The first time Denton met Linda was at a loft party in Brooklyn. 

His freshman roommate from Cornell had invited him to the housewarming for his new condo. Denton had managed to ignore Richard Blakeley's email, but was unable to say no to him on the phone.

"C'mon," he had urged. "It's only a two hour drive. If you need a place to crash, I've always got a couch for you."

"It's just that I have to present my thesis outline next week and I still have a lot of work to do." Denton had actually met with his advisor about it the week before.

"It's one night. Loosen up a bit. I bet you haven't been to a party all semester."

He hadn't, but that was hardly the point. Back in Ithaca, Denton had barely tolerated Richard. When Richard pledged a fraternity and moved out of the dorm, Denton had breathed a sigh of relief. But for years afterward, whenever they bumped into each other on campus, Richard always acted as if they were the best of friends. The keyword being: "acted." He had the smarminess of a practiced politician and exuded artificiality through his pores.

"It just won't be the same without the old Dentster."

Alone, in his small one room apartment, Denton cringed. He was positive the only reason he was being invited was so Richard could rub his face in his success. While Denton had gone on to pursue his Doctorate at Princeton, Richard had landed a job at a brokerage in Manhattan and was making a killing in the tech boom.

Denton had hated himself for agreeing to go.

The rain that had been persistent all day had stopped by the time he arrived at the address on the small, torn scrap of notepaper. The streets were slick and plastered with autumn leaves, even though there were no trees in sight. Outside the old industrial building, a group of people milled around the entrance, smoking cigarettes and feebly trying to hide the drinks in their hands. The instant the car's engine cut out, he could feel the thumping bass of techno music.

Like a trail of breadcrumbs, Denton followed the scattered guests up the stairs to the third story and down the hall, until he found Richard Blakeley's loft. The door was wide open, and out of it wafted the combined stench of tobacco, marijuana, and sweat. He only had time to briefly wonder why no one had called the cops, when he saw a neighboring door open and a man and a woman came out carrying a bucket of ice and a giant bottle of vodka. Who would complain when they were all invited?

The couple passed straight by him holding the bottle up as if it were a sacred talisman. The crowd parted before the holy offering. Denton followed, taking advantage of the gap left in their wake.

As he entered the loft, he was thankful he hadn't entertained the thought of sleeping there. He didn't know what couch Richard was talking about on the phone, because there were none in sight. The only furniture he could see was a table that a DJ had set up shop on. People filled the entire yawning space of the open room. Most of them stood around screaming in conversation. Some were trying to dance and Denton could see their heads bobbing above the rest of the crowd. Richard hadn't bought an apartment as much as a disco. The room was oven hot, especially after the cold air out on the street. His blocking pair turned towards the center and met up with friends, leaving Denton stranded in the sea of bodies. Barely visible through the veil of people, Richard was by the windows holding court. Denton decided to make his way over to him. Once he made an appearance, he could leave. The misplaced sense of obligation he felt would be paid. Although, he wondered why he had bothered coming at all. Richard would never have known if he had stayed home. There were far too many other guests for him to notice the absence of the Dentster.

Inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, he edged his way through the crowd, avoiding elbows, wild hand gestures, and one woman who drunkenly careened toward the exit. Sidestepping the other guests, he found himself no closer to his old roommate. Instead, he had reached one of the speakers positioned on the side wall. The blasting noise created a pocket of empty floor that no one other than Denton was willing to enter. He took a moment to compose himself before venturing into the throng again. With his shirt sleeve, he dabbed the sweat off of his forehead. His best bet seemed to be a narrow gap that people had left along the wall. He carefully navigated the distance between him and his host.

Halfway there, a small knot of people stood talking, blocking his way. He pressed himself to the wall and moved past.

He was almost clear of them, when one of the women grabbed him by the sleeve. "Excuse me!" she yelled.

Denton had no idea what she could want. He stood there staring at the hand on his arm, with his mouth open. He waited for that tremble in his nerve ending that always accompanied the physical contact of strangers. When it didn't manifest, his gaze followed the arm up to its source.

She was a small woman with medium brown hair pulled back and tied into a ponytail with a strip of lace. She stared at him with intense blue eyes. Blue like the sky at dusk on a summer's night. It was only after looking into them for what felt like hours that he recognized the emotion they expressed was anger.

"What the hell's your problem?" She turned to the boy beside her and said, "Looks like we have another prick from Lemur Brothers."

"Actually, I'm from Princeton," he said, finding his voice.

"Well. Lah. Dee. Dah. Do you mind not knocking the art down, mister Ivy League douche-bag?"

He followed her pointed look to the wall behind him and noticed that it was adorned by three large canvases. Two of which he had pushes askew, as he squeezed by.

"Sorry." He started trying to straighten the nearest one, but he only managed to pull the picture off of its mounting. With effort, he tried to hold it upright and to keep it from falling forward into the crowd.

"Here. Let me do that." The girl took it from him. Despite her slight frame, she lifted it masterfully and stuck it back on its hooks on the first shot. She then made small, careful adjustments until it was straight before going to see to the other one.

She wore a burgundy peasant skirt with a paisley pattern and a black concert T-shirt on top. The design on the shirt was of incense sticks blazing with fire, and it read: "The Afghan Whigs, Black Love." Denton didn't recognize the band but guessed it was something trendy. But then modified his observation: the band she wore would be something underground and untrendy. He followed her. On the back of her upper arm, a smudge of green paint marked a spot just above her elbow. It was dry and beginning to flake off.

