The Camaro Murders by Ian Lewis Page A

outline of a man at the end of the trail, with one foot up on a fallen tree. Behind him is an open field.
    I take a few steps ahead to get the man in clear view. He’s tall and gangly, but stands like he’s got authority. His close-cropped hair has a salt and pepper look. His clothes are old—not worn out, but like they’re from a hundred years ago.
    Fingers hooked in his vest, he says, “Well, what have we got here? A couple of road-weary travelers, I presume. How long have you been on the go?”
    I keep a watchful eye on the man because I’m not sure what to expect at this point. “Since this morning.”
    â€œAh-hah! You can’t be road-weary yet, then. Have you been in contact with any of our friends? How about the opposition? Any of them to contend with?”
    â€œI’m not sure who ‘our friends’ are,” I say.
    â€œYou know,” he says, “anyone like you or me. We’re all in the same boat; we’re all in this together.”
    â€œWell, there was the fellow back at the cottage.” I recount the conversation from earlier this morning.
    â€œAh, yes,” the man says, “the Driver. Self-righteous fellow. I’ve seen him around. He’s been at this game for awhile now.”
    â€œThen there was the boy,” I say. “I was following him when we got separated in the fog.”
    The man’s features freeze. “Did you say a boy? How old?”
    At this, Conrad appears from the brush, howling. His teeth are bared, and he lunges for the man.
    I step back without thinking, not sure what to do.
    The man tries to side-step, but can’t avoid the boy’s jaws from locking onto his leg. “You little bastard!” he yells before reaching down to grab Conrad by the hair. With one strong move, he wrenches Conrad away and flings him aside.
    Conrad rolls into the brush from where he came, and then runs off into the woods.
    â€œHis rabid little friends are probably close behind,” the man says. “They don’t stray too far from one another. Let’s go—we should get a move-on.”
    More confused than ever, I start after the man. Halfacre follows.
    â€œHe and his friends were probably going to eat you. I’ll bet he was going to walk you right to them,” the man says.
    â€œEat me?” I say in disbelief.
    â€œYour dog, too,” the man says as we move out into the field. He turns to me and sees I don’t understand. “Your body isn’t the same as it was before, my friend, but you still have matter.”
    â€œWhat does that mean for me?” My mind can’t take much more. First they tell me I’m dead, and now I almost get eaten. What kind of jacked-up world is this?
    â€œIt means you’ve got a super-physical body. New and improved.”
    â€œNew and improved…” I mutter to myself.
    The man puts a narrow hand on my shoulder. “Just stick with me, and I’ll show you the ropes.”
    â€œThanks, I guess. What do I call you?”
    The man grins like his name tastes good. “Tickseed.”

A Haunting
    February 20th, 1999
    Inside Sheriff Hildersham’s bedroom
    Life has a way of forging ahead with or without you, but there’s something that eats at a man. To some it’s the guilt of what they’ve done, to others it’s the memory of what they used to have. For me it’s the knowledge of what I witnessed. Sheriff or not, knowing I saw something I was never meant to see is like a cancer in my conscience.
    There’s something else out there too. It pulls with the same sense of recollection. Like that car in the parking lot tonight, it taunts me. It waits for me to go out on a limb like I almost did when I was a deputy. I’m wary to give in, but I can’t hold out forever.
    Josie is curled up next to me in the cool of our bedroom. She sleeps easy most nights, especially when it’s cold out. Her breathing is