The Call of Distant Shores by David Niall Wilson, Bob Eggleton

lost.
    Just as he'd begun to look for a place to turn around and head back the other way, he spotted one last house on the right side of the road.   There was a car parked in the front yard, its door open and the dome-light on.
    "I'm going to pull in and ask whoever that is for directions," he said with relief.   "It looks like they just got home!"
    Jo didn't say anything, but he noticed that she was gripping the armrest on the door tightly and her lips were compressed in a very, very poor imitation of a smile.   It didn't help that there was an old abandoned church in the lot across the way from the house.
    He stared at it, realizing almost immediately what seemed out of place.   There was a "FOR RENT" sign on the door!   A church for rent, and it came with its own small cemetery out back.   Swell.   How many gods could be in the market?
    He pulled into the driveway behind where the other car was still parked, and he turned off the ignition.
    "Wait here?" he asked.
    Jo didn't look enthusiastic about being left alone, but it was obvious that she'd rather be near the ignition and the gas pedal than walking into some strange country homestead and chatting up the locals.   That was fine.   Alone, he could hurry it along, find out where that damned road with the three silos was, and they'd be on their way.   Once they'd finally reached Beth's and gotten settled in, he was certain things would be fine.   At least he hoped they would.
    Crossing the unkempt yard quickly, lips twisted in a friendly smile, Dave approached the car.   It was obvious now that, though the door was open, the dome light and stereo on, the occupant of the vehicle had no intention of getting out and going inside.   Judging from the two flat tires on the closest side of the vehicle and the flowers growing up through the fender in front, it was more of a home addition than a vehicle these days.
    Just as Dave was beginning to think that maybe Jo was right, maybe they would be better off just finding the place on their own, an arm slipped out from the car's shadowy interior to dangle loosely over the door, which was slightly ajar, and a face appeared in the window.
    If he hadn't known the man was in prison, and that the idea was ludicrous, he would've sworn that the face belonged to Charlie Manson.   Long, greasy hair dangled past thin, emaciated shoulders, and the eyes that stared out from the shadows of that car were feral – like those of a rodent, or some wild predator, gleaming at him through the darkness.
    "Yeah?" the man said, and the dry, rasping sound of his voice, followed by a rattling cough, brought things back to reality.   It wasn't Charlie Manson, that was for sure.
    "Excuse me," Dave began brightly, holding out a hand that the other man ignored pointedly, "but we're looking for the Lindbergh place – it's a farm near here.   I think we must have taken a wrong turn off the main road back there."
    He pointed vaguely back the way they'd come, trying without success to remember just which number turnoff they'd actually taken.
    "You lookin' for Herb?" the man asked, his eyes slightly unfocused.   He acted as though he hadn't heard a word Dave had said, and it was obvious that he was drunk, or stoned, or both.   At least Dave hoped he was.
    "No," he answered slowly.   "I don't know any Herb – is he a relative of the Lindberghs ?"
    The man looked at him as if he were crazy.   "Nope, don't think so.   He'll be here in a little bit, though, you could wait."
    "But I don't want to see Herb," Dave burst out, exasperated.   "I'm just looking for directions to my friend's farm."
    "I don't know these parts too well," the man told him slowly.   "You might go inside and ask – someone ought to be able to help you."
    Dave turned, giving Jo a "what can I do?" kind of shrug, and looked about himself quickly.   He saw the church next door, its graveyard pointed directly at him and the "FOR RENT" sign hanging at an ominous angle on the