“Valley 1 county.” Peter said over the radio while he looked at the three deputies standing in front him.

“Go ahead Valley 1.” The response was thin through the scratches of the radio, but it was clear. Peter recognized the voice over the radio as Lana, one of the Staties’ more delectable additions.

“Yeah county, I’ll be out with Valley 3, 7, and 10 at 447 West Street following up on my open case. If you could do me a favor maybe keep a couple guys in the area. More information in the case if they wanna know specifics.”

The radio buzzed back. “10-4.” Peter smiled to himself and set down the mic. “Alright guys,” he said looking up the dark driveway, “We’re dealing with Moose.” There were more than a few raised eyebrows at that. Most of the guys have dealt with Moose once or twice. They knew that he could be reasonable, was reasonable, but they also knew he might be able to kick their asses without even breaking a sweat. There was something different about the strength of those who live the rural life. Not the fake rural life, the real rural life. A life of solitude and poverty accentuated by back breaking manual labor produced odd humors within the rural community.

Terry was the first to speak, running a hand through his flaxen hair, “ Alright, I was wond’ring why ya brought everyone, that makes sense.”

“I don’t think we have much to worry about,” Peter said, “he offered up the information freely in public in front of a witness, so if anything he’s actually on our side this time.”

“How’d he get the truck?” Sebastien spoke next. He was who Peter wanted to bring with him most. Sebastien was a use of force instructor and a goddammed good one at that. He trained in multiple martial arts and was a professional marksman in his past life. Dude practically lived in the gym when he wasn’t on duty.

Peter shrugged in response to his question, “Don’t know, that’s one of the things we’re gonna find out.”

The final deputy, Steve, spoke up, “So what’s the plan?”

“I’m gonna take Stan here,” Peter said referring to Sebastien, “and you two are going to wait at the bottom of the driveway, listening to the radio. If you hear anything besides us telling county we are on our way back I’m gonna need ya to bust ass up that hill.”

“Don’t like that it’s getting dark, Sheriff.” Steve replied, “sure we can’t do this first thing in the morning.”

Peter shook his head, “Yes. We have to go now while we have permission to enter, see that?” Peter pointed to the DANGER, NO ENTRY ALLOWED sign placed next to the old barn gate at the beginning of Moose’s driveway, “That means we can’t drive up there even if we wanted to, we’d have to either have evidence something’s goin’ down or file a search warrant, and I kinda hate doing paperwork, so lets take what we got, huh?” Peter looked around and when he saw no further questions he clapped his gnarled hands together, “Alright, time to get to work boys.”

He hopped in his Ford-F150 built to interceptor standards and motioned for Sebastien to get in. The man was quiet as he settled himself into the tight quarters of a police cruiser. Peter’s headlights twisted and shifted as he maneuvered the vehicle to Moose’s tight driveway. The lights forced the shadows to move around the Sheriff’s vehicle as if they were slipping around it. As if they hid something and were running from the light of day.

Peter had always hated doing work at night time, especially in the more rural parts of Vermont. The forest always held secrets, shadows, and things he couldn’t explain.

Ronald, the previous Sheriff, had always told Peter to be careful around the farmers and the cornfield cul-de-sacs. That weird things happened out there and it was often better to let nature take its course than get involved. As he looked around and peered into the woods and saw the craggy, washed away driveway move in front of him, he suddenly wished Harold had never walked into his office. That Peter had forgotten the first rule of police work: don’t get involved if you don’t have to.

But here he was, so he’d at least take a look. The top of the driveway looked exactly like he thought it would. His headlights illuminated the shack that Moose probably called home. “What a fucking shitbox,” Sebastien said.

“Yeah, don’t surprise me.” Peter replied just as his headlights hit the green Ford Ranger. He slammed on the brakes and the truck came to gravelly stop. “I’ll be fucked, there it is.” He turned on his spotlight and turned it on the truck.

“Aw fuck me Sheriff, that looks fucked to me.” Sebastien saw the hole in the windshield before Peter did.

Neither saw the browned blood stains, but they saw enough to raise their hackles. Before Peter could even reach for the radio however, a light caught his eye. The barn to his right was glowing.

