A prophet? Was that what Uncle Jeremiah was? Were his visions allowed to be called something so grand and beautiful as prophecies? And if Jeremiah was a prophet, what did that say about me?

“I loved him,” said Mr. Cartwright. “Your uncle was as close to Jesus as any person I ever met on this earth, and that’s the truth of it.”

“How did Jeremiah die?” I said.

Mr. Cartwright lifted his eyebrows.

“Don’t you know?” he said.

“I want to hear you tell it,” I lied. “I always wanted to hear the whole story, but I’m scared to ask Grandma about it.”

Mr. Cartwright scratched his head and sighed. “Well, short version is, your uncle was snakebit. It was a moccasin that did it. At least that’s what your poor momma told us. Though some folks said he was murdered. That someone had put an end to him. That there was too much light in the world, and so darkness had to come and set a balance to it.”

“But why would somebody want to kill our uncle?” said Murphy.

Mr. Cartwright leaned over the table, his teeth all brown and cracked, his breath a waft of booze and cigarettes. He lowered his voice like he was going to tell us a secret.

“There is a great darkness here in Benign,” he said. “The woods are very old, and they have a power. But the Spirit has its hand on your grandmother—always has. She is a light-bringer, and once I was too. But there aren’t only light-bringers here.” Mr. Cartwright turned his head from left to right, his eyes wandering over the room. “Be careful, children, because in this town evil lurks all around you.”

That’s when I saw him, staring at me from across the bar. He seemed taller than I remembered him, his beard ragged and mangy, his bloodshot eyes gazing right at me.

It was the Hobo.

I started to panic, breathing quicker, hyperventilating.

“What is it?” said Murphy.

He’s not real, I thought. He’s just a vision. He’s only in your mind.

“Murphy,” I said, “we have to go. Right now.”

“Why?” she said. “I still got questions.”

The Hobo took a step toward me, his eyes wide like an owl’s. I could feel the terror in my heart. He had been chasing me all this time, and now he had me away from my home, where I wasn’t safe, where Mom was dead and there was no one left to protect me.

“He’s here,” I said.

“Horace?” said Murphy.

“No,” I said. “It’s the Hobo.”

“Dude, he’s not real. You have to stop.”

But he was so close now, he was almost to our table. I grabbed Murphy’s hand and yanked her out of the booth and ran. I saw a door in the back, an emergency exit. I flung the door open and stumbled into the night.