Once up on top of the bluff, Violet and Tate looked down on the beach from the scenic viewpoint. They didn't need the coin-operated viewfinder to see the large wave that crashed into the shore below. It was so huge, it pushed back the fog as it rolled in. Black water covered the whole beach for a few seconds then retreated again, leaving the pale sand studded with broken wood and chunks of colored plastic and glass. And still the hat men stood there.

"Okay, that's just fuckin' creepy," Tate observed. He was starting to actively dislike the shadow people, even as he was taking mental notes on how to copy their act.

Violet put an arm around his waist and leaned against his side. The wind picked up again and she let it tug at her hair. To her, it felt good. Exhilarating and icy. The presence of the hat men on the beach didn't bother her, though they were admittedly weird. She suspected they had something to do with the increasing waves but what or why was beyond her ken.

"What do you think they're doing?" she speculated.

Tate put his arm around her shoulders. "Jerking off."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged the corner of her mouth. Another wave came crashing in below, bigger than the last. It submerged the sandy alcove and the first few steps that led up the bluff. Violet's smile faded into a thoughtful frown as she watched the water swirl above the heads of the hat men then recede. The waves were coming in faster, stronger. The next couple also brought in bigger debris, with the last depositing a badly dented motorcycle on the beach.

"Holy shit," Tate breathed when he saw the twisted blue and black metal. "Maybe it's a hurricane."

Violet blinked, her thoughts immediately rushing back to Long Beach. "Shit. Maybe."

The giant waves came crashing in one on top of the next, loud and fierce, battering the side of the bluff relentlessly. The wind picked up too, rising from a whistle to a howl. The hat men could no longer be seen; the water level had risen so that they were covered even when the tide pulled out. One after the other, the mighty waves slammed into the shore, spraying the overlook with cold mist.

In a shockingly short amount of time, the waves were crashing at their feet. The fog retreated from the violent onslaught, forcing the ghosts to retreat as well. The force of the storm was a truly impressive magnitude.

"How far inland do you—" Tate started but Violet grabbed his arm and yanked hard, catching his attention.

"Look!" was all she could get out. She pointed wildly out to sea.

The fog had cleared a good distance and while it was dark, there was enough moonlight shining through now to make out the outline of a tremendous figure offshore. Bipedal, it moved with steps so huge it took a good five seconds just to shift one giant toad-like leg in front of the other. It was too dark to make out features, but the slippery wet creature must have been at least eight stories tall. It was the cause of the waves. Each step it took forward pushed another giant wave outward. It stopped for a moment and swiveled its disproportionately large head about on a serpentine neck, acting as if it scented something on the raging wind. Then it surged ahead, sending another monstrous wave their way.

"Whoa," Tate breathed as ice-cold water rushed in around his ankles. "Not a hurricane."

—

"I don't have time for this nonsense," Constance interrupted, crushing her cigarette out in the ashtray.

Tate looked wounded. They were at her house and he'd just spent the last half hour trying to relate his recollection of the experience to her. "It's true! Ask Violet!"

"Violet," Constance exhaled smoke from the last drag of her dead cigarette. "Is hardly a trustworthy advocate for your lies." She reached over and smoothed his hair back from his broody face. "Go play, sweetheart. Mama's busy."

And she was. Michael was convinced an attack was coming soon, that it had something to do with the fire at Misty Day's house and Troy's disappearance. She had preparations to make. She didn't know or care why Tate wanted to sell her on Loch Ness monster stories except that he knew she didn't have time for him right now. He never handled competition for her attention well.

Tate could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with her, which hurt his feelings more. "It's true," he sulked and stalked out of the kitchen.

He made sure to slam the front door nice and hard before disapparating back to the Montgomery mansion. He holed up in the basement, under the table where the world couldn't reach him. He hugged his knees and picked at his sneaker and hoped a Cthulhu-creature would come and step on his mother's house.

…

It was late but the lobby of the old hotel was lit with candles and firelight. Michael sat in one of the white wingback chairs near the firepit, his black suit and shiny shoes a stark contrast to the pale upholstery. His expression was nearly as dark as his outfit and he rubbed his chin, stewing privately.

Sitting to his right was Constance, with Jeremiah beside her. Both were watching the Antichrist brood. They had been in discussion for hours. Most of their supporters had retired long ago, exhausted by preparations for something they couldn't even guess at. The settlement was fortified, the seven walls shored up, with the outermost wall fitted with ballistas crafted by one of New 'Salem's resident families.

For a while the only sound in the room was that of the wood in the firepit crackling and snapping. Then there came a disturbance outside: A vehicle's engine roared up outside, car doors slamming soon after. The double doors swung open with force and a man decked out in the designated garb of the wall patrol burst in. He cast about wildly before catching sight of Michael, who was just beginning to stir from his dark ruminations.

"My Lord," the man said, hurrying that way. He attempted to bow as he did so, nearly tripping himself. "It's Troy."

Open interest lit Michael's sharp features. "What about him?"

"He's here."

Those last words came from the doorway. Troy was indeed there. He wore a plain white t-shirt and a pair of ill-fitting jeans belted on with an extension cord. The work boots he wore were likewise sized for someone larger than him. He had a nasty bruise on his left cheek that ran from the corner of his eye down to his jaw, but he was smiling smugly as he came in. He carried a black plastic bag in one hand as he swaggered over to the group.

