Noises emanated from the hollows down by the side of the road: the fluttering of wings, the soft padding of hooves on pine needles, the clicking of claws into oak bark. But he was not as aware of those natural sounds as he was of the preternatural sounds of the multitude in his mind. There, to his left, upon an old sycamore tree was a crucifixion, a man with wings full and white and glorious like an egret’s and with the graceful lean body of an athlete, spread-eagled against the massive trunk. He had been scalped, the raw flesh hanging in tatters along his head, his eyes wide and dead in a fixed and distant gaze, the blood streaking and streaming down the lean body, splattered all over the once-magnificent wings. About the base of the tree a gang of reptilian creatures were busy lighting a fire beneath him, and they sang a song without words.

Horace asked, Why?

The demon chuckled. Why not? Then he said, Walk along. Walk along.

Down the road, where the highway bent and the huge bill-board advertised the piers down by the sea, only twenty-five miles yet, Horace could see the few buildings that huddled together and called themselves the town of Tims Creek.

Continue, said the voice.

Down the lane he walked. To his left, off to the distance, was the sound of yapping hounds. The huge cornfield that stretched down to the edge of the town shimmered in the starlight as the breeze tossed the wet-green leaves of the young cornstalks, ever so gently, like a calm sea.

Stop, said the demon. Do you know where you are?

Horace nodded.

Where?

At my church.

Ah-hah.

Why—Horace started to speak but the demon said, Shssh.

First Baptist Church of Tims Creek rose before him in the clear night like a dark vision, moonshadows speckling the white steeples, its red brick appearing murky in the wee morning light. The limbs of the giant oak tree that grew just to the left of the edifice swayed in the slight breeze. Beneath Horace’s bare feet he could feel the freshly cut grass, tickling, and he smelled its sweet scent and began to miss the idea of grass. As he approached the front door, two tall whitewashed gates, he heard music from inside and the stained glass windows began to glow.

At the door he stopped. Open it, said the demon.

But . . . how?

From behind him stepped a munchkin, no more than three-feet-five, its face painted white like a clown’s, its nose ridiculously red. It had a mocking expression on its face. Pointing first at Horace’s gun and then toward the door, it mimed for Horace to jam the gun in between the two doors and then pop it open. Its eyes grew wide as if to say, Presto! It looked at Horace, rolled its eyes while dusting off its gloved hands, and walked away, into the darkness. The singing inside continued.