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anymore.”
    “No,” Helene spat out, as if that was the final word on the matter. “Paul’s dead. I saw him dead, saw him buried.”
    Then she stomped out of the house, headlong into a perky young woman on the stoop with a microphone and a cameraman.
    The young woman tried to ask Helene a question, but Helene dodged aside and continued down the steps, pulling a bottle of hand sanitizer out of her purse as she stomped to the car.
    The newswoman’s smile stiffened, then she saw Sean and Pastor Bailey in the living room.
    “My cue to go. Good luck, son.” Pastor Bailey patted Sean on the shoulder then ducked out of the house and hurried to his car.
    The newswoman was young, early twenties, and over-dressed for the heat; an eager newbie sent out to cover a Sunday morning fluff story. “Guess it’s just you and me,” she said, her eyes imploring Sean not to slam the door in her face.
    “Guess so.” Sean sighed, feeling sorry for her. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as the camera clicked on.
    Deep breath , he thought as the woman asked her first question. Don’t spill your guts and sound like a lunatic. Try to plug the comic. Free advertising and all that crap.
    He took a breath and made himself smile. And don’t screw this up, he reminded himself as he told her how the people had walked out of the trees.
    GhoulBane fell forward, floundering to the edge of a gravel road. His flesh lay in oozing tatters, exposed bone coated with mud and dog shit, and he struggled to get his feet beneath him again so he could stand. Struggled and failed.
    Road grit dug into his tortured flesh as he crawled, the shards tearing and burning, grinding raw bone to dust. Freshly fallen gold and crimson leaves swirled across the gravel, urging him on. Just a little farther, just a little more. He collapsed, his breath leaving flecks of bloody bubbles in the grit and dust. “Have to,” he choked out, reaching forward, pushing with feet so pained he wondered how they still existed. “Have to get across.”
    Clover and foxtail, summer green on the far side of the road, trembled and cowered away, turning brown, brittle, and ashen in the wake of a Minotaur’s furious screams. Still Ghoulie crawled, each movement fire and agony, each breath a choking clog of blood and foam.
    The Minotaur bellowed its rage and frustration over GhoulBane’s escape, heavy footsteps shuddering the world as it came closer, closer, a low, ripping growl following alongside. GhoulBane clawed toward the scorched and tortured grass, his panic a living, screaming monster of its own, but the growl grew louder, becoming a thundering tear in Ghoulie’s brain. He wailed when hot breath and dog-spittle fell upon on his torn and bloody hands, wet himself at the teeth bared and snarling in his face. Minotaur behind and its hellhound ahead, Ghoulbane’s desperate flight to the far side of the road was over.
    “Go, girl,” the Minotaur commanded and GhoulBane screamed his soul away as Peaches lunged, ripping, tearing, devouring, while the Minotaur—
    Bap! Bap! Bap! “Sean! Open the door!”
    Startled, Sean shoved away from the fading scent of Peaches’ rancid breath, flipping over his stool and crashing to the floor in a frenzied panic. Sketches fluttered down like autumn leaves, following the busted-twig clatter of mechanical pencils and tech-pens. Bones, Sean, they sound like dried old bones. Remember that sound? He scrambled away and pressed his back against the wall.
    My studio. It’s just my studio, just another bad dream, he thought, his heart threatening to erupt from behind his ribs, his mouth as dry and gritty as the dust from the road. He raised his hands, wincing at a smear of spit and blood-red ink. The remembered ghost of road grit scratched his palms. He scrubbed them furiously on his jeans and left a sticky mess behind.
    Thud! Thud! Bang! “Sean! You in there?”
    He drew in one frantic breath after another and pushed to his feet. “Coming!” he