The reason had always seemed self-evident. Rural areas had changed the least over time and still had many ties to the past, especially concerning myths and superstitions. Nowhere else were they upheld and revered as they were in the country. Most were transplanted long ago from the Old Country and elsewhere, but the origin mattered little in the end. Folktales were well-loved traditions in these parts, a glimpse back into time, a heritage to be savored, even if a few of those old stories did raise the hairs on the back of one’s neck. Hellhounds, haunted houses, boogeymen—they all existed out here, not consciously but down deeper, on a primal level. They fed a fear that still resurfaced from time to time when the lights went out and the sounds of the night closed in.

The stories fed the fear. And maybe it was that fear that attracted the evil.

What the hell, he shrugged. It was logical. Fear could indeed be a lure, a sort of spinner bait for the supernatural. But that gave rise to a counterargument: if it is tradition that binds these primal fears to the country, wouldn’t that self-same tradition lend rurality its ultimate strength? In this age of city corruption and forgotten ideals, wasn’t the country the last vestige of “goodness” in the world, the anchor of traditional values, the stronghold of steely, don’t-tread-on-me, Bible-thumping faith? How could evil thrive in the very shadow of God?

Stiles had heard such sentiments before, so many times over the years that the inherent smugness made his jaws ache. It was usually given voice by a stark-eyed pastor whose piety refused to let him see the horrors that threatened him or his flock. No, it can’t happen here, they would always say. There can’t be a ghoul or zombie or whatever it is at our doorstep, no, not here. We are a God-fearing people, and we’ve supported charities and had pancake suppers and yard sales in the name of the Lord, and the collection plate is fuller than ever, and we’re adding a prayer room next year, so evil cannot harm us.