As the Kent truck took the last turn out of town, Lois finally began to calm down. She looked from her intact window and noted they were now passing the slip road that lead to KROW radio station.

"I guess Chloe is getting all psyched up for her interview there tomorrow." She mused, glancing at the abundance of parked cars in the station's lot.

Clark nodded. Chloe had been the Wall of Weird queen for so long she'd managed to get a spot on the late night show at KROW. He had no doubt she would tell them a thing or two about her past adventures. I just hope I'm not mentioned too much…people might put two and two together.

Lois noticed his sudden serious expression. "What's wrong, Smallv…" Her voice waned as suddenly every parked car in the nearby lot's horn began to blare as if they had an incensed driver- not one car was even inhabited.

Clark slowed but didn't stop, and as he watched each car's headlights began to illuminate until KROW's car park looked more like a traffic jam. The horns continued to wail until the Kent truck had passed and then abruptly ceased.

Lois' eyes widened and she stiffened slightly in her seat, half expecting another invisible barrage through the window. "I'm not even gonna ask…" She muttered shaking her head in disbelief.

Clark frowned and picked up speed again. They were almost home now and he knew he'd feel better once he could talk to his parents. It was useless to try and explain anything to Lois because she had yet to see many of the strange things that could occur in Smallville, but Jonathan and Martha would surely sense the same foreboding he did. This all started with the journal. He let go of the steering wheel with his left hand and felt at his breast pocket where it rested. The diary still sat innocently against his chest.

"Hey, look at those guys!" Lois jerked her thumb towards a light in the distance. "Doesn't look like they've seen anything freaky lately."

Clark took his eyes from the road to see three high school jocks drinking beer and tossing empty cans in a field as if they were playing ball. He knew all three from his days with the Smallville Crows, and he knew the ring leader was definitely not supposed to be throwing such an impromptu party while his dad was out of town.

"It's Spooner," He sighed, "he knows better than to drink on the farm while his dad's away."

Lois watched in the mirror as the three drinking teen's faded into the distance. She didn't know any of them, and deduced she wasn't really missing anything from what she had seen. She'd never tell Clark to his face, but he was really the only thing any good about the Smallville Crows, and after his departure the team held little interest for her.

"After the night I've had I could do with a drink myself!" Lois shot Clark a teasing glance and then held up both hands as he looked back horrified, "Just kidding! I've sworn off that stuff just like I promised!"

Clark scowled but then smiled as he finally pulled onto Hickory Lane and the short drive up to the farm. After the weird night he'd had, Lois' humor seemed small fry.

Ben Steadman tossed a crushed can at his high school buddy Phil Gates and then took another sip from his beer. They'd all been drinking since they'd watched the Sharks win earlier on TV, and now they were ready for some fun.

"Hey, Spooner, man, bring out some more beer will you?" Steadman crushed the remains of the can in his hand and pitched it high at his football buddy.

Spooner tried to deflect the projectile, but his reflexes were just too slow after all the alcohol he'd consumed. The can hit home halfway up his chest and sprayed him with dregs of beer from the opening. "Ben, you'll ruin my damn letterman's jacket!" He slurred out the words and then grinned as he staggered back towards the main farmhouse in the distance. There was more beer to be had in the refrigerator, and no one to stop them consuming in. "Goin for the…beer…"

Both Phil and Ben grinned but didn't attempt to join Spooner in his quest to make it to the house. Neither teen had the balance to get very far, and why should they even make the effort when they had someone else to lug out the bootie?

"So, who you asking out Saturday?" Gates punched his friend a little too hard and almost tumbled over with the motion. He squinted, finding it hard to even keep focus let alone notice the slight mist that was now gathering at his feet.

Steadman didn't appear to have registered the question, "Dunno…" He seemed to teeter on the spot, but had managed to see the now thickening miasma that was engulfing them. "Say, it's getting misty…"

Gates shrugged and then frowned as he at last realized they were now enshrouded in what could only be described as a syrupy grey fog. "What the?" He whirled around, suddenly disorientated, "Which way is the house?"

Steadman didn't answer.

Where the young football player had stood only seconds earlier there was now nothing more than an unearthly dark shadow. It seemed to emanate from the fog itself, and at times even appeared to have human form.

Gates stumbled backwards and tripped in his haste to escape the thing that had somehow taken his friend's place. He fell hard on his back and felt the air knocked from his lungs by the jarring motion.

The shape in the fog watched through glowing red orbs that sat where eyes should have been. Then, as Gates began to panic it moved forward like a floating spectre. There didn't seem to be any legs- just a torso and arms formed by the flurrying action of the mist. At the end of one 'arm' it was easy to discern another shape- an old fashioned sickle that dripped blood from its unnaturally created blade.

Gates gulped. It has to be the drink! What the hell has Spooner put in that stuff? Moonshine?

The phantom ignored Gates' fear. It continued forward until its whirling mass looked down on the teen, and its fiery orbs bored into his soul.

Gates squirmed, trying to push his stupefied body up off the ground, but his boots slid in the dirt he and the others had churned earlier playing football. "No man, NO!"

One solitary scream filled the field as the sickle slashed down at its target, and then there was silence. A silence so final it was as if all of Smallville had been dealt some ungodly form of retribution. Then, as quickly as it had materialized, the fog leached back into the netherworld that had somehow given it life. It would not leave however, until the hour of the dead was over.

Spooner all but rolled into the family kitchen and instantly had the urge to wretch. He'd known earlier he'd drunk more beer than his stomach could handle, but now it was time to pay the price. He tugged off his letterman's jacket before it got yet more stains on it, and tossed it over the back of the nearest chair.

"I'm dead when my parents get home…" The teen grabbed the wastepaper bin from beside the sink and hovered over it, trying not to make himself sick. "Ugh…"

Spooner's head hung there for two minutes before he decided he wasn't going to lose his last meal after all. He gulped down hard and his brow furrowed as he spotted a wisp of smoke whirling around the bin. Can't be smoke, but what then? He looked up and gaped as he realized a wave of mist was billowing under the screen door. Not only that, but someone was standing outside rapping on the side of the house. The knocking was so harsh it sounded like the person would smash a hole right through the wooden timbers.

"Hey, Phil, stop that will you?" Spooner wiped his mouth with the arm of his shirt and headed to the fridge, "I'm coming with the beer, Okay? No need to knock the house down…"

The teenager grabbed a six pack and then scurried back to the screen door. He placed a hand on the wood and drew back the screen just far enough to get a glimpse of what he was letting in, and it was most definitely not Phil Gates.

Spooner stepped back with his jaw hanging open in shock and surprise. He wanted to scream, to yell out for any kind of help that was available, but there was nothing that could stop what awaited outside.

He backed up, still gaping at the three forms that seemed to emanate from the now glowing mist that surrounded the house. They had no features, but appeared dressed in clothes that definitely didn't belong in this century.

"What…wha…do you want?" He stammered at the phantoms, but they didn't respond. How could they when they had no mouths?

Instead, the eddying miasma began to billow into the kitchen, and with it came the vengeful presence from Smallville's past.

Spooner could take no more. His legs buckled beneath him and he slumped into a ball at bottom of the refrigerator door. He placed his arms across his face and cowered, waiting for his fate without daring to look at his persecutors ghastly forms.

In the hallway, his mother's prized Grandfather clock began to chime in a new hour, and unbeknownst to Spooner the hellish fog began to dissipate. For tonight at least, the hour of the dead was over. It was 1am, 21st April…

TBC...