Constance's thin eyebrows beetled. "Talk?"

"Yes, talk. It fucking told me no," Bill's hands shook as he got a better grip on the Swiss Army knife.

Anger made him act next. If he had been rational, as he knew at that moment, he would have spared Constance the sight. She would probably freak the hell out, and there would not only be demon faces and dead Jeeps and psychotic camo-clowns, but weeping and wailing wives to deal with.

But he found himself turning around, grinding his teeth, staring down the stupid devil's face.

"You look like a third-grader painted you," he said. "Stupid fucker."

Again, he strode toward the face.

Within five feet of the thing, he saw the ripple go through the paint. The outsize teeth moved, and he swore he could see the muscles in the jaw flexing, as if the thing were chewing on bark.

Then, came the voice. It was a mellow tenor, with an uncanny resemblance to Septimus Smith's.

"No," it said again.

And once again Bill felt the pulling in his legs, as something else took control of his muscles. He said, "No." Then he turned and walked to the Jeep, this time getting as far as the driver's side door before the strong force released him. "Goddamn!" he shouted.

Constance was staring out of the window. Bill's heart sank as he saw her wide eyes, and her hands held to her face.

He tore open the driver's side door, threw himself into the Jeep.

"You did see that?" he demanded. "You did, didn't you?"

"It said something," said Constance. "That face said something."

"It did."

"Oh my God," said Constance. Her voice got that unpleasant snot-choking quality that meant she was going to start bawling at any second.

Bill took a deep breath. He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth.

"All right," he said.

The tears slid and broke down her face, and there was nothing he could do. He thought he should probably give her a hug, hold her close or some shit, but there were other things that needed attending to, like getting them the hell out of there.

He took another deep breath. Constance would have to settle for a reassuring pat on the knee, which is what he gave to her.

"All right," he said. "All right. There must be a way."

The Jeep. The thing couldn't have control over the Jeep's engine as well, could it? Bill twisted the keys again.

Nothing.

Not even a choking sputter, or even a click. It was as if they were sitting in a car without an engine.

"Okay, okay," said Bill, over the sound of Constance's blubbering. "Okay, that didn't work. Just onto the next thing."

He looked over to his wife, and at the moment didn't know whether he should be feeling sympathy or frustration. She had her face buried in her hands, and was rocking back and forth in her seat, stretching the seatbelt around her skinny shoulders. Once again, she reminded Bill of a little kid, too small to be in a situation like this.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, come on."

"Bill!" she wailed. "We're going to die in three days! That thing is going to come back and kill us! This is some kind of magic...." She trailed off into a snot-choked burbling.

"Hey," Bill said, and at the same time pulled one of her hands away from her face. "Don't worry, don't worry." Like his dad had told him: just say some soothing shit to your wife again and again. Didn't matter what the words were, as long as your tone of voice was calm. Like dealing with a crazy dog.

"That thing," she said. "It killed the Jeep! It's not going to let us out...."

"Bullshit it's not going to let us out," said Bill. "Maybe we could go around it."

"Want to go home." She looked at him. The delicate tissues around her eyes were swollen, like someone had punched her.

"I know," he said. "We're going to get out of here. Promise."

"Where are we going?"

Bill popped open the door and jumped back onto the trail. He ignored the glare of the stupid devil face as he trotted to the passenger door, opened it, and offered his hand to his bride.

"Come on," he said. "We're going to walk around."

She looked down at him, her mouth open, and incredulous expression on her face.

Bill reached around her lap and snapped open the seatbelt, dragging it off her torso.

"I don't want to go," she said.

"I'm not leaving you here," said Bill. "Nothing you can do about it."

He lifted her up from the passenger's seat. She felt little heavier than an empty duffel bag. She offered no resistance. When he put her on the ground she leaned against the Jeep, as if it was the only thing that could support her.

Bill took her hand. "Come on," he said. "We're going to find a way around."

She made her body limp. Bill managed to drag part of her torso off the Jeep, but her head stayed leaning against it, her white hair sticking to the metal like dandelion fluff.

"Scared," she whispered.

Bill choked back his impatience. He wanted to shake her, tell her to grow up. "I know," he said. "But I don't want to leave you. What if that asshole comes back?"

That did it. She peeled herself off the side of the Jeep.

