A hush had descended over the bay, broken now and then by the rustle of trees and the rattle of a passing train. Somewhere beyond the treeline, one seabird called to another for a final fishing run before the day came to an end. The shadow of the pines lengthened incrementally, black fingers creeping across the empty parking lot towards its lone occupant.

Couldn't be more isolated, Mark Jefferson thought as he leaned against the driver's side of his car. The perfect spot for one last photo shoot.

Except his model was missing.

Scowling, he checked his watch. Rachel had said she would meet him in fifteen minutes or less. That was almost thirty minutes ago. This was also the fifth time he'd looked at his watch since he arrived, and every time he did he felt more a fool. Something was wrong.

At Blackwell, he had gotten used to the way she had played the model student in every sense of the word: prompt, respectful, studious, always eager to help. And outside of Blackwell, well, her lingering gaze alone told him all he needed to know. She was his creature—of this, he was almost certain.

So where was she?

"Calm down," he muttered, and forced his foot to stop tapping. Stay calm. Worry breeds panic, panic breeds mistakes. You can't afford a single mistake. Breathing deeply, he reviewed his preparations. The syringe sat securely in his jacket pocket. Bending down, he took a peek at the backseat of his car. On the expensive black leather sat the roll of duct tape he would use to bind her limbs and seal her mouth. He even brought a heavy woolen blanket to conceal her body, if he were forced to stop and roll down his heavily tinted window. He knew his routes, main and backup, should he be followed. All bases covered.

All this trouble because that imbecile failed to get Rachel to that Vortex party last night. The boy had forced Jefferson to do what he hated most: to act directly, exposing himself to risk.

But he had to work with what he'd been given. His relationship with Nathan, however galling, had allowed him to stock the Dark Room with everything he needed. It was just his luck that this particular fruit had fallen far from the Prescott tree—apparently hitting every branch on the way down.

That itching in his brain turned into heated gnawing, eating away at his inner calm. The plan was foolproof. Rachel had said she was coming to him! What happened?

Something has gone very wrong. He could feel it coming like those clouds he could see in the distance, threatening to obscure this beautiful light. Even the air smelled different, like it was going to rain.

After another ten minutes, he succumbed: he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Rachel's number. He let it ring a dozen times before finally texting her a simple message: "?"

He needed to stay busy, to work so he could think. Reaching into his car, he grabbed his Hasselblad camera from the passenger's seat. But what to shoot?

He scanned the length of the parking lot—and realized he wasn't alone after all. Perched on a low fence post just a few dozen yards to his left, a raven faced the beach, watching as the other birds gathered to frolic on the seashore. Well, he thought as he approached it, I've had worse models.

He stopped twenty paces away from the bird so as not to spook it. Not that he thought he could—the thing was enormous. It probably had been gorging on garbage for years to get that fat.

Hunching down, he lifted the viewfinder to his eye and fiddled with the focus of his lens. It felt good to work, to lose himself in his art. Already the worry was starting to ebb. It's all under control, he told himself. Sooner or later, I'll get what I want. I'm in control.

"Hold still, you ugly beast," he said under his breath. "Let me immortalize you."

As if it had heard him, the raven whipped its head in his direction, regarding him with eyes like flecks of coal. Something in its blank stare froze Jefferson's finger as it hovered over the shutter. Before he could shoot, the bird vaulted into the air.

"Ah, shit." Jefferson lowered his camera to see the raven flapping overhead. Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie.

Returning to his car, his eyes fell on an oily white starburst on his once pristine windshield. "Oh, fuck you too, my friend. Fuck you very much."

He thought he had lost his chance for good, but as it turned out, the bird didn't go very far. It had descended on the branch of a barren tree on the other side of the lot. Rather than approach, Jefferson straightened up and raised his camera again, zooming in to line up a shot.

The damned beast was staring at him again—only this time, it wasn't alone. To his surprise, four more equally squat, equally fat birds perched on nearby branches, so still that they barely seemed alive. As one, they stared back at him, the subject of ten little black lenses.

What is this? As the camera sunk away from his face, Jefferson found himself suppressing a shudder. He hated being stared at. He had never felt good under such scrutiny, not since his mother—

Alright, enough.

