Denton hadn't written on walls since he was a small child. There was something liberating about it, although it didn't relieve any of his tension. His fingers cramped around the pink highlighter, which he gripped too tightly, as he made the two perfect circles.

He took a couple of steps back and admired his handy work. The neon pink glowed on the clean white wall. There would be no problem for anyone to see it from across the room.

The eight was flawless, unlike so many of the examples he'd seen over the past few weeks. Its curves flowed together in a perfect, endless design. They called the pattern lemniscate in geometry, and there were formulas to explain it. But beyond math, there was something poetic in its form. A snake swallowing its tail—a knot without beginning or end—time forever bending back into itself.

Denton took great pleasure drawing an angry slash through it. He rubbed the marker back and forth until the felt tip began to flake apart.

Satisfied, he let the marker drop to the floor, not bothering to put the cap back on or close the door on his way out.

That should get his attention, he thought.

When Stephen Kaling returned home he would see it from the doorway. Both Denton's eight and his message. Besides, the number were the words: "This ends now. I'm coming for you. All of you."

Denton had been rather relieved when he found no one at home at Kaling's. He wasn't entirely sure what he would have done if he had been home. He would have been even more at a loss if he encountered that madman Radnor when he knocked. But no one had answered. And it only took one well-placed kick between the door handle and the jamb to get inside.

He had planned just to leave a regular note, but while searching the desk for a pen and a piece of paper, he found the highlighter and a perverse idea came over him. A giddy feeling began to swell through his body at the thought of it; it was so fitting that his declaration of war be scrawled on the wall.

Back outside, the sun was a fiery orange disk, low in the sky, spreading a blush across the few small puffs that lurked on the horizon. It was almost 4:00. After the day he had—after the week he had—he should have been exhausted. Instead, he was feeling exhilarated. All the hard work he had done that afternoon didn't seem to bother him at all.

Perhaps this is a side-effect of the infection. Look at Radnor, he's indestructible. Perhaps I'm getting stronger.

The headache that his glasses had given him was gone too. For days he'd suffered from it and without even noticing he was free of it. Is my vision improving too? he wondered. Or is it just the painkillers helping?

As he got into the car, Denton went through a mental list. Everything was ready, now it was just a matter of gathering everyone together. Hopefully, Kaling would discover the message soon and come after him. The next stop was to see the Moores.

Ed and Maureen Moore were the first two names on the list without a line through them. The White Pages only listed the surname once, with the initial, "E." Denton was betting they would both be at the same address. He picked them for his first visit since it seemed the most economical use of his time.

Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

The house was in the newer section of town near the Elmwood Mall, which meant they were almost certainly locals. But other than that, Denton had no idea what to expect.

He took up the paper cup from the console and drained it of the last dregs of vanilla milkshake until the straw made an obnoxious sound against the bottom. He tossed it into the bag on the floor with the empty wrappers from the burger and fries.

Hunger still circled his stomach. He didn't want to think about how little he'd actually eaten in the past few days. Until this afternoon, he had almost no appetite. Now he was famished. He became slightly concerned that he might actually be starving, and his body was screaming out for nutrients. But all he needed to do was keep his strength up for a few more hours and hang on a little longer. It was all borrowed time now. What did it matter anymore what he did to himself? Denton was beginning to resent the person he would become. When his future self stepped in and hijacked his body, the Denton that drove to the Moores would be dead, murdered by the doppelganger growing inside of him.

As he turned onto their street, he slowed down and scanned the mailboxes for the door number.

The bungalow looked plain enough from the outside. It was similar to so many of the ones built in the '50s and sprinkled throughout Bexhill. It gave off an aura of bland suburbia. Yet Denton felt dread looking at it. His nerves were working themselves up again. He tried to remind himself that all he had to do was push them a little, just make them a little worried so they would contact Kaling. But the people with the disease had proven to be unpredictable.

He was still cringing at the thought of the encounter in Radnor's apartment when he rang the bell.

While he waited for someone to answer, he took stock of himself and hoped that the Moores wouldn't take too much notice of his appearance. His pants were still dripping wet from his many treks through the woods. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. A faint odor of gasoline clung to his coat. Not to mention, it looked as though he had slept in it.

I wouldn't let me in, Denton thought, while he tried to brush the wrinkles out of his overcoat.

A man with neat silver hair cracked the door open and asked, "Yes?" "Mr. Moore? Mr. Edward Moore?"

"Yes."

Denton looked into the man's gray eyes. There was a telltale haze of cataracts glazing them over.

"I work with the police. I was wondering if I might come in for a minute."

