Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois by Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario Page A

stay long enough to at least greet her uncle’s expected guest. Hopefully with his host out of the picture, the visitor might be convinced to turn around and leave.
    In the meantime, she had some time to kill in the morning and decided to take a closer look around the property, which had been a working farm at one time judging by the stone fences that zig-zagged through the surrounding woods. But outside, her plans melted away when her eyes fell on Sabbat Hill and she remembered the strange glow she’d seen from its summit the night before.
I wonder if the old path still leads up the hill?
she wondered, heading to the rear of the house.
    Ducking her head, she entered the path and began walking. Surprisingly, the trail had remained clear over the years with only the occasional overhanging branch needing to be swept aside. She passed by the old swamp and through a glade of birch trees that she remembered being impressed with years before. Shortly, the ground began to rise as she reached the base of the hill, growing steeper as she continued along the path. Presently, the surrounding forest began to thin out, the trees grew shorter with rough scrub beginning to dominate. The soil became more rocky and more sun made things hotter.
    As she neared the crest, the old standing stones peeked over the brow of the hill and in another moment, she was standing among them. Looking back, she could plainly see the roof of her uncle’s house amid the trees below, and the clearing a few miles away where the town center ought to have been. Nothing else was in sight. Some pasturage could be seen farther in the distance and fields of ripening corn lapped up the sides of other, nearby hills, giving evidence that the hand of man had, after all, been at work in the area.
    Turning, she walked amid the old stones, once again remembering all the stories she’d heard about them when she was growing up in Dean’s Corners: that they’d been there even before the time of the Indians, that they’d been erected by castaway Vikings in honor of their cruel Norse gods, that covens of witches used them for unholy rites during the time of the Salem troubles. Darlene’s favorite was the story about the Whateleys, a family of inbreds who worshipped the devil…no, what was it?…something from “outside.” For some reason, from the way people around town said it, she’d always imagined the word having quotation marks around it. She’d always been inclined to dismiss such stories, but with evidence of a freshly-doused fire amid the stones seeming to suggest otherwise…or maybe it was just some local kids sneaking a few beers away from their elders. She kicked at the blackened spot where the fire had been and looked around for the expected shards of shattered glass or crushed cans. She didn’t find any, but did notice a peculiar smell. Then, looking at her watch, she realized she needed to be heading back. The wake was scheduled for early afternoon and she needed to freshen up.
    A few hours later, Darlene found herself standing in the gloom of the funeral parlor in Dean’s Corners. At one end of the room stood her uncle’s coffin. The lid was open and when she’d looked inside, decided that her uncle didn’t look much different in death than he had in life. Folding chairs had been arranged around the periphery of the room and a thick, maroon rug helped to deaden the sound of any conversation. Not that there was much talk; there were few family members in town, and those that were around refused to have anything to do with Silas Cobb. Partly because he
was
Silas Cobb, but mostly because he lived in Dunwich. Most residents in Dean’s Corners didn’t have much to do with Dunwich folk, resenting the fact that they were forced to spend their taxes offering services to a town that refused to provide them for itself.
    With the afternoon sun getting low on the horizon, Darlene was about to quit her vigil when someone actually walked into the room. Was