Jefferson tugged open the car door and slipped into the driver's seat with a little more haste than he meant to.

As he maneuvered his way out of the parking lot, he risked one final look at the rearview mirror. The dead tree still stood there like a prop from a bad horror movie, but of the ravens, there was no sign. He let out a relieved sigh. Then he scolded himself for what could only be a detour into cowardice. Chased away by a flock of birds. Christ. Hitchcock would have laughed himself sick.

His radio was playing a tune—he couldn't even remember when he'd turned it on.

Over by the window,

there's a pack of cigarettes

Not my brand, you understand,

sometimes the girl forgets

He ran his hand through his hair, focused on his breathing. He needed to go back to the matter at hand—he was still short one model. If Rachel were simply running late, she would've answered his calls. She was not the type to forget her cell at home; youngsters nowadays would sooner marry their phones than their sweethearts. No, this had to be something else.

He drove down the main avenue, hoping to catch sight of Rachel hurrying along the sidewalk. No such luck: the entire stretch of road was deserted but for passing cars. It was as if she had never left home at all—which was most likely the case.

She forgets to hide 'em.

I know who left those smokes behind.

She'll say, "Oh, he's just a friend."

And I'll say, "Oh, I'm not blind."

Gritting his teeth, he turned left at the town hall and headed for home. By Monday he would hear her explanations, but for now, he was done playing the jilted suitor. It didn't matter. He would regroup, make a new plan. The opportunity would come again.

He was just two blocks from his house when thunderclap jarred him out of his thoughts. His foot mashed the brakes—the wheels screeched in protest and he lurched forward, seat belt snapping painfully against his shoulder. He sat still for a moment, blinking, looking in his rearview mirror, partly convinced that the lightning had set a nearby building on fire. He had never heard thunder so close like that; so long and loud, it had rattled his car windows and made his ears ring. Even the radio had dissolved into static—could lightning even do that?

There was nothing to see behind him but the dark clouds obscuring what would have been a lovely sunset. Looks like a thunderstorm on the way.

It's been a long day, he thought, now acutely aware of the weight on his shoulders. I'm a bit more rattled than I thought. He switched off his radio, released the brake, and drove the rest of his way home.

Alone at last, Jefferson did his best to forget about the fiasco. He made himself a salad for dinner, which he ate while watching the evening news. Afterward, he spent an hour inspecting and cleaning his equipment before retiring to his room. There he spent the rest of the night poring over a book on deer hunting, Nat King Cole crooning over his speakers. After an hour, he passed out on his bed.

His eyes popped open when his phone rang. On instinct, he reached for his night table, but stopped when he realized the ringtone wasn't from his regular cell. Still slow from drowsiness, he turned down the music before reaching beneath his bed to peel off the burner phone taped beneath the frame.

"Jefferson." The voice on the other end made him snap fully awake. "We need to talk."

Jefferson glanced at his watch. "...It's one in the morning. I don't suppose this can wait?"

"No." The growl that accompanied that single syllable told him not to push his luck.

Clearing his throat, Jefferson replied, "I'm listening."

"In person. I've sent someone to pick you up. Be ready in ten minutes." Then, as if in afterthought, "Bring your camera."

The line went dead. Jefferson started at the phone in his hand, then sighed. Clearly, this long day was far from over.

He carefully reattached the burner phone to the bottom of his bed frame. Then he reached for his shoes, picked up his camera, and waited on the couch beside his front door. When high beams crawled across his curtained window, Jefferson slipped on his shoes and exited his house.

His driver was already waiting, leaning beside the black Lincoln with its engine still running. He towered over Jefferson by half a head and seemed taller still with the wide-brimmed leather hat he wore. The sleeves of his blue polo shirt were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms covered in coarse, grey hair. In the harsh light of the lamppost, he met Jefferson with a cold look and a thin, sardonic grin.

"Sheriff Skinner," said Jefferson, approaching the car. "Nice night."

Hank Skinner raised one hand that Jefferson thought was in greeting, but quickly realized that the cop was telling him to halt. "Before we go on," he drawled, "I'm gonna have to ask you for the usual."

Jefferson stopped at the sidewalk, exasperated. "Is this strictly necessary, Sheriff? We're working together, aren't we?"

