Billy and Brooke had gone to party with some of their friends. And they were at the abandoned house, drinking rum punch and smoking weed and maybe doing some crushed-up speed. And they went out into the woods to have sex and their friends forgot about them and drove home around three in the morning. And Billy and Brooke passed out. And when they woke up and saw that it was morning, they knew they were fucked. They’d be grounded for the rest of the summer. They walked back to the abandoned house, saw all the posters, which they’d laughed at the night before. Someone had been tearing them off the walls and setting them on fire. But they were at least five miles from home and their parents were probably freaking out.

And I could see it so clearly, the house, because Zeke and I had been there and had put those posters on the walls. And I knew that they were just the dumbest kids, trying anything to avoid punishment, but I chose to believe that the poster, because of how beautiful it was, how strange it was, had opened up some little part of their brain, and it gave them a story that would put them in danger even though they thought it would keep them safe.

And then Hobart came over, a few minutes before I was supposed to meet up with Zeke, and he was red-faced and breathless. He said he’d been at the “scene of the crime” and that the police had used the entire fiscal year’s caution tape budget on this single house. He said his source in the department, who I knew was Brandon Pinkleton, because there were only five officers and he was the youngest and most desperate to seem important, said that they believed it was a credible threat and they had put out an APB to the surrounding counties to be on the lookout for a black van with three individuals with black hair and multiple tattoos with satanic symbology.

“It’s not real,” my mom said, and I could see Hobart deflate a little, like he had been waiting for someone to say it, but he instantly puffed back up, his Hawaiian shirt expanding, the little palm trees swaying. “Well, now, the police are saying it’s a credible threat, okay? And, you know, I’ve been looking at those posters all over town, and it feels like maybe the beginnings of what you might call psychological terrorism. That’s the angle right now.”

“The angle?” I asked, trying to act like I didn’t care.

“For the newspaper,” he replied. “I think someone, and I believe they’re outsiders, possibly connected to some kind of cult, are using Coalfield as the initial test subject for something pretty downright scary.”