Darkness on the Edge of Town by Brian Keene

about to respond when Christy silenced us.
    “Listen,” she said.
    We did.
    At first I didn’t hear anything. But after maybe thirty seconds, I noticed that there were sounds in the darkness. They started out quiet but grew louder as we listened—slithering noises, growls and grunts and muted, warbling shrieks. All sounded as if they were coming from a long distance away. Some of the noises sounded human. Others didn’t. But in addition to those sounds, each of us heard something else, too. The darkness spoke to us. It whispered to us with familiar voices long unheard. Later, when we compared notes, we learned that each of us had heard something different.
    The darkness spoke to Christy with her father’s voice. He’d died of a sudden heart attack two years earlier. Secretly I’d always thought that his death had a lot to do with Christy’s dependence on drugs and alcohol. I mean, we both liked to party, but for her, the partying had become something more after her father passed away.
    Russ heard his ex-wife’s voice in the darkness, which was funny, he said, since before that moment, he hadn’t heard from her in more than twelve years. He didn’t know anything about her, other than she’d moved to North Carolina and started a new life without him, but now it was like she was hiding in the shadows and calling his name.
    For me, the darkness sounded like my grandfather. I never knew my dad, and my mom worked two jobs to provide for me, so my grandparents pretty much raised me. I didn’t mind. They were both good people, and I’d loved them very much. Me and Mom lived with them. I slept in Mom’s old room, and she slept on the couch. When I was little, my grandfather was my best friend. We built extensive, highly detailed model train dioramas on top of his workbench, outfitting them with little houses and trees and fake grass and tiny cars. When I was twelve, he took me on a trip to Norfolk to see the navy ships heading out to sea, and another time, he took me on a weekend visit to Colonial Williamsburg. In the summertime, he used to take me out on the back roads in his car. When we got to a place where there was no traffic, I’d sit on his lap and he’d let me drive the car. He’d work the gas and brake while I steered. I’d loved him, and still did. Thought of him all the time. He’d passed away when I was fifteen. Came in one day from mowing the lawn, drank half a glass of water, and collapsed in the kitchen. Heart attack, just like Christy’s father. I remember how unreal it had all seemed, sitting there by his side along with my grandmother while we waited for the paramedics to arrive. We’d tried CPR and mouth to mouth, but neither worked. His lips were already turning blue by thetime the ambulance pulled into the driveway. They said his death was quick, and that nothing could have been done, as if that was supposed to comfort me somehow.
    As I’d gotten older, I sometimes forgot how his voice had sounded, but when I heard it there in the darkness, there was no question in my mind—it was him.
    Except that it wasn’t. I knew that somehow, on some primal, instinctive level I didn’t understand; I knew the whispers in the darkness weren’t those of my dead grandfather. The voice sounded exactly like him, so much that it made my chest ache. It even smelled like him—Old Spice and cherry-flavored pipe tobacco and the strong scent of mentholated arthritis cream. Those scents wafted out of the darkness, and they were strangely comforting. But then I realized that there was no breeze to blow them; the air was deathly still, almost stiflingly so. So how was I smelling them? Where was he?
    And then, even as those thoughts crossed my mind, he appeared, standing on the far side of the town limits sign, right in the middle of the road. He didn’t look like he had when he died—he looked younger than that, the grandfather of my fondest memories. He shone with a pale inner light, like there was a halo