"So he is," Michael smiled. "Welcome back to the fold."

"I've brought you a gift," said Troy.

He carried the black grocery-sized sack over to Michael's chair but rather than hand it to him, he set the thing down a few feet away. There he pushed the bag down so that the contents were revealed to the room. It was a man's head, ghastly and grey, the eyes rolled up at odd angles.

"May I present Bishop Riley," Troy introduced as he straightened, motioning to the head with a grand flourish. "The leader of the now-defunct New World United church."

"That's disgusting," opined Constance, pinching her nose delicately against the smell.

Jeremiah stared at the rotted head. The face was desiccated but still recognizable. He had met the man before, he knew, but it was hard to reconcile that memory with the atrocity on the floor. Troy's self-satisfied expression and Michael's obvious pleasure made the whole scene even more grotesque, like a twisted version of the Renaissance painting of the beheading of John the Baptist. He forced himself to look away so he wouldn't have to decide how to feel about the sight.

"It's brilliant," Michael corrected his grandmother, pride bolstering his tone. "What of the rest of them?"

"All dead," Troy verified without hesitation. "Except the children. I locked them in the basement with a week's worth of supplies. I thought you might want to send a caravan to collect them. There's maybe ten or fifteen of them, babies and middle schoolers."

Constance's brows inched up. "You left a bunch of children out there to fend for themselves?"

Troy shifted his attention to her, his demeanor cooling. He didn't like his victory march being criticized. "I locked them in, with enough supplies to last a week."

For a moment, Constance was so outraged, she couldn't even find words to express her ire. Her nails dug into the arms of the chair she sat in. Her indignation peaked, propelling her to her feet.

"You're an idiot!" she spat. It took all of her control not to slap the young man senseless. She focused on the messenger who came with him instead. "You! Assemble a recovery team to go get those kids. Now!"

The man hesitated to check Michael's reaction, but the blond man offered him nothing. So, the wall patrolman hurried back out of the hotel, to do as Constance instructed. He didn't know where they were heading but he could figure that out after he got the group geared up.

"Such a natural mother," said Michael.

Constance's dark eyes slid his way. She could tell by the subtle twist to his smile that the words were intended to be the barb she sensed. "Suffer the children to come unto me," she said loftily. "God knows no one else on this planet seems to have the skill. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go check on our own little 'miracles'."

The twins had been fussing in tandem for nearly three days, unable to be consoled for long. Their cries had unnerved nearly every ghost in the Montgomery estate. Between their unpleasantness and having to keep Tate and Rose away from them, Constance was worn thin with her own bloodline. Having new children about, ones that weren't spoiled by the darkness yet, would be a welcome breath of fresh air. But for the time being she would return to the house and the relentless demands of Michael's sons.

He watched her go, tempted to get in a parting verbal shot. But the head Troy presented him with was more interesting than baiting her, so he tuned out her departure, and Jeremiah's quiet "good night" as well.

"We should do something with it," he said, perking up at the notion. "Mount it on a pole outside the gate or something equally epic and old school."

"Going for a Vlad the Impaler motif?" Troy grinned. Then he winced because smiling big hurt his face.

"If it works…" Michael spread his hands. "I want anyone coming here to know we won't take shit. From anyone or anything."

Troy nudged the head with his stolen boot. A small beetle scurried out of the dead man's nose and ducked inside his ashen mouth. "Now I'm kind of sorry I didn't grab the heads of the others. Maybe I'll go back with Rowen when he takes the crew to get the kids."

"That's up to you," Michael dismissed without concern. Troy's appearance was disheveled but it was apparent he wasn't truly harmed by his ordeal. "If you do go, make sure they grab the supplies you left, and anything else there that's useful. There's…something. Something's coming. Soon."

Troy gave him a puzzled frown. "What?"

"I don't know," Michael scowled, his good mood deteriorating as he edged back toward the broody thoughts that had preoccupied him before. "I…don't know. Something…big." He rubbed his temple, hating how vague he was being. "I keep having these dreams of something major happening. Dark skies and wind and buildings crumbling and people…people under rubble and…"

He scrunched his eyes shut but trying to focus on the details of the visions only made them flee. He finally shook his head and waved the whole matter off with a restless hand gesture. "Just know that something big is coming down real soon. So get there and get back fast."

Troy nodded. "I've gotta go shower. Find something to eat. You want me to put that somewhere?"

Michael gave the head new regard. "Set it on the check-in desk for now."

"Sick," Troy smiled.

He scooped the bag up and carried it over to the desk where he positioned the head facing the front doors. Anyone coming into the lobby would have that gruesome sight to welcome them.

...

Author's Note:

Disney ran a series of shorts back in the late 80s/early 90s that had the same name as this chapter title. I figured it was appropriate not only to the content of the chapter but as a nod to Disney acquiring American Horror Story when they purchased 20th Century Fox. If it weren't for that merger, there's a good chance you would've been seeing this story as an official graphic novel. As it is, the merger forced the shut down of many prospective projects under Fox's umbrella.

Of course I would've preferred to have the story made canon. The good news is, since the project got grounded, you'll always have free access to this story. It just won't have the awesome pictures I wanted to show you.

Next time: It's the end of the world, as we know it. But that doesn't mean this nightmare's over.