Skinner took off his hat, revealing a high widow's peak of oily grey hair. He was grinning, showing teeth that looked very white and very strong. That smile sent alarm bells ringing through Jefferson's head and made him think of the handgun in his workshop drawer.

"Mr. Prescott throws money at his problems and eighty percent of them go away," Skinner began, setting his hat on the roof his car. "For the other twenty, he's got me." The cop leaned forward, regarding him gently. "Are you gonna be that sort of problem, son?"

Jefferson took a deep breath before slinging his camera strap over one shoulder and raising his hands overhead. "Look, just make it fast. He sounded impatient."

Skinner obliged him, stepping forward to pat him down. Satisfied, the taller man jerked his head towards the car. "Let's go, Prof."

Jefferson didn't miss the touch of derision in that last word, but he made no comment. Instead, he walked over to the car and got in the passenger's side. The inside smelled strongly of cigars. "Where are we going?"

Skinner stooped to throw his hat into the back before fitting himself into the driver's seat. "Not far," he said, starting the engine. Jefferson waited for him to say more, but the older man was clearly not up for chit-chat.

"Can you at least tell me why I needed to bring my camera?"

Again that horrid grin. "Why, to take some purty pitchers, of course. Ain't that your job?"

Jefferson sat back as the Lincoln cruised through the streets. Should've known better than to ask when you know answers aren't forthcoming. He's simply toying with me.

"You ought to remember your place, son," the Sheriff was saying. "In our setup, information don't always trickle down to the low man on the totem pole."

"See, everybody gets that reference wrong," Jefferson said. "Per Native American lore, the low man is the most important person of the story, which is why he's placed closest to the earth. Little reading goes a long way, Sheriff."

Skinner said nothing, favoring him a sidelong glance. Then he smiled and chortled, "Well dang, you learn somethin' new every day."

They drove down the empty streets, passing silent, dark houses and empty shops. At this time of night, Arcadia seemed like a ghost town inhabited only by lampposts and parked cars. Not even a stray cat out tonight.

The Lincoln finally came to a stop at the marina parking lot. Skinner killed the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. "C'mon. Sooner we're done here, sooner you can get back in bed."

As Jefferson started towards the marina, Skinner said, "Oh yeah, and Prof?"

Jefferson turned around, just in time to catch a fist to his guts. The air exploded out his lungs as he doubled over, clutching at his stomach, forehead nearly kissing concrete. Saliva dripped out of his wide open mouth. It hurt too much to even groan.

Skinner crouched beside him, gently rubbing his shoulder as he crouched there wheezing. "You're right about one thing. Boss's in a mood tonight. I'd watch that lip, son."

Taking him by the arm, Skinner dragged Jefferson down to Pier 3, towards a lone figure hunched by the water. The sheriff stopped where his shoes touched wood. He motioned for Jefferson to continue, then turned his eyes back to the avenue to keep watch. Gasping, Jefferson stumbled onto the pier.

Sean Prescott sat on one of the wooden pilings, gazing out into the dark water. He wore a black blazer over a green shirt, and his cufflinks sparkled like a lynx's eyes. He was turning a flat stone over and over in his hands, and didn't raise his head at Jefferson's approach.

"What kept you?"

"...I came as quick as I could," gasped Jefferson, fighting to keep his composure. Prescott was not someone to show weakness to. "If you don't mind, what exactly do we need to discuss out here?"

Prescott didn't answer at once. He continued to turn the stone in his hand, like a magician about to perform a coin trick. "Do you know who wins wars, Jefferson?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"Who wins wars."

"I would say people of influence, of power." Someone like yourself, is what you're probably driving at.

Prescott raised his head, his eyes obscured by distant lights reflecting on his thick-rimmed glasses. "Men of great causes win wars. It's sine qua non. Nothing in this world happens without a cause, least of all victory."

"I've no doubt you have one, Mr. Prescott. You've talked about it since the first day of our agreement."

"I don't merely have a great cause, Jefferson," Prescott replied. "I have a great enemy. Whose face I've never seen." He hurled the flat stone across the water, making it skip four times before it disappeared into the waves. "You took up my cause without ever believing I had an adversary, but that's understandable. I've never shown you any physical proof.

