Dean Koontz - Phantoms

The fox cocked his head, suspicion tempering his hunger.

The squirrels moved to their left, all at once, in a tight little group, and then came out of the shadows of the trees, away from the protection of the forest, onto open ground, straight toward the fox. They roiled over and under and around one another, a frantic confusion of brown pelts, a blur of motion in the brown grass. When they came to an abrupt halt, all at the same instant, they were only three or four yards from the fox. And they were no longer squirrels.

The fox twitched and made a hissing sound.

The twenty small squirrels were now four large raccoons.

The fox growled softly.

Ignoring him, one of the raccoons stood on its hind feet and began washing its paws.

The fur along the fox's back bristled.

He sniffed the air.

No scent.

He put his head low and watched the raccoons closely. His sleek muscles grew even more tense than they had been, not because he intended to spring, but because he intended to flee.

Something was very wrong.

All four raccoons were sitting up now, forepaws tucked against their chests, tender bellies exposed.

They were watching the fox.

The raccoon was not usually prey for the fox. It was too aggressive, too sharp of tooth, too quick with its claws. But though it was safe from foxes, the raccoon never enjoyed confrontation; it never flaunted itself as these four were doing.

The fox licked the cold air with his tongue.

He sniffed again and finally did pick up a scent.

His ears snapped back flat against his skull, and he snarled.

It wasn't the scent of raccoons. It wasn't the scent of any denizen of the forest that he had ever encountered before. It was an unfamiliar, sharp, unpleasant odor. Faint. But repellent.

This vile odor wasn't coming from any of the four raccoons that posed in front of the fox. He wasn't quite able to make out where it was coming from.

Sensing grave danger, the fox whipped around on the limestone, turning away from the raccoons, although he was reluctant to put his back to them.

His paws scraped and his claws clicked on the hard surface as he launched himself down the slope, across the flat weatherworn rock, his tail streaming out behind him. He leaped over a foot-wide crevice in the stone — and in midleap he was snatched from the air by something dark and cold and pulsing.

The thing burst up out of the crevice with brutal, shocking force and speed.

The agonized squeal of the fox was sharp and brief.

As quickly as the fox was seized, it was drawn down into the crevice.

Five feet below, at the bottom of the miniature chasm, there was a small hole that led into the caves beneath the limestone outcropping. The hole was too small to admit the fox, but the struggling creature was dragged through anyway, its bones snapping as it went.

Gone.

All in the blink of an eye. Half a blink.

Indeed, the fox had been sucked into the earth before the echo of its dying cry had even pealed back from a distant hillside.

The raccoons were gone.

Now, a flood of field mice poured onto the smooth slabs of limestone.

Scores of them. At least a hundred.

They went to the edge of the crevice.

They stared down into it.

One by one, the mice slipped over the edge, dropped to the bottom, and then went through the small natural opening into the cavern below.

Soon, all the mice were gone, too.

Once again, the forest above Snowfield was quiet.

PART 2 Evil is not an abstract concept. It lives.

It has a form. It stalks. It is too real.

— Dr. Tom Dooley Phantoms! Whenever I think I fully understand mankind's purpose on earth, just when I foolishly imagine that I have seized upon the meaning of life… suddenly I see phantoms dancing in the shadows, mysterious phantoms performing a gavotte that says, as pointedly as words, "What you know is nothing, little man; what you have to learn, is immense.” Charles Dickens

The Big Story Santa Mira.

Monday-1:02 A.M.

"Hello?”

"Is this the Santa Mira Daily News?”

"Yeah." "The newspaper?”

"Lady, the paper's closed. It's after one in the morning.”

"Closed? I didn't know a newspaper ever closed.”

"This isn't the New York Times.”

"But aren't you printing tomorrow's edition now?" "The printing's not done here. These are the business and editorial offices. Did you want the printer or what?”

"Well… I have a story." "If it's an obituary or a church bake sale or something, what you do is you call back in the morning, after nine o'clock, and you' "No, no. This is a big story.”

"Oh, a garage sale, huh?”

"that?”

"Never mind. You'll just have to call back in the morning.”

"Wait, listen, I work for the phone company.”

"That's not such a big story.”

"No, see, it's because I work for the phone company that I found out about this thing. Are you the editor?”

"No. I'm in charge of selling ad pace.”

:"Well… maybe you can still help me.”

"Lady. I'm sitting here on a Sunday night-no, a Monday morning now- all alone in a dreary little office, trying to figure out how the devil to drum up enough business to keep this paper afloat. I am tired. I am irritable' "How awful.”

— and I am afraid you'll have to call back in the morning.”

"But something terrible has happened in Snowfield. I don't know exactly what, but I know people are dead. There might even be a lot of people dead or at least in danger of dying.”

"Christ, I must be tireder than I thought. I'm getting interested in spite of myself. Tell me.”

"We've rerouted Snowfield's phone service, pulled it off the automatic dialing system, and restricted all ingoing calls.

You can only reach two numbers up there now, and both of them are being answered by the sheriff's men. The reason they've set it up that way is to seal the place off before the reporters find out something's up.”

"Lady, what've you been drinking?”

"I don't drink.”

:"Then what've you been smoking?”

"Listen, I know a little bit more. They're getting calls from the Santa Mira sheriff's office all the time, and from the governor's office, and from some military base out in Utah, and they — ”

San Francisco.

Monday-1:40 A.M.

:"This is Sid Sandowicz. Can I help you?”

"I keep tellin' them I want to talk to a San Francisco Chronicle reporter, man.”

"That's me.”

"Man, you guys have hung up on me three times! What the fuck's the matter with you guys?”

"Watch your language.”

,Shit.”

Listen, do you have any idea how many kids like you call up newspapers, wasting our time with silly-ass gags and hot tip hoaxes?”

"Huh? How'd you even know I was a kid?”

""Cause you sound twelve.”

"I'm fifteen!”

"Congratulations.”

"Shit!”

"Listen, son, I've got a boy your age, which is why I'm bothering to listen to you when the other guys wouldn't. So if you've really got something of interest, spill it.”

"Well, my old man's a professor at Stanford. He's a virologist and an epidemiologist. You know what that means, man?”

"He studies viruses, disease, something like that.”

"Yeah. And he's let himself be corrupted.”

"How's that?”

"He accepted a grant from the fuckin' military. Man, he's involved with some biological warfare outfit. It's supposed to be a peaceful application of his research, but you know that's a lot of horseshit. He sold his soul, and now they're finally claimin' it. The shit's hit the fan.”

"The fact that your father sold out-if he did sell out might be big news in your family, son, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much interest to our readers.”