"Sure." As though losing interest, Ed Moore turned around and padded off down the hall, leaving the door open behind him.

The man wore a thick sky blue sweater and baggy slacks. It looked as if he must have lost a lot of weight since he had bought them. But the threadbare sheen on the seat of his pants suggested that they could be as much as a decade old.

He was in his late sixties, but the way he walked with a stoop and the shuffling of his feet made him seem more advanced in years.

Denton followed him in. When he closed the door, darkness rushed to fill the house with a thick gloom. It painted the furniture and photos on the wall with a patina of decrepitude. There was a long, thin wrought iron table in the hall with a glass top. It was the type that usually held keys and mail. A stack of unopened Christmas cards teetered on its dusty surface next to a family portrait in a silver frame. The details of the photo were lost in the poor light.

"This man is a detective, he wants to talk to us," Ed Moore said to the darkness of the living room. His hand rested on the door as though steadying himself before going in. The pale, white fingers looked like wrinkly worms against the dark stained oak. The door was propped open against the hallway wall with a green sandbag frog.

Entering the sitting room a step behind Mr. Moore, Denton's eyes tried to adjust to the light. Six candles flickered from tables around the room. Each one was placed next to a lamp. Despite the excess of table lamps, not one was switched on. The heavy drapes added to the darkness. Had they been left open, the picture window would have allowed some twilight in to brighten the cavelike atmosphere.

"Is he here to fix the electricity?" a high pitched twang said. A blob in the darkest corner shifted. Someone was seated in the chair there. In the dim light, Denton could just make out that the person had a blanket or a shawl draped over a set of wide shoulders.

"No, dear he's with the police." Ed Moore looked at Denton and asked, "You aren't here to fix the power, are you? It's been off since last night."

The candles and the chill in the air snapped into place. The storm had blacked out whole sections of Bexhill. Still, six lamps—someone here liked lots of light, or at least they used to.

"No sir. I'm not actually a detective. I just work with the police."

"What's this about?" the woman asked. Denton tried to place the accent. It seemed like a mash-up of Irish and Swedish with a bit of cowboy mixed in.

"Have you been contacted by a man by the name of Stephen Kaling?" As he spoke the name, he waited for a reaction. He expected the room to erupt at its mention. He braced himself for these two old people to spring on him like wild animals.

"No, should we have?" Mr. Moore gently placed his hand on Denton's arm and pointed at the sofa. "Please have a seat."

Denton sat down as directed. The man stayed standing. His wife continued to lurk in the shadows, like a creature hiding in the murk of a bog.

"Mr. Kaling is a very dangerous individual," Denton said. "A list of names was found in his apartment. Both of your names were on it."

"Really? Never heard of him. You, dear?" Ed Moore sounded more confused than surprised.

"Did he say King?" the shrill drawl asked. "No, Kay-ling," Denton pronounced carefully.

"Nope. Don't know him," she said. "You say he's dangerous? Do you know why he would have our names?"

"I was hoping you would be able to tell me."

"What is it you do with the police?" Mrs. Moore asked. Her voice took on a thin strain that colored the question with suspicion.

"I'm a psychologist. I'm helping with the Mr. 8 murders."

"Oh yes, we read about those in the newspaper," Mr. Moore said. "It was awful what those boys did." Mrs. Moore made a tut-tut sound with her tongue.

"What you probably didn't read was that the boys didn't pick their victims randomly. All of the victims suffered from the same mental disorder. The same compulsion."

"Really? How strange," Ed Moore said.

Denton held his breath. Anticipation filled the air. Maybe it was the way the shapeless form shifted in Mrs. Moore's corner or the way the man stepped from one foot to the other as he spoke. The bait had been planted. Now he had to get out of there.

He had no doubt that these people were involved. If they really didn't know anything, they would have asked more questions. How was Kaling dangerous? Should they be worried? What was the disorder? The compulsion? But they knew the answers already. There were no visible eights in the room, but in the darkness, they could be surrounding him.

"Well, If you don't know Stephen Kaling, I won't waste any more of your time," Denton said, clapping his hands against his knees before he stood up.

"Alright, then," Mr. Moore said. "I'll show you out." "Goodbye, Mr. Reed," the wife said.

The frumpy little man nearly gave himself whiplash turning his head toward the figure in the dark. If looks could kill, the vague shape called Maureen would have exploded.

Denton headed for the exit pretending not to notice. "Well, I guess I'll just be on my way."

"So, soon," the man said, sounding as though he was genuinely sad to see him go. "Won't you stay? I can make us some coffee."