"Are they yours? Did you paint them?" He gestured vaguely at the art.

Her friends were around her, the place was packed, and the noise was too loud to hear anything below a scream, but whenever he remembered this moment, it was always just the two of them in the big silent, empty loft.

She turned and looked at him as if he were stupid. After a pause, she said flatly, "Not my style."

When he looked at the pictures before, all he saw was the evidence of his clumsiness. With fresh eyes, he noticed they were vaguely abstract, but after examining them for about three seconds, he realized each depicted highly pornographic scenes.

"I'm sorry," he said again—a blanket apology for all of his failings. "So Princeton Boy, what are you doing here?"

"I have no idea. Want to get out of here and grab a coffee?"

She smiled at him, a beautiful radiant smile. She opened the door beside her, and taking hold of his hand, she pulled him into a dark room.

The party raged behind the closed door. He wondered where they were. Had they slipped into the bedroom?

He sensed her warm body close to him and felt her hot breath on his neck.

"My name is Denton," he said, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

"Shh." She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a long, slow kiss.

Linda broke away abruptly, leaving one hand on his chest—a subtle gesture that said, wait.

A beating noise throbbed around them. It wasn't the music.

Someone was banging on the walls.

Her voice was lost in the murk and sounded disembodied, "He's coming."

"Who's coming?" Even as he asked, he struggled against the memory.

None of this is how it happened.

"Mister Eight. He's almost here."

The sound of the terror in her voice clamped his heart into a vise.

No, we stayed at the party until nearly one.

It had taken that long for him to work up the courage to ask her to go get a cup of coffee. Although they ended up at a neighborhood joint eating pizza and drinking red wine instead. It had taken two more actual dates before their first kiss.

Denton felt hot and clammy. He was on the verge of passing out. He felt along the wall, until he found the light switch. The bare bulb illuminated a stark bedroom. A torn mattress lay in the middle of the floor. Black wet stains covered its surface. Water trickled down the plaster of the walls from the rotting ceiling.

Linda was gone. He was in there all alone.

The room filled with an electrical buzz and the bulb exploded, throwing him into darkness.

He yanked the door open and fled back to the party. He tried looking for Linda, as he pushed his way through the bodies in a panic. More people had packed their way into the loft, and the tide of them dragged him along, until he found himself pressed against the back wall. He struggled against the mob that ebbed and flowed as one mass. He felt as if he were drowning or being buried alive. Bile rose to the back of his throat. He needed to get out.

His hand managed to latch onto a door handle and he used it to pull himself through the crowd. The cold metal against his skin offered hope against the heat and the press of the horde. As the nausea intensified, he hoped the door led to a bathroom. He heaved it opened and was immediately thrown in by the undulating bodies. The door slammed shut, and it became deathly quiet. At first, he feared he was back in the bedroom, but gradually his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he realized he wasn't in the loft anymore.

Thin rays of twilight filtered through cracks in the walls. He knew this place all too well.

He was back in that little shack in the woods.

His foot slipped on something soft and meaty on the floor and he desperately started clawing for the door. But all he could feel beneath his frantic hands was roughhewn boards. The splinters caught under his fingernails. His mouth opened to scream but no noise came out.

There was just the sound of his hands tearing at the wooden slats, until he heard something from behind him. He began to turn but stopped himself. He did not want to see what had made that ghastly moan. He forced himself to keep searching for the door. It was just here.

Then something in the air changed; it got warmer and heavier. Something moved. He heard it take a step behind him. It made a clop-splat noise. The room grew brighter. Red light bled in from the cracks.

There was another clop-splat, and he turned. He was staring directly at the altar. That strange bull shaped carving glared back at him with its bulging eyes of rotting meat and crawling flies. Only it was no longer carved of wood. It wasn't just an idol anymore. Some horrible, demented fairy had granted some bastard's wish and turned it into a real monster.

It was standing there, in front of him, dressed in a rotting black robe. Beneath the hem two cloven feet stood amongst the gore covering the floor. Two arms stretched out from its sides. Long and thin, skeletal and bovine at the same time. They had too many joints and bent unnaturally.

Before he could scream, it drew one of its arms back and slapped Denton across the face. The impact lifted him off his feet and he landed with a splash into the muck. It was cold and slimy. He tried to get back up, but the more he fought, the more he sunk down into it. Desperately, he tried to drag himself out as it slowly swallowed him up.

* * *

The three boys surrounded the body. The man's angular limbs were splayed out, with his overcoat billowed around him in the snow. His left cheek was red and a bruise was already beginning to form. From the corner of his mouth, a trickle of blood inched across his face, until it reached his temple, where his dark hair broke into a spider web of premature gray. More blood was splattered beside him on the white ground. At the end of the trail, a pair of dark rimmed glasses sunk into the snow.

"Shit, it's that cop that came by my house." Eddie hunched down and examined the man's face.

Danny already had the stranger's wallet out. He carefully selected one of the cards and held it up to read. "He's no cop. He's from Milton. Says here: Faculty."

"Alvin, did you have to hit him so hard?" Eddie asked.

The tall boy with the lumberjack shirt just shrugged. "I guess I don't know my own strength."

The gestured caused the hunting rifle to slip off of his shoulder. He struggled to recover it with just the hand that gripped the barrel, but the weight of the weapon forced him to lunge for it with his free hand, before it fell from his grasp. A frown replaced his look of pride, and his already red complexion blossomed with embarrassment.

"Who cares how hard we hit him?" Danny scratched the sandy colored hair behind his ear. "We can't ever let him leave."