"There's something I want you to see." Prescott then pointed to a section of the beach some fifty feet away. "Go and take a look. Once you're done, come back and we'll talk."

Jefferson's eyes followed his pointing finger to a spot close to the water, then stole a look at Prescott's face. The older man's expression was stony, the look of a general gazing at a distant enemy encampment. He didn't lower his finger until Jefferson jumped down from the pier onto the beach.

He hurried across the sand, not merely for Prescott's sake but because he was now feeling the night air cut into his flesh. He rolled his sleeves down over the goosebumps on his arms and focused his attention on the task at hand. The sooner he was done with whatever nonsense Prescott wanted, the sooner he could get back to the warm shelter of his house.

But there was nothing out here but sand and surf, and the lighthouse gleaming in the distance. They were still at high tide at this hour, but the waves were receding now, based on the water line. Nothing of interest at all—

"Ah!" He pulled his foot back as his shoe struck something in the sand. It felt sharp, like a broken bottle. He must've scuffed his loafer. Gritting his teeth at the pain, he looked down to see some kind of crag jutting out of the sand.

Jefferson squinted in the dim light of a lamppost. This looked rather strange for a rock. In fact, he seemed to have broken off a chunk when his foot made contact. He fished for his phone in his pocket to turn its flashlight at the sand at his feet.

He was wrong—it wasn't a stone. It looked like some kind of coral, still wet from the high tide. The piece that broke off just lay there like a dismembered statue's finger, so he picked it up and held it under the light.

It wasn't coral at all. Coral didn't glitter like this. Moreover, this substance didn't seem organic. It was hollow, brittle, and gritty. In fact, it seemed a bit like quartz, like...

"Glass," muttered Jefferson. He cast the flashlight beam back down onto the ground. Over there was another piece jutting out of the sand. No, not a piece. Beneath the light, it resembled a web of arteries or a partially uncovered tree root. Long tubes of a glasslike substance zigzagging through the beach. It seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn't quite place where he'd seen it before.

Jefferson stalked along the sand, turning the flashlight this way and that. As he followed the substance, he soon realized that they were shaped like a starburst, radiating out from a point several meters from where he first saw the glass. It grew thicker as he approached the center. There they looked even more fantastic—intricate little tendrils and towers that reached up from the sand like tiny claws.

(tiny bird claws)

He squelched that ugly thought in his head and focused on remembering where he'd observed this phenomenon before. Then it came to him. He had seen pictures of this in a science journal some years back. This was fulgurite—a glass-like substance that naturally occurs when lightning strikes sand.

So that bolt from earlier hit this beach. He was amazed to see so much fulgurite, as it mostly formed beneath the ground. That lightning bolt must have been massive indeed for this much to pierce the surface.

Well, this is quite fascinating, he thought. Certainly something to write home about, and promised good money if they could get someone to dig it out of the ground. But it was hardly worth getting dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. He doubted Prescott was the type to waste their time on something like this.

He followed the fulgurite arm till he reached the center of the starburst, and he stopped, eyes widening, breath going shallow. I must be hallucinating, he thought. That can't be real. That's impossible.

Dropping his phone onto the sand, he unslung his Hasselblad and took a picture. Fighting to keep his hand steady, he stared down at the image on the screen. His eyes had not been deceiving him. It was really there.

Jefferson approached, careful to watch his step, and raised his camera again to snap another picture. Then another. And another. After several minutes, he grabbed his phone and sprinted back to the pier.

Prescott hadn't moved from his seat; he crouched there in the dark like a goblin, the glowing cigarette in his hand like a single red eye.

"So you saw it."

"I did," Jefferson breathlessly replied. "I can't even begin to explain how—"

"It doesn't require much explanation." Getting to his feet, Prescott threw the cigarette into the sea and motioned for Skinner to come over. "What it needs is quick, decisive action."

Jefferson stared down at the screen of his camera. He had taken a picture of what must be the center of the starburst, where the fulgurite was thickest. This was the exact spot where the lightning bolt had struck the beach.

Amidst the thick web of hardened lightning was a pair of footprints. Someone had been standing there when the bolt hit the sand.

And that wasn't even the most remarkable thing. Off to the right side of the picture was another starburst with a footprint. And another. Whoever it was had been hit again and again by lightning, but had simply walked away.

