The Hall was long, and illuminated with flickering light from torches set in brackets at regular intervals along the walls. The beams and the arched ceiling were fashioned of some dark wood that seemed almost to drink in the light, and paneling of the same substance covered the walls. Occasionally, dark archways loomed to either side of him, gaping open like hungry mouths, but the young man felt no desire to venture into them.

Matthew knew he was looking for something, but he could not remember what. He had an inner certainty that he would know it when he saw it though, and gazed ahead, straining his eyes through the gloom to see what lay before him. It was because of this intense focus that Matthew did not immediately notice the monk walking alongside of him.

When the young man did finally notice his silent walking partner, he was not startled. In the dream, it seemed perfectly normal for the tall holy man to be beside him, the torchlight glinting off his shaven scalp. The monk’s long brown robe whispered softly as it accommodated its owners long strides.

“It is good to see you at last,” the monk said finally, his voice echoing strangely in the hall. “Your coming was promised me, yet it had been long and long.”

”I was delayed on the road, Gregory,” Matthew responded. “The darkness comes early, fraught with malice and hunger. Many of the Faithful have been lost to its grasp.”

Gregory nodded. “Events move apace. Have you found what you seek?”

”It yet eludes me,” Matthew admitted, a mixture of shame, fear, and frustration in his voice.

”You will in time,” Gregory said calmly. “But beware the darkness. It comes even now.”

Matthew glanced back over his shoulder, and felt a shock of fear course through his veins. The Hall was falling away behind him, swallowed by an encroaching nothingness. The young man’s vision blurred and wavered as he looked upon it, as if the void were attempting to follow the invisible line of his gaze and devour the spark that animated his sight.

Matthew looked forward again and increased his pace, fighting off panic with iron control, smoothly setting one foot in front of the other in a steady cadence. This was an old fight, he knew, an old race; though the danger was no less real, he was at least familiar with his own capabilities. He’d faced the dark before, and survived.

Without looking behind, he knew the void was gaining, as it must, triumphing over merely mortal stamina. Gregory glided alongside him, silent support, as Matthew fought to keep going, forcing his leaden limbs into an even greater burst of speed. But even as he began to gasp for breath, and his pace began to slow despite his best efforts, the young man saw his goal come into sight.

The Hall ended in the Great Door, heavy and ornate, every inch of the wood intricately carved with loving detail. A multitude of half-glimpsed forms and countenances cavorted and peered from the woodwork. Half-human, half-beast, the faces ran the gamut of expression. Fanged mouths snarled, sneered, smiled, smirked, and screamed at him, whilst others gibbered, howled, or moaned. Slanted eyes glared with fury, blinked in confusion, shone with love, glinted with suspicion, burned with madness. Pointed ears, hooked noses, curved horns, and barbed tails intermingled throughout; the whole seething with barely seen movement, apparent only out of the corner of the eye.

Matthew skidded to a halt, breathing heavily. The door handle beckoned, called to him, the black iron clearly visible against the wood; two scaled… or perhaps furred? Hands reaching from the surface of the door to clasp together, forming and arch. Power waited beyond the doorway, pulsing eagerly, waiting for him. Matthew hesitated, then reached out…

…And staggered, gasping, as the darkness seized him from behind and strove to draw him back. Intense cold bit and tore at his flesh, and unseen talons tightened their cruel hold on his flesh as they began an inexorable pull backwards. The young man tightened his grip on the handle, fighting with all his strength. A siren call was sounding, just beyond the edge of hearing, calling him onward. The shifting movements of the bodies in the door intensified, and small hands reached out to him in aid, catching hold and trying to save him from the void, their indistinct faces whispering silent encouragements.

It was not enough. Matthew felt his grip slipping, the strength leaving his body. A steady numbness was spreading through him from his back, seeking his heart. A tears gathered in his eyes and froze before they could run down his cheeks, coating his eyes in a frosty rime.

”Matthew,” Gregory thundered, his eyes blazing. “Blood of my blood! Fight! You must open the door!”

