The sun had begun its decline when I heard a car pull up behind me and roll to a quick stop, gravel crunching beneath its wheels. I turned around to see an aged, turquoise Chevy truck with a matching camper top, stopped about fifty feet behind me. The passenger side door opened and Pamela stepped out of the vehicle. She said something to the driver, then swung her bag over her shoulder and continued walking after me. I groaned. She’s as persistent as McKale, I thought. Maybe persistence is genetic. If McKale wanted something she didn’t stop until she got it.

After the truck drove away, Pamela shouted to me. “Alan, we need to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” I shouted back without looking. “Just leave me alone.” I hurried my pace. When I reached Hill City an hour later she was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Three

C H A P T E R

Three

I don’t know if poltergeists or ghosts

exist, nor do I care. There’s too much

I don’t understand about the world

I inhabit for me to worry about a

world I haven’t been to yet.

Alan Christoffersen’s diary

During its brief heyday, Hill City was nicknamed “Hell City” or “One Mile of Hell,” since there was a church on each end of town with fifteen saloons in between them. The city was established during America’s centennial celebration of 1876, and was originally a mining town, only the second to be settled in the Black Hills.

Hill City was about twenty miles from Custer, most of the way downhill, which may seem an easier walk, but I was feeling the descent in my knees, which were throbbing. Darkness was falling when I started looking for a place to spend the night.

On Hill City’s main road I came upon a hotel called the Alpine Inn, a quaint, Bavarian-styled building with gingerbread trim and a wood-planked porch. Above the front stairway was a sign that read:

Fine European Lodging

I walked into an empty bar scattered with small round tables. To the left of the room was a door that led to a restaurant, which was surprisingly crowded. A woman standing near the restaurant’s entrance was watching me from behind a burled walnut reception desk. She smiled as I approached her. “Good evening,” she said.

“I’d like to look at your menu,” I said.

“No need,” she said. “We only have one item on our menu. Actually, two. Filet mignon, small or large.”

At first I thought she was joking but her expression remained serious. “Really?”

She nodded. “I know, it’s unusual, isn’t it?”

I had never encountered a restaurant like this, but judging from how crowded the place was, they appeared to be doing something right.

“I’ll have the filet mignon,” I said.

“Good choice,” she said. “Right this way, please.”