-wife's been datin' that preacher over on Big Creek."

The miners produced a succession of hoots, hollers, and whistles. One shouted, "Amen!"

"I bet I know wer all that alimony's goin'," Beanpole said.

"In the offering plate?"

"Nuh-uh," grinned Slick. "Probably towards a new wedding dress." His fat belly rolled as he laughed. "In fact, I bet her and that preacher are smoochin' right now."

With puckered lips, the other men started making kissing sounds.

PJ wobbled to his feet. "Yuns shut up! Just shut up! Yuns don't know nothin'! Y'hyer me! Nothin'!"

Unfazed, the miners kept taunting, even as PJ stewed on the verge of tears. He'd loved Arlene. He still did. But his drinking had caused complications, especially with her being a devout Pentacostal.

"It's purty bad when ya woman trades y'in fer a preacher," Slick gibed. "Purty bad."

Satisfied with getting PJ riled, the large man relinquished his hold on the lantern, tossing it harshly onto the ground. "Hyer's yer stupid antique," he said. But then, adding injury to insult, he sloshed his jaws about and squirted a glob of tobacco juice that dinged the lantern's chimney.

"Bullseye!" yelped one of the cronies.

As the gang proudly sauntered away, PJ picked up the lamp and wiped off the brown spit. Between adrenaline and nerves, his body quivered. Slowly, he hobbled to the parking lot and pitched his gear onto the bench seat of his battered truck. He then sat down on the torn vinyl, glowering through bloodshot eyes as the other men drove away.

"Yuns're gonna git it," he growled, wringing the contours of his faded steering wheel. "I swar, by all that's in me, thar'll be a reckonin'!"

"Dispatch to SO4," the radio crackled.

Boo Jenkins took another bite of his burger.

"See," he mumbled to the officer sitting on the stool beside him. "This happens every time I try to eat."

The deputy chuckled in agreement.

The radio squawked again. "Repeat, dispatch to SO4. You copy?"

Boo plopped the sandwich down and squeezed the transceiver clipped onto the shoulder strap of his shirt. "SO4 to dispatch. Go ahead."

"SO4, are you 10-6?" Was he busy?

Boo looked down at his plate. "You could say that. I'm Signal 5," which meant he was eating. Everything over the police radio was one big code.

"When you're finished, can you respond to a disturbance down on Couch's Branch? Second house from the mouth of the holler. Neighbors say thar's a party going on. Complaining about the noise."

Boo rolled his eyes. He'd just been out there for the same thing the week before. Ended up arresting two men for possession of marijuana. Another for meth. Probably have to take somebody in this time, too. "On my way in fifteen."

"Copy that," replied dispatch, and the radio went silent.

Boo fumbled again with his burger, repacking a pickle that had fallen loose from the fold. "Anyway, like I was saying, I saw some strange stuff during Desert Storm."

"Like what?" asked the deputy, chomping on his own food.

"Like this one night, our squad ran into a group of Iraqi Republican Guard; this was right after they lit up all those oil fields, too. Anyway, as we sneaked up on 'em, we realized they were all sitting around a fire from an uncapped oil well, doing some sort of seance or something."

"That's weird."

"You ain't heard the half of it. Just as we were closing in, one of the guards steps into the fire. I mean, he walks right on in and stands there, like it's nothing! Then the rest of 'em get up real slow, like they're in a trance, and start shooting at each other. At each other! Some even shot themselves! It was ma.s.s chaos, like the whole bunch went off their rockers. But the strangest thing...the strangest thing was their shadows."

"Wha'dya mean?"

"Well, they didn't look human, s'all I can say. They looked evil. Like the guards were possessed or something. I'd never seen anything like it. I thought it might've been a trick of the light at first, y'know, with all the oil fields burning behind us, but the other guys in the unit said they saw it, too. It freaked me out. It freaked us all out."

The deputy had stopped eating, fascinated by the account. "So wha'chuns do?"

"We high-tailed it outta there, that's what," Boo answered. "People, we can handle. Demons and Alibaba-type stuff...nothin's gonna help with that, no matter how big'a gun y'got."

"Who's Alibaba?"

"You know...the Forty Thieves?"

"Phfft!" the deputy scoffed, squaring his shoulders and squinting coyly. "Sounds to me like Alibaba lacked proper law enforcement. Too bad he didn't have you and me around to straighten thangs out."

Amused, Boo shook his head, stuffing the last bit of burger into his mouth.

"Yeah, too bad." He swallowed. "He would've never kept us fed."

Swiping his hat off the counter, Boo strolled out of Pat's Diner and, a moment later, was cruising down US-421, past the flood walls of Harlan.

PJ drove fast around the winding mountain road, hanging curves recklessly and skimming the guard rails. He was angry, embarra.s.sed, and nearly in convulsions from going all day without a drink.

Screeching up to his two-tone, single-wide trailer, he cursed. "Dammit! Not again!"

In front of his home and all down the dirt road beside it was a line of cars. Next door, people were gathered on the front porch, drinking and laughing and smoking.

Sliding out of his truck, PJ stared down the carousers. "Cain'chya give it a rest!" he yelled, his voice echoing off the surrounding hillsides.

As usual, the people on the porch ignored him.

PJ stomped around to the back of his trailer, kicking loose a piece of aluminum underpinning as he went. A party was the last thing he needed to deal with. Especially after putting up with Slick. But it wasn't the drinking that bothered him. Lord, no. If anything, drinking was good. And it wasn't the smoking. Nor the smell of marijuana burning. What grated on his nerves more than anything, driving him absolutely mad to the edge of insanity, was the never-ending, bone-rattling ba.s.s of their music. The obnoxious racket wasn't playing at the moment, but he knew it would start up again. It always did.

PJ entered the back door of the trailer and shoved his stuff onto a kitchen table already cluttered with empty beer cans, half-eaten frozen dinners, and empty Styrofoam take-out trays. Before he did anything else, he reached into the cabinet and pulled out a pint of whiskey.

He'd barely gotten a drink down before the music began.

"Dadgumit!" he roared and started pacing the floor, swigging the whiskey as he went. He drank and walked and drank and walkedover and over across the same worn path in the linoleum that stretched from the back door of the trailer, through the kitchen, and into the living room where the carpet began.

Thump, thump-thump, thump.

The windows rattled and the doors shook.

Thump, thump-thump, thump, thump.

PJ's stomach twisted into knots.

He tried everything to drown out the annoyance. He turned up the volume on the television, played his own stereo, and even crammed toilet paper into his ears. But the music could not be quelled. So he drank. And the more PJ drank and the more he walked past the old Polaroid of Arlene on the refrigerator doorthe one he had taken of her at c.u.mberland Falls, sitting there in her long blue jean skirt and plain white T-shirtthe more agitated he became.