It was glowing from the open door. From the cupula. From the closed shutters. It was glowing from everywhere. Peter couldn’t have described the light, its color, or even where it came from. If you asked him then where it came from, he would have sworn to you it was coming from the sky. But deeper than that. Further than that.

“Looks like a fucking rave, Sheriff. What you wanna do?” Sebastien’s voice was tight. He was scared and he saw what Peter saw.

“Call up the boys, get out the shotgun, but keep it nearby, not in your hand. We don’t want to spook him if nothing’s going on.”

“You got it Sheriff.” Sebastien leaned over and grabbed the hand set. Peter took a deep breath, opened the door, and turned on his mobile unit. “Valley 3 to Valley 7.”

Peter began walking to the barn, his hand reflexively resting on the Glock at his hip. “Valley 7.” The beam of light exploding from within the barn illuminated the concentric circles etched into the grass. Each mower scraped line seemed to cast extra lines of shadow when lit by the lit in the barn. Peter might have noticed the bizarre shifting scrawl those shadows produced had his eyes not been affixed on the open barn door.

“Yeah Valley 7, gonna need you on our 20.”

“10-4.”

He saw that same goddammed shadow that was just above Moose’s shoulder at the gas station. Everything shouted at Peter to turn and run. The woods. The sky. It all wailed in Peter’s ears. Something sounded wrong on the radio but he couldn’t hear anything besides the growing roar of the light.

The barn must have been one hundred yards from the shack and the driveway, but Peter felt like he was walking into the void. It was drawing him in, consuming him and there was nothing he could do about it.

When he finally got to that door he was hyperventilating, shaking. Curiosity did kill the fucking cat. Peter knew this. He’d seen this. And he stepped into that fucking barn anyway.

He didn’t have time to look at it all, no his eyes were just affixed at the woman floating inches above the floor, her mouth and her eyes open, agape really. He couldn’t see it, but he could. There was… something amorphous and horrible entering and leaving her at the same time. She was engulfed in that bizarre light and, had he longer to think, he might have thought she was the source.

But instead he was trembling. Shaking. Moose was glaring at him. And every moment he and Peter locked eyes Moose seemed to grow.

It wasn’t his height or his grimace that caused Peter to turn and run. It was the claws. Black, pitch dripping claws were erupting from Moose’s fingertips. And his eyes were gone. Replaced by obsidian jewels that echoed the night sky.

Peter turned and ran.

His duty belt grated against his hips and he hadn’t run in years but renewed vigor consumed his limbs. The dark forest around the clearing seemed to close in and he think he heard shouting. He yelled at Sebastien to get the gun, to shoot the bastard. To Sebastien’s credit he seemed to be yelling back but Peter couldn’t hear what about.

His lungs were burning and he swore he felt the thunderous footfalls of bigfoot behind him. He didn’t turn to look. He just wanted to get to the truck, turn it on, and get the fuck out of there.

When he did get to the truck he wanted to fall over. To gasp for air. The roar of the shotgun shook Peter out of his reverie. “Where the fuck are they?” He shouted.

Sebastien turned to reply but something was wrong. It all seemed delayed to Peter. Like he knew what happened before he saw it. A massive maw opened wide around Sebastien’s head. A void with teeth really. It clamped down and ripped. Sebastien’s head disappeared and a geyser of blood erupted from the stub of Sebastien’s neck.

Peter wailed and ignored the reality of a head chomping shadow monster. He was already in the truck. Before he could turn the key, everything rocked and crunched underneath him. He reached for the radio, “Fucking get up here, send fucking help.” He screamed.

“Fucking get up here, send fucking help.” His own voice screamed back at him.

“Stan’s dead, fucking hurry.” He cried.

“Stan’s dead, fucking hurry.” His own voice cried back at him.

It took Peter longer than it should have to realize he wasn’t saying everything twice. He looked up. Moose was straddling the hood of his truck.

His mouth was stretched open, agape and resting on the hood of the truck and his skin was wavering in the darkness, shimmering like there was a coat of thick mucus and it reflected the night sky. A horrible hushing, like a thousand mosquitos flying all at once filled Peter’s ears. It was roaring all around and then to his horror, he knew what it reminded him of. Radio static.

“Valley 1. County.” Peter said, crying.

“Valley 1. County.” Echoed Moose. Then he looked down at Peter. “Ain’t no one heard ya Pete. They never heard ya.”