With a snarl of supreme effort, Matthew dug his heels in, braced himself with one hand, and pulled with everything he had, pulled until every muscle in his body cracked with the strain and veins on his forehead stood out, pulled until his ears rang and blood trickled from his nose.

And the Door opened.

Matthew woke with a convulsive start, gasping for breath. His sheets were soaked with sweat. The glowing blue numbers on his alarm clock showed 7:01. The young man let his head fall back onto the pillow with a sigh.

The vivid dream lingered in his mind, refusing to fade. Gregory Matthew mused. The one who wrote the book… why would I dream of him? And why did he call me ‘blood of my blood’?

After a few more minutes Matthew sat up and switched on the lights, sighing. Sleep eluded him, the powerful images of his vision haunting the space behind his eyelids. Turning on his radio, the young man slipped a CD in and started it playing softly. Matthew closed his eyes for a moment in silent pleasure as the quiet music washed over him soothingly.

Today was not a work day, so Matthew was unhurried as he went about his morning routine, dressing and fixing himself breakfast; most importantly, a large cup of coffee. Unlike many, Matthew never drank coffee to jump-start himself or keep awake. He only had one cup a day, always in the morning, and only if he had enough time to properly enjoy it. Even when he had been too young to drink it, Matthew had loved the smell. Now it was one of the few undiluted pleasures in his life.

As Matthew brewed the coffee, he heard footsteps descending the staircase, and a minute later Elisha entered the kitchen, closely followed by an attractive, slightly shorter dark-haired girl. Both wore silk dressing gowns; white and black, respectively. They were cloudy-eyed and flushed with sleep, lending them an adorable, unguarded air of vulnerability. The young man felt his skin tingle with their proximity as they seated themselves on stools at the kitchen island.

“Good morning,” Matthew greeted them cordially.

“Mornin’,” Elisha mumbled. “This is Charsi. Charsi, Matthew.”

“Pleased t’meetcha,” Charsi slurred.

“Likewise,” Matthew returned gravely. “Coffee?”

Receiving two nods, he busied himself with making the aromatic drinks. Placing a steaming mug in front of each girl, he took his own and prepared to leave.

“Hey!” Charsi objected, glaring at him. “Where ya going! Sit down!” She waved her mug at a seat on the other side of the island.

Matthew hesitated a moment, surprised, then sank down onto the stool. He took a bracing sip from his mug, arching an eyebrow at Elisha over the rim.

The teenager blushed. “Charsi wakes up a little testy,” she excused her friend.

“Blunt, perhaps,” Charsi corrected, flipping her hair back over her shoulder with a graceful, absent-minded toss of her head. “But I’m always like that. It’s one of my many endearing qualities,” she explained to Matthew.

“Really,” Matthew replied amusedly.

“Oh yes,” Charsi assured him confidently. “You’ll see.”

“So,” Elisha put in brightly. “How did you sleep?”

Matthew winced involuntarily as he remember the Hall, the Door, and the Darkness. “Not too well,” he answered honestly.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charsi said smoothly when Elisha seemed at a loss as to how to respond. “Bad dreams?”

Matthew nodded warily, hoping the dark-haired girl would not pry further. He did not wish to talk about his vision.

Charsi smiled sympathetically at him. “Too bad. Better luck next night, hmm? I had a good dream last night.”

“Oh really? What was it?” Matthew inquired.

“Well, I can control what I dream about, if I want to. I dreamed I was in Bora Bora, lying on the beach sunbathing, totally naked with the sun beating down on me, and the only sound the waves lapping against the beach. It was nice.”

Matthew swallowed, trying to dispel the image of a disclothed Charsi from his mind. “Sounds… pleasant. What did you dream about, Elisha?”

Elisha turned a little pink. “Don’t remember,” she muttered.

Matthew chatted with them a few more minutes, though mostly with Charsi. Elisha, while much more open than any other time she’d been around him, was still much the quieter of the two, and prone to giving evasive answers that would have ended the conversation if her friend had not covered for her.

