“You make your best guess. You bind it with a spell, with salt and holy water, and you hurt it any way you can. A magic dagger. A silver bullet. And most monsters can be killed if you cut off their head.”
My sister laughed. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not. Killing a monster is never easy.”
* * *
I CARRIED MY monster-hunting backpack, the little revolver tucked inside it, just in case.
My flashlight illuminated the narrow path through the trees. I stopped occasionally to shine the light on the map Skink had drawn for me and his notes. Take the path from the campground to the Silver Trail. Turn left. Follow the Silver Trail to the Tower Trail on the right.
I was on the Silver Trail now.
It was quiet in the sanctuary, only the low hum of insects, the occasional call of a loon. I couldn’t see the water, but I could smell it, feel it all around me: a dampness in the air, the vaguely ruined scent of decaying weeds, water lilies, and old leaves floating on the surface.
I swept the beam of my flashlight along the trail and spotted the sign up ahead: TOWER TRAIL. I turned right, following it, a narrow path covered with little pebbles that rolled under my feet like marbles.
The wind blew through the trees, seemed to whisper a warning, a warning like the old gods once whispered: Danger, danger. Turn back while you can.
Sometimes monsters dwelled in enchanted places.
Was this one of those places?
Had I crossed a veil of some kind?
Yes, the wind whispered.
And your human weapons will do no good here.
You can’t win.
The trail took me steeply uphill, my feet slipping on the stones.
I felt it before I saw it, stepped into the thick, dark shadow it cast.
The tower was massive against the moonlit sky, built of stone and mortar; it seemed to be leaning slightly to the left. No wonder I’d mistaken its image for a lighthouse—it was tall and round, slightly wider at the base than at the top.
I heard a soft rustle. Feet against stone.
Had it come from inside?
Was the monster in there, watching, waiting?
I remembered playing hide-and-seek when we were kids, counting to fifty with my head buried in the living room couch cushions, rushing up the stairs to search for my sister: Ready or not, here I come!
I could see a yawning doorway and five little square windows, staggered.
I approached the tower, listening hard. No more sounds came from inside. No sound came from anywhere.
It felt as if the whole world was holding its breath.
There were two boards nailed up over the doorway and a sign: DANGER! TOWER CLOSED! NO TRESPASSING!
I shone my light inside, saw a metal spiral staircase, rusted through in places. On the cement floor were smashed bottles, a stained T-shirt, leaves and sticks and candy wrappers. The remnants of a small fire, which was complete idiocy—who would light a fire in there? Old dry wooden timbers jutted out, tied into the metal stairs. And all those old leaves and sticks would go up like a tinderbox.
ENTER AND DIE was written on the wall in red spray paint, with a pentagram drawn next to it. And beneath it, another message sprayed in white paint: Rattling Jane Was Here!
I smelled old crumbling cement. Earth. Stale beer. Urine.
And cigarette smoke. Faint, but recent.
I swallowed down the lump that was starting to form in my throat and carefully unshouldered my pack, opened it, and took out the little .38 Special, then shrugged the knapsack back on. I ducked under the warning boards crossing the doorway, the gun in my right hand, the flashlight in my left.