Jefferson looked up to meet Prescott's gaze. The older man's face was a mask of hatred. "It's her."

Jefferson blinked. "You mean you suspect the aberrant—"

"I mean the witch. She made me wait three years, but she's awake at last. And this time, she's not getting away."

Skinner, who had just strolled up to them, asked the question that Jefferson was smart enough to avoid. "Sir, we should look at the possibility that this is some kind of fluke. Suppose someone did get hit by lightning and just...survived? If we check the hospital admission records, we could—"

Skinner fell silent as Prescott fixed him a malevolent look.

"Let me be clear when I say I don't give a shit about what you think, Sheriff. Only what I tell you to do. That witch is here in Arcadia Bay. She poses an immediate threat to me—and we don't even know who. She. Is." He jabbed a finger at Skinner, then at Jefferson. "Your task is to find her."

He looked back at Skinner. "I want you to treat this as a crime about to be committed. You have her footprints. I want you to provide me with a description based on that. How tall she is, her build, everything. Then I want you to narrow down a list of young women based on those parameters."

Skinner cleared his throat. "I'm going to need information. Mostly the biodata of students in Blackwell Academy, but also from department stores, hospital records, whatever that's available so I can cast a net."

"You'll get it." Prescott turned to Jefferson. "Is the Dark Room all set up?"

"It is," Jefferson confirmed. "I've tested it on a few subjects. But no positives so far." He shifted his balance to the other foot. "Should I wait till you have the list of candidates based on the prints?"

"That may take too long. I want you busy. Do you already have someone in mind?"

Jefferson thought back to Rachel. "I do have some candidates," he averred. "Blackwell students."

Prescott's gaze drilled into him, as if sensing he was hiding something. Finally, he nodded. "Fine. Get it done, fast. Notify me at once when you find something."

Skinner spoke up again. "What about the site, sir? Can I pull my boys out now or..."

"Leave them there. Given what we've found, I'm moving up the timetable. I'll send in workers over the next few days to start construction and I don't want them interrupted."

Skinner scratched his chin. "Indians won't like that, sir. They may stir up trouble."

"I don't care if they send lawyers or warbands. Keep them away from the site. You'll have ample opportunity to do your job."

Jefferson said, "Suppose we tell the others? I'm sure they'd provide some help in locating—"

Prescott's face flushed red as he surged forward, his chest almost touching Jefferson's. "You will tell NO ONE!" he thundered, jowls shaking. "NO ONE AT ALL! This is MY operation! I deal with my enemies, you understand?"

"...Yes, sir."

A long silence ensued as Prescott controlled his breathing. "I want that part of the beach cordoned off," he said to Skinner. "Tomorrow, I'll have some men dig up and destroy the fulgurite. In the meantime, make up some bullshit about a dead whale or something, I don't care. I don't want anybody seeing those footprints. I don't want any pictures floating around the internet."

"Got it."

"Good." He gazed at them over the black frames of his glasses. "Do not fail me, either of you. If we find her, you will be rewarded. If we don't, she'll find us. And you'd better pray that won't be the case, because you can expect less mercy from her than from me."

Prescott took one last hard look at both of them, then stalked back up the pier towards his car.

After a moment, Skinner put his leather hat back on and spat into the sea. "So that's my job now, chasing ghosts and goblins." He turned his feet to the parking lot. "You coming, Prof?"

Not for the first time, Jefferson wondered how Prescott could cow a man like Skinner. Then he remembered the look of obsession and fury on Prescott's face. The look of a man who would ruin the world to get what he wanted.

Sine qua non.

"...I'll walk, thanks. I need some time to think."

The cop gave him a strange look. "Suit yourself. I need time to handle this shit tonight, anyway." And he strolled back the way he came.

Jefferson looked back down at the image on his camera's screen. He thought of the life he had left behind here in Arcadia Bay nearly twenty years ago, and how Prescott had forced him to come back. He thought of the task that now hung over him like Damocles's sword.

Mostly though, he thought of why Rachel never came to meet him. His mind rewound back to their last conversation over the phone. Of course. He had missed the obvious. Rachel had mentioned a female friend was staying over, someone who might have stopped her from leaving her house.

She might have mentioned their name.

What was it again?