"No, I really must—" Denton stopped as something hard pressed against his side. From under his sweater, Mr. Moore had produced a revolver. The candlelight glinted off of the black steel.

"I must insist." He pushed the barrel harder into the tender flesh between two of Denton's ribs. "Why don't you sit back down and Maureen can give our friend a call. And we will all just wait for him here. Alright?"

At the mention of her name, Mrs. Moore began to move. The blob shifted and grew.

"Alright, Ed. But he won't be happy. Stevie said to get rid of him, if he came around, not to keep him here." Standing to her full height, she was at least a head taller than her husband and twice as wide. The blanket stayed wrapped around her and she seemed just as amorphous standing up as sitting down.

"You're the one who tipped him off," her husband whined. "He didn't even notice." She waved him off.

"Yes, he did. I saw it in his eyes."

"You can't see anything. You're half-blind."

While he bickered with his wife, his attention was off of Denton. This might be the best opportunity he would get. He launched himself at Mr. Moore. His right hand clasped the man's wrist, his left hand the gun. Denton pulled the weapon away from him and yanked the little man straight off his feet, flinging him onto the sofa. He was shocked at the ease of it. His eyes went from the stunned old man to the black gun he held by the barrel.

The voice in his head whispered this might come in handy.

Denton didn't pursue the thought, instead, he made his escape.

He got two steps before the wife was on him. She spun him around and slammed him against the wall. She came at him, arms raised and screaming. All Denton could think of was those old nature shows that featured bear attacks. The advice was always to play dead, but he didn't think that was going to work with Mrs. Moore. With a powerful swipe, she knocked the gun out of his hand, sending it flying across the room into the darkness. Then she lunged at him.

He ducked, avoiding the arms that swept out to seize him in a crushing hug. From his crouched position, he went on the offensive, hitting her in her belly with his shoulder. With all of his strength, he pushed off with his legs and drove her across the room.

She stumbled back and lost her balance. The momentum carried her into a side table, and she toppled over it, with a crash of broken glass and a shriek of pain.

Denton didn't stick around to see if she was okay. He ran for the door. He was almost at the hallway when something bashed into his knees, knocking him to the ground. Mr. Moore had managed to tackle him. Denton turned to see the man clutching his legs in a death grip and looking up at him with an expression of utter bewilderment.

"Your pants are all wet," he said.

Denton managed to get a leg free and slammed the bottom of his boot against the man's jaw. Mr. Moore recoiled from the blow, clutching his face with both hands.

Denton scrambled backward out of the living room like a terrified crab. No time to think. Just get to the car. He pulled himself to his feet but stopped before he could make a dash for it.

He could see the eights. Through the doorway, they were painted on the living room walls. It was ingenious. They were white on white, almost invisible. Had it not been for the reflection of the glossier circles in the flickering light, he would have never noticed them.

Where is that light coming from?

Denton peered through the doorway. A tight knot of apprehension formed in his stomach, but the brightness of the light drew his curiosity, just as it might a moth.

The drapes were in full blaze. Fire was burning them from the bottom up. The last light of day was filtering in from the exposed window. But the fire didn't stop there. It was already spreading rapidly across the walls and the armrest of an armchair had caught. The side table crackled and smoked. The lamp that had been on it lay on the floor. There was no sign of the candle. But Denton had a vivid image of it being knocked over by Mrs. Moore's collision and rolling along the hardwood floor until it came to rest under the curtains.

From behind the table, an avenging demon arose, wrapped in a fiery cloak. Mrs. Moore screeched as she stood up. In the now bright room, Denton could see that the blanket had sleeves. She tried to shake the blazing shawl off of her, but it stayed firmly attached. Her effort only served to stoke the flames.

"Moe!" the old man yelled. The sound he made may have been her nickname or perhaps it was only a sorrowful moan.

The woman charged at Denton, dripping flames as she went.

Fear and horror filled Denton's mind. In desperation, he slammed the door shut. The little frog skidded into the burning room. Mr. Moore tried blocking the door with his arm, but Denton stomped on his hand, and he withdrew it with a yelp.

There was no lock, and he couldn't very well stay there and hold it closed. He knocked over the little table. The glass top exploded, sending a million crystals scattering across the floor. Denton wedged the wrought iron base between the wall and the door. Then he raced for the way out. Screams and banging rang out over the squeal of the smoke detector. He burst from the house in full run. At the curb, a loud crash caused him to look back.

The picture window had shattered. Whether from the heat or from one of the Moores trying to get out, he would never know. Because the second it was open to the crisp winter air, the room gasped, and there was a whoosh of oxygen being sucked in. The roof above the living room burst into flames.