Matthew learned that Charsi was staying at the Mannel’s while her father was away on a business trip. “So you’ll be seeing a lot of me for the next week,” Charsi said to him with a twinkle in her eyes. “Thus, it would behoove you to stay in my good graces.” The young man would have thought Charsi was flirting with him, but that made no sense. He decided she was just very friendly.

Eventually, Matthew made his excuses and left. He walked into town slowly, enjoying the journey. It was one of those perfect mornings; blue sky, singing birds, and a shy little breeze that kept the air moving pleasantly. The young man’s gaze lingered the most on the lush, verdant green on the trees and grass. He had once read that seeing the color green as it occurred naturally in plants had a calming a restorative effect on the eyes and mind; and had taken the idea to heart.

In due time, Matthew arrived at the Lord’s Rest, quite the best restaurant New Arville boasted. Matthew’s best friend, Robert, was the son of the owner. The business had been in the family for generations, all the way back to Lord Remington, an English noble who had come to America to fight in the Revolutionary War.

Rob was leaning up against the wall of the restaurant, absently chewing gum and frowning. He was of average height, with dark hair and alert green eyes. Only a year younger than Matthew, Rob was thin and very pale. He’d been in and out of hospitals all his life, a victim of a weak immune system and a poor constitution; a sharp contrast to Matthew, who had set foot in a hospital perhaps twice in his life – and that only to visit others – and had never been sick with anything more than a mild cold his entire life.

They exchanged greetings, and Matthew studied his friend critically. Rob seemed troubled and distracted. “So what’s going on?” Matthew asked quietly.

Rob exhaled noisily. “Ahh… same old, same old, man. Elizabeth was in last night with Andrew. I was waiting their table.” He looked down and sighed. “It’s tough, you know?”

Matthew nodded sympathetically. Elizabeth was Rob’s longtime crush, a beautiful brunette with a smile that could put the sun to shame. Rob had never confessed his feelings to her, afraid that his looks and position at the bottom of the school hierarchy would result in rejection. Several months ago, Elizabeth had begun going out with Andrew, a self-proclaimed genius who had already been accepted into Harvard. Combined with an uncanny resemblance to Tom Cruise, Rob despaired of ever attracting Elizabeth’s attention. To make matters worse, Andrew lived on Rob’s street, and had always bullied and harassed Rob.

Matthew had advised his friend before that coming clean with Elizabeth would be the wisest course of action. He had often observed the two together (Elizabeth loved the Lord’s Rest and was a regular there), and thought that the girl had displayed definite signs of interest. But Rob had never summoned up the courage to follow his friend’s advise.

Rob sighed. “Hey, want to see something?”

“Sure.”

Rob picked up the leather art case that was never far from his side and unzipped it, removing a sheet of paper and handing it to Matthew. The young artist smiled in pride as his friend’s eyes widened in shock. “This is incredible, Rob,” Matthew breather reverently.

He was holding a portrait of Elizabeth in his hands, every line in her face drawn with loving detail. She was smiling, and Rob had captured the warmth of the expression so well that the drawing seemed almost alive. Matthew passed the portrait back, shaking his head. “You’ve got a great gift there. I wish I could create something that beautiful.”

Rob shrugged. “It’s the subject material that’s great, not the skill.”

Matthew frowned. “Don’t put yourself down.”

Rob grunted noncommittally. “So, what’s up with you?”

Matthew considered telling his friend about what had happened with Erin, but quickly decided against it. At this point, even he was not entirely sure that he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. But he knew the book was real, so he told Rob about that.

Rob stared at him with raised eyebrows. “Some crazy old guy left you a book written by a nutty German monk?” The young man shook his head. “And I thought we got some weird customers here… sheesh.”

“It’s pretty interesting stuff,” Matthew told him. “I’ll show you Saturday.”

“Cool,” Rob replied, pushing off the wall. “See you tomorrow, then. My break’s over, and my Dad’s gonna want to do business things with me tonight.”

Matthew nodded, grinned, and tossed Rob a casual two-fingered salute. “See you then.”

