The Hell Season by Ray Wallace

material body it inhabited. And all of the pictures—the vaguely humanoid shapes, the circles of light, the glowing, amorphous blobs—they couldn’t all be fakes, could they? When I grew older and the realities of teenage life and then adulthood claimed more and more of my thought processes, my interest in such otherworldly concepts began to fade as I’m sure it does for most individuals. But even as an adult, I must confess, I’ve found myself dreaming on occasion of those terrible creatures that so thrilled me in younger days, my sleeping mind convinced that they roam the world seeking out innocent victims to either kill or bend to their evil ways. There have been times when I’ve awakened in the darkness, sure that there was something else in the room, something lurking near the bed I shared with my wife. Something not of this world. Or no longer of this world. A ghost wandering the realms of man, trapped between Earth and Heaven—or possibly Hell—unsure of where it belonged. Just an arm’s length away, there in the darkness. Close enough to touch—if it was possible to touch such a thing.
    At those moments, during those small hours of the night, anything seemed possible.
    Anything at all .
     
    *
     
    Thomas awoke the next morning feeling remarkably refreshed. A bit sore, yes, but that was to be expected after what he’d been through yesterday and spending the night in the less than comfortable confines of a bathtub, wasn’t it? When he pulled the chair away from the door and made his way into the bedroom, he was surprised to discover the bright sunlight streaming in through the shattered window marking the time of day as late morning or possibly even noon. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so long or so soundly. No doubt the stress of the past few days had something to do with that.
    He hadn’t had a shower since all the recent insanity had begun and felt in desperate need of one. Now that the water had stopped working, he decided to go down to the kitchen, grab a gallon of bottled water and wash up a bit. Then he’d find something to eat and figure out what he was going to do with the rest of the day. That is, if nothing completely out of the ordinary occurred to take the decision making away from him.
    First things first, though. He needed a change of clothes. There was a mirror over the wide dresser he and his wife had shared which he stared into for a few moments before rummaging through the drawers for something clean to wear. He needed a shave. The hair on his face was well past the five o’clock shadow stage, was somewhere closer to seven-thirty. The skin there itched a bit and so he scratched at the whiskers covering his chin. As he did so he saw movement behind him. Heart suddenly pounding, he turned around, ready to confront whoever—or whatever—was there. No one. The room was empty. Reluctantly, he turned back to the mirror, told himself he was seeing things, a possible aftereffect of whatever hallucinogen the dead bugs had dosed him with.
    As he stood there thinking, it happened again. Something moved behind his reflection in the mirror. And once again he turned around to find nothing out of the ordinary. What the hell was going on?
    The next time it happened he didn’t turn away. He stared into the mirror, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
    There was a disturbance in one of the beams of sunlight streaming into the room, a swirling mass of dark particles that had a vaguely human shape to it. As he watched, the shape became more solid, particles filling in its outline until it was a nearly solid mass. Differing colors became discernible and the mass was fleshed out with details that sent a shudder down Thomas’s spine. A face was emerging from the dark oval at the top of the form. He could now see eyes and the beginnings of a nose and lips. Below the head was the neck and a pair of thin shoulders. The body appeared to be covered in a garment of some kind, the arms