We recommence our narrative a little ways down the road, just over a year after the death of Sarah Benadine. The summer in the town of Clearwater up to this point had been quiet. It was a welcome relief from the events of the last year. Now most of the townspeople were gearing up for the start of the school year; children dreaded it, parents anxiously awaited it. Life went on, as it always did. As it always does.

I think as good a place to pick up as any is Dyer's Park. The biggest of Clearwater's parks was nearly empty on the night I'd like to start on, but that was not surprising. It was nearly midnight. There was one lonely figure, sprawled out on a bench, slurring the words to "Loch Lomond." Plastered to the side of one of the trees was a tattered missing poster. Hazy shoots of moonlight fought through the treetops to get to the ground.

"...I'll be in Scotland afoooooooore yeeeeeeeee..."

The night air was warm and muggy. There was only the slightest breeze. Underneath the sound of singing, the light chirping of crickets could be heard. The night was calm and still. Tranquil. Even with the singing.

"...on the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Loooooomond..."

There was an amazing amount of pitch accuracy considering the singer was soused to the gills. Much less could be said about the articulation. Steve Bellfrey, the infamous town drunk, was always known for singing when intoxicated, which was nearly always. He was properly trashed tonight, the consequence of spending a lazy day doing nothing but drinking straight from the bottle. He'd stumbled into the park about an hour ago, give or take, and had made a home on the bench, not moving only because of his seeming inability to stand up. He had a bottle of liquor wrapped up in a paper bag with him now, and he took swigs in between lyrics.

"Twas there that we part—oh, shit..."

An unsteady hand spilled drink on his shirt. Shifting slightly, Steve burst into a fit of giggles. He mopped at the new stain with his sleeve, going cross-eyed trying to look at it. He continued his song, half-laughing, half-humming, only succeeding in smearing the wetness around. He didn't seem to mind; a blissed out smile curled his lips.

The gentle breeze ruffled the grass and played with the tips of Steve Bellfrey's hair. The man struggled into a sitting position, heaving deep breaths like he was running a marathon. A cloud moved in to cover up the moon. Somewhere far in the distance, a dog had begun to bark. For no reason at all, Steve Bellfrey felt a chill run down his spine. It felt like...eyes were upon him.

"Should be getting home," he whispered to himself. And he would've been on his way, too—if the park would've stopped spinning. Absently, he continued to paw at the wet stain on his shirt.

Seconds ticked by, and Steve felt himself getting tenser. The dog was still barking somewhere. Out of nowhere, he felt paranoid. He couldn't see the far corners of the park; his vision kept blurring. His heart had picked up speed. An itching, uncomfortable feeling settled over him. He struggled to his feet, swaying dangerously when he was upright. He felt much drunker now that he was standing.

It was a task to walk; he seemed to have forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other. All the while, that uncomfortable feeling was building. His flesh had begun to crawl. He cut his eyes in different directions, trying to keep a lookout, but that only made his head spin more.

He made it to the swing set, grasping one of the chains to keep himself upright. Panic was setting in now, closing up his throat. He hadn't felt this afraid in years. Too much to drink, that was it, this was some kind of hellish side effect of having too much to drink. He'd never thought he'd say that to himself. He got his legs working again and continued on his way, not truly sure which way he'd have to go to get back home. His heart was jumping out of his chest. He felt like the eyes of a million feral creatures were watching him, waiting to move in for the kill.

Staggering and nearly tripping over himself, he made it to the edge of the park, just behind the tree line. He could see more of the streetlights now. His fear was acute, almost palpable; his hands shook.

There was a rustle in the bushes and Steve Bellfrey fell to the ground. His liquor bottle landed on its side, what little that was left pouring out into the grass. Steve did not move, did not make an attempt to get back to his feet. He never would again.

Mere feet away, the tattered missing poster for seventeen-year-old Julia Buchanan flapped slightly in the breeze. Overtop of the girl's smiling face someone had scrawled 'IT'S COMING.'

Something walked past the body of Steve Bellfrey, whistling the tune of "Loch Lomond."