Leaving the Lord’s Rest, Matthew walked down towards Leonard’s, the music store. He played the guitar, a talent he had inherited from his father, and had grown up reading the stories about John the Balladeer that Manly Wade Wellman had written. Thus, Matthew had been trying to track down silver strings for his instrument for years.

He had struck up a friendship with Mr. Leonard soon after he arrived, and just yesterday the store owner had called to tell him that not only had he tracked down a set of genuine silver strings, but he had ordered them for Matthew as a gift. They were supposed to arrive today, and the young man was deeply excited at the prospect of having a long-time dream fulfilled.

“Hey, wait up man!”

Matthew sped up. He knew who was calling. Tony Sanchez was the leader of a wannabe biker gang, all bedecked with leather and piercings. They were a bad lot, who preyed on anyone they outweighed or outnumbered.

Matthew came to a sudden halt as one of Tony’s men stepped out of a side alley to block his way threateningly. The young man glanced around and groaned inwardly. He was boxed in.

“Now, now…” Tony drawled as he strolled up. “That wasn’t very polite, now, was it? A fellow might think you was trying to avoid us. What d’you think, John?”

John rumbled slightly, a noise that Tony seemed to take as agreement. A black, preternaturally strong youth measuring just over six-and-a-half feet, John was Tony’s main enforcer and ace-in-the-hole.

“You know, this can be a rough town,” Tony remarked in what he fondly imagined to be a friendly tone. “Just an observation. You could do a lot worse than to have us as friends, you know. Without our protection, though… well, something bad might happen. I’m sure nobody wants that. For a small, reasonable fee, me n’ the boys’ll watch out for you, yes?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Matthew said warily.

Tony’s smile shrank, and took on a decidedly vicious edge as his cronies closed in menacingly. “That, mi amigo, is an attitude that is going to land you in a world of trouble. You have one more chance, and then I’ll have John here teach you a lesson in respect.”

Matthew tensed, his heart pounding. Things were about to get very ugly. His instincts screamed at him to run, but he was trapped. Anger sparked and sizzled in his mind like summer lightning. The young man clenched his fists, vowing that the first person to make a move on him would regret it.

“Hey, back off!”

Matthew turned, surprised, as two of Tony’s gang were pushed roughly aside. An angry youth with dark hair came through the gap to stand at Matthew’s side. Matthew recognized him as Aidon, a social outcast who was generally considered to psychotic. His father had been in the Marines, and Aidon loved all things military.

“This is a private conversation, asshole,” Tony sneered. “Freaks very much not included. Comprende?”

Aidon locked eyes with the gang leader. “Any one of your men lays a hand on either of us, Tony, and I’ll make sure you’ll be eating soup for the rest of your natural life.” His voice was calm and eerily certain.

Tony took a step back, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Aidon simply continued staring. After a minute, Tony looked away. “This isn’t over,” he snarled. Rounding up his minions with a glare, he turned and left.

Matthew let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Thanks, Aidon. I… don’t know what to say.”

Aidon shrugged dismissively. “You were outnumbered. It wasn’t a fair fight. Think nothing of it.”

Matthew smiled. “I can’t promise that. Walk with me?”

Aidon looked at him suspiciously, almost as if he expected Matthew’s offer to be some sort of trick. “Sure,” he said at last.

“It was impressive the way you stared Tony down,” Matthew commented admiringly. “How did you do it?”

“Battlefield psychology,” Aidon explained. “When outnumbered, threaten the leader, make it personal.”

Matthew nodded. “Clever. So, what are you doing today?”

“It’s my day off,” Aidon replied. He worked as an assistant trainer in the local gym. “I was in the middle of my ten-mile run when I saw you.”

“It’s your day off, and you’re doing a ten-mile run?” Matthew blinked in disbelief. “What about later?”

“Need to go home, check on my Dad. Then I’ll probably finish re-working the storm drain.”

Matthew frowned. Aidon’s father was very sick, and was looked after by his son. Even accounting for that, Aidon’s day seemed very dry.

“Look,” the young man ventured. “Why don’t you swing by the Mannel’s later? We could go catch a movie or something.”

