But movies were the only real reference point for what was going on. There was no parallel in the real world, no factual, historical correspondence.

Ken hopped out of the car. “I’ll be back in a sec,” he said, running into the tribal office. “I’m just going to tell them we’re here.”

Stormy turned, looked at Russ in the backseat. The intern’s face was white, blanched.

“What’s going on?” Russ asked.

Stormy shook his head. “I don’t know.”

The dolls were not as frightening to him as he’d thought they’d be. He supposed it was because they were out in the open, in the daylight, with people around. There was an old saw in the horror film industry about ghosts and monsters being more frightening when they were juxtaposed against normal, everyday life, but he had never believed that to be true. A ghost in a mall was nowhere near as scary as a ghost in an old dark house, and the same thing was true here. The kachinas were obviously alive, their wooden bodies and feathered faces were moving in a terrifyingly unnatural way, a way that shouldn’t be possible, but they were nowhere near as frightening to him as the thought he’d had of a lone doll sneaking around—

the house

—the inside of the abandoned theater.

Ken came running back. “It’s cool. Let’s go.”

“Two streets down,” Russ said from the back. “The white house.”

Stormy put the car into gear. “Pretty fucking spooky,” he said.

Ken nodded. “You’re telling me.” He glanced at the circle of dead men as they drove by. “I’d like to get a close-up look at one of them,” he said.

Stormy shivered. “No you wouldn’t.”

“What’s going on?” Russ asked again.

Neither of them answered him.

It was like driving through a foreign country, Stormy thought. Or an alien landscape. No, it was more surreal than that. Like passing through a Fellini world or a David Lynch world or… No. Even film analogies broke down here.

On the side of the road, a woman popped into existence. She hadn’t been there a second before, and then she was, and she smiled and waved at them.

“Turn here,” Russ said, pointing. “That’s his house.”

Stormy braked to a halt in the middle of a short dirt driveway in front of a small dilapidated home. P.P. Rodman was already out the front door and walking toward the car before Stormy had even shut off the engine. The filmmaker was a scrawny little half-and-half who looked as though he was about sixteen. Russ had told him that Rodman was in grad school, but had he not known, he would have guessed high school freshman.

Stormy got out of the car and walked toward the filmmaker, hand extended. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Stormy Salinger—”

“President of Monster Distribution.” Rodman nodded. “I know.”