October 22, 1976
Hollow Creek, Pennsylvania
8:47 P.M.
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Rain drummed against vacant streets, each drop splattering on glass and roofs before streaming cold rivulets down streetlight poles. Fog clung low and close over Hollow Creek, wrapping street signs and dulling neon hues to ghostly silhouettes.
Thomas Bell emerged from the tree line at the edge of town, mud-coated boots silent on the rain-soaked pavement. The stolen Colt Combat Commander handgun rested snug in its leather holster at his belt. Across his back was the Ruger Mini-14 rifle, wood stock and blue-barrel slick with rain. Wired with a burning flare to the carcass of the shredded deer held in his gloved left hand.
He halted beneath the dim flash of the creaking old mill's broken neon sign, gauging the distance to the nearest patrol. The ember of the flare burned hot orange, steaming rainwater hissing on its surface, calling distant voices and the damp thud of boots charging toward its light.
Bell ducked into the black recess of an abandoned auto body shop. Inside, tools littered oil-drenched floors. He knelt down, breathing quietly, the metallic scent of rust and fuel thick in the air. He pressed a bloody handkerchief to his forehead, rubbing away a streak of dry red before shucking the Mini-14 strap from off his shoulder and placing the rifle gently on a workbench.
He inspected its function and magazine—twelve rounds. The cold metallic click was a grim comfort. Bell re-hung the Ruger, then pulled out a knife and sharpened its blade on a scrap piece of metal until it glowed.
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Within the firehall's temporary command post, Lieutenant Cross crouched over the bank of radios. Water leaked through the ceiling onto maps strewn across desks. Sheriff Benham, splinted leg propped against a chair, stared at the static-filled frequencies.
A voice crackled in:
"—under.. Dorsey Bridge—bleeding—help-p—"
Cross's fist clenched the mic. "He's in the town," he whispered. Benham grunted. "Lock every street. Hollow Creek goes into lockdown."
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Mayberry's Diner
9:02 P.M.
Volunteer Harold Jenkins clasped his last cigarette in the diner's back alley, concealing himself behind a neon sign. He exhaling smoke into the damp air.
Bell suddenly appeared, Shadow Kast in hand, finger on the trigger. Jenkins didn't move—eyes wide above rising smoke.
"WAI-!"
BANG!
Bell's thumb released the safety catch. A single shot—the.45 tore through Jenkins's ribs. The man's body slumped forward, body laying, blood spreading on the wet concrete floor he once stood.
Bell knelt, taking Jenkins's Zippo lighter and flannel coat. He draped the coat over his shoulders and disappeared into rain-wet night.
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Cooper's Alley
9:30 P.M.
Bell crept through a dark alley between Cooper's Hardware and the post office, rain and fog his cloak. He halted before the church door on Maple Avenue, driving three red-tipped fingers into the carvings on the door, leaving streaks of red.
Hesitating only a heartbeat, he moved into the dark vestibule and out the side door.
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Police Substation
9:45 P.M.
Bell crouched behind police squad cars, the Ruger pressed against his shoulder. With practiced ease, he had cut off the station's generator from the building. Lights flickered for an moment and then died.
Two officers stepped out. Bell shot one shot from the Colt, striking Sergeant McAllister's shoulder. The man went down.
The second officer drew his Smith & Wesson Model 10. Bell met him immediately—spinning the butt of the Mini-14. The officer dropped.
Bell stood there for a minute, before taking aim at Sergeant McAllister's face and prepared to execute the man on the ground, though a plea of survival came out of Sergeant McAllister's Mouth, "HEY-Y PLEASE MAN LOWER THE GUN DON-"
A loud crack came from the rifle as the .45 smashed into his face, causing his head to fall limp and the rest of his body to rest, bleeding out on the floor.
Bell turned over towards the other man taking aim at his cranium, doing the same thing with another loud crack.. Now the blood of both men layed together, mingled in a large pool with their respective pieces of matter everywhere.
Bell picked up both sidearms, concealed them, and disappeared down the side alley of the station.
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Town Hall Command
10:15 P.M.
Telephones rang incessantly. Reports: ghostlike apparitions in backyards, a man at the windows, footprints on porches.
Mayor Dorsey shook white-faced. "They're in our houses… on our streets."
Cross slammed his fist on the table. "Block all roads. Enforce curfew. Patrol all alleys until dawn."
The sheriff addressed mayor. "Mayor?" Benham's eyes were steel. "It's not a manhunt anymore. It's defense."
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Rooftop over Main Street
11:02 P.M.
Bell sat atop Stevens's General Store, the Ruger scope trained on the firehall below. One deputy stepped under the neon glow.
Bell raised the rifle to his shoulder, taking deep breaths. He exhaled slowly, relaxing the tension in the scope—dropped the rifle. He picked up Jenkins's lighter, struck a match, and lit a cigarette.
Smoke curled around his face as thunder roared across the sky. Bell slid off the rooftop, disappearing into the fog.
Below on the ground, Hollow Creek shivered beneath the tempest of the storm, not knowing its predator had turned into its specter.