Aidon hesitated. “Come on,” Matthew pressed. “Relaxing for one evening isn’t going to kill you, you know.”

Aidon half-smiled hesitantly. “O-ok.”

They had arrived at Leonard’s. Matthew clapped Aidon on the shoulder. “Good. See you later, then.” As he entered the store, he saw Aidon move off quickly, no doubt finishing his run.

Shaking his head, Matthew let the door swing closed behind him. Looking ahead again, the young man sighed. Sonia was watching the store. The beautiful, blue-eyed brunette was one of Jessica’s pack, and was the walking personification of the words arrogance and conceit. Mr. Leonard, however, doted upon her; something Matthew had completely failed to understand until the day the store owner had let slip that the young woman looked eerily like his daughter, who he had lost to cancer three years ago.

Sonia, realizing a good thing when she saw one, treated Mr. Leonard with the greatest of respect, at least to his face. She was always trashing him to her friends behind his back, and was perfectly spiteful to those customers she disliked, a category Matthew featured prominently in.

“Matthew! How good of you to drop by!” Sonia exclaimed in a sugar-sweet voice. “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out, ‘k?”

“Good morning,” Matthew returned evenly. “I heard there was a package here for me?”

“Why, is the one you’ve got not working?” Sonia inquired, glancing at his crotch. “I’ve suspected as much. But no, I don’t think we have a package for you here.”

Matthew placed his hands on the counter and took a deep breath. “Could you please look? Mr. Leonard told me he had something for me.”

“Well then,” Sonia said sarcastically. “It must be true!” She began to rummage behind the counter with ill grace. Matthew waited patiently, listening to the sounds of a garbage truck pulling up behind the store, and the men shouting to each other as they loaded the trash.

“Well,” Sonia announced, standing up. “It isn’t here, that’s for sure.” She mock-frowned. “Oh my. I hope I haven’t thrown it out by mistake.”

Matthew froze for a moment, horrified, staring at Sonia’s smirking face. She wouldn’t ran swiftly through his mind, followed quickly by oh, shit.

Matthew took off at a dead run for the back of the store, Sonia’s laughter trailing mockingly after. Shoving open the back door, he burst out into the alley. The garbage men had already emptied the trash barrels into the back of the truck, and one was reaching for the compacting lever. They stared at him in amazement.

“Stop!” Matthew shouted.

“What the fuck?” the man about to pull the lever muttered. Mercifully, he hesitated.

Dashing to the back of the truck, Matthew began ripping bags open, ignoring the yells of the outraged public servants; nearly gagging at the stench wafting around him as he frantically sifted through the contents.

As two of the garbage men seized him on either side and muscled him back from the truck, he noticed a rapid clicking sound and multiple flashes coming from off to the side. A quick glance revealed two young people standing there; Ed, the photographer for the high school’s paper, snapping pictures as fast as he could depress the button, and Dacia, the paper’s editor, a budding journalist famed for the scathing malignance of her editorials, writing furiously on her notepad.

“Mr. Wilder,” Dacia asked professionally, tucking a lock of her golden hair behind one ear as Ed snickered nastily in the sidelines, “when did you first realize you had a garbage fetish? What steps have you taken to fight this addiction?”

Matthew shook his head. “What?”

“Was you father a garbage man? Are you seeing a psychologist, and if so, which one?”

Matthew heard laughter from behind him, and turned to see Sonia watching the scene of his humiliation with great delight. The brunette was holding a small, brown package in her hands. She shrugged when she saw him looking.

“Guess I forget to throw it out. But now I’ve remembered…” Sonia tossed the package in the nearest trash can. “There. Oh, did you want that?”

The garbage truck drove off as Matthew brushed at his clothing. He soon gave up, the outfit was ruined. Ignoring the others, the young man retrieved his package from the can and left quickly.

As Matthew rounded the corner of the building and passed out of sight of his tormentors, he struck at the brick wall in passing, the burning anger in him seeking some outlet. Had he looked at the wall he’d struck, he would’ve seen that his fist had left a visible imprint in the brick.