"Don't leave me, don't leave me," she babbled.

"Jesus," said Bill. "I'm not leaving you anywhere."

But he still had to pull her off the trail, into the forest behind the ruined evergreen tree. The face watched them leave, its eyes motionless but somehow active. Constance hid behind him as they walked by, whimpering like a dog.

Five.

Only minutes later, Bill saw the next face.

It appeared on a rock, not a tree. These woods, like many in Connecticut, had boulders scattered everywhere. Some were natural formations; some were leftovers from stone walls that had been built by Puritans or Revolutionary War-era farmers or who-the-fuck-ever.

The stone with the face was about four feet tall and as wide across, covered in off-white fungus and assorted forest debris.

When Constance saw it, she moaned. "Oh, no...."

Bill squeezed her hand. "Keep it together, okay? Just please try to keep it together."

But he knew his words fell on deaf ears.

This devil-face was painted in broad strokes, as if the artist had been in a particular hurry. The eyes were pale spirals, and its horns little more than curved scribbles. Despite its crudity, Bill once again had an uncanny feeling of being observed.

"Okay," he said to Constance, breaking their stride. "Stand right there. Wait."

He strode toward the rock. So much adrenaline had made him nauseated, and he tasted the chicken sandwich in the back of his throat. But had to keep it up. Had to keep trying to get out of there, even ifa"

"No," said the face.

Once again Bill felt himself frozen, turned around, and marched back to where he had started.

Constance looked at him as if he'd struck her. Then her face crumpled and she wept.

"Oh, no. Hell no," said Bill.

He snatched her hand and pulled her away from the rock. He marched her farther into the woods.

The next face was only twenty feet from the rock, painted on a sapling birch. It looked more like a smudge of sap than a painting, but Bill could see it all too clearly.

Again, Bill tried to leave.

"No," said the face.

Again he froze, turned, marched back to his wife.

And Constance continued wailing.

"Shit," said Bill. "Shit shit shit."

Her tears made him want to start crying, too. He felt a hitch of panic in the back of his.

"No," Bill told himself, and gave himself a vicious pinch on the skin just above his belt. The pain cut through his panic, and at least for the moment refocused him.

"Come on," he urged his wife. "Come on. We need to get out of this. Stop it, please. You're not making it easier."

"I don't wanna die!" she said.

"We're not going to die. Come on."

Bill took her hand again, after wiping his own eyes. "Come on," he said.

The next devil face glared at them from a tree stump, only a few paces away from the one on the skinny pine.

Bill didn't need to walk to the next one. He saw it staring at him from a fallen log.

He didn't bother to try and walk by either one.

"Okay," he said.

He turned to his wife, and held her shoulders. She wiped her nose and looked up at him. The tissues around her delicate green eyes were red and black, bruised underneath her translucent skin. She looked more like a kid than ever. But Bill remembered that she was just as old as him. And a married adult. His wife.

"Constance," he said, using her full name, which usually got her attention. "Need to think." Bill pointed to the devil face on the stump. "I think these things are like a fence. Or a wall."

"A wall?"

"Yes."

Constance sniffed and wiped her nose. She took a shuddering breath. Bill thought she was going to dissolve into tears again, but she continued breathing normally. He waited for a second before continuing to speak, until he was sure she sure she was going to keep it together. She pressed her lips together until they turned white, and Bill took that as a positive sign.

"Okay," he said. "I don't think we're getting out of here." He pointed into the forest. "I'm sure that we're going to run into even more of these things."

Constance wiped her nose. "Can't be sure," she said.

"Yes, you can," said the devil face.

Six.

"I'm absent," said the face. "I'm elsewhere. I noticed you trying to leave."

Bill stared at the face. Once again his heart galloped, but a part of him wasn't really surprised. This fit in neatly with the rest of the morning's shocks. What was another little terror? It was like a single jab in an ten-round boxing match.

Even Constance made no noise, save for a sharp indrawn breath. And then, once again, she shocked him.

Constance stepped out from around him and walked straight toward the log, staring down at the white face. Bill reached out for her, intending to pull her back, but missed. She halted a couple of paces from the stump.

For a tense moment, he watched his pale wife regard the pale devil. She wiped her face again, but was otherwise intent on the crude artwork.