Absolute Fear. Lisa Jackson

A rusted gate hung drunkenly on one hinge; the old cattle guard was still intact, causing her tires to rumble and quake as she entered the private acres.

      The drive was little more than twin ruts. Where there once had been gravel, there was now only scattered stones and mud. Weeds scraped the Camry’s undercarriage. The car shuddered and bounced over the potholes and protruding rocks, and she was forced to slow to a creep as she picked her way through the bleached trunks of the cypress trees and brush.

      God, it was dark. Eerie. The stuff from which horror films are made.

      Eve had never been faint of heart, nor was she a coward, but she wasn’t an idiot either, and driving around in the middle of the Louisiana swamp on a gloomy night seemed like a bad idea. Years of practicing tae kwon do and a small canister of pepper spray tucked inside her purse didn’t seem like enough firepower to fight whatever evil might lie in the dense undergrowth. “Oh, get over yourself,” she said aloud.

      She clicked off the radio and picked up her cell phone, only to note that it was receiving no service.

      “Of course,” she said beneath her breath. “Wouldn’t you know…”

      Her car edged forward, and she narrowed her eyes, straining to see the cabin.

      Everything that had happened today was out of sync, just not quite right, and it had culminated in that fight with Cole.

      How had that happened? Okay, so she’d been prickly after a visit from her father, but had that warranted the kind of cold fury that had been unleashed upon her by the man she planned to marry?

      The call from Roy had sent her out here…into this seeping, clinging fog. Everything about this day and night felt a little out of kilter, and Eve gave herself a shake, trying to dispel the heebie-jeebies.

      She checked her watch again.

      In a few minutes it would be over.

      The cabin was less than a quarter of a mile ahead.

      The Reviver waited.

      Trembling.

      Anticipating.

      Ears straining.

      Every nerve ending stretched to the breaking point.

      But the Voice was silent.

      There was no praise for his act; no recriminations for not completing the job.

      His heart raced, and he turned his face skyward as a cold spring wind rattled through this part of the bayou. The moon, nearly obscured by the rising fog, offered only a chilling slice of illumination in the night.

      Senses heightened, he smelled the metallic odor of blood as it dripped from the fingertips of his gloves.

      Talk to me, he silently begged the Voice. I have done Your bidding as best I could. She wasn’t there, not where you said she’d be. I couldn’t kill her. Should I track her down? Hunt her?

      His breath quickened at the thought of stalking her, cornering her, witnessing her fear, then taking her.

      But the night was deathly quiet.

      No frogs croaked.

      No cicadas hummed.

      No crickets chirped.

      There was nothing but silence and the sound of his short, rapid breaths—visible breaths that mingled with the fog in the still air.

      The Voice of God, it seemed, had grown mute.

      Because he’d erred.

      Horribly.

      And now he was being punished.

      He tried to concentrate. Had he been mistaken? Hadn’t the Voice told him there would be two inside? Two to sacrifice? Yes, he was certain of it. A man and the woman, Eve, were both supposed to be inside, and yet he’d found only the man.

      “Forgive me,” he whispered in agony. What would his penance be this time? He thought of the scars upon his back from flagellation, the burns on his palms from hot coals. He shuddered to think what was to come.

      And yet…

      His heart was still beating erratically, his blood still singing in his veins from the kill. Oh, how exquisite had been that first slice of his blade as it separated the soft tissue of the throat. And the thin, pulsing seam of red as the blood began to flow…. He closed his eyes and felt the rush all over again.

      Nervously, he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

      Disappointment gnawed at his guts.

      Still he waited.

      The Voice had never been wrong before.

      And who was he to doubt God’s instructions?

      Sometimes he became confused. Often the other voices screamed at him—screechy, irritating little things that would hiss, whine, and yell at him, clouding his judgment, causing his head to pound, making him wonder about his own sanity. But tonight they too were silent.

      “Help me,” he mouthed. “Talk to me. Please assure me that I am doing your bidding.”

      There was no response, only the sound of a short gust of wind rattling leaves as it whipped through the cypresses and live oaks in this part of the swamp.

      He would wait.

      Quickly, pleadingly, he made a desperate, deft sign of the cross over his chest, and as he did, he heard the soft rumble of a car’s engine approaching.

      YES!!!

      His eyes flew open.

      Tires crunched on the sparse gravel.

      He didn’t have to see the car to know it was a Toyota. Eve’s vehicle. Anticipation gave him a rush of heat through his blood as he spied her headlights, mist swirling in their weak golden beams. His gloved hand tightened over the hilt of the knife, the razor-thin blade scarcely visible in the darkness.

      Crouching, he began to steal silently through the undergrowth and stopped near the cabin garage, behind a rotting tree stump, close enough that he could reach her in three steps when she walked to the door.

      Her headlights washed over the grayed walls of the tiny cabin, and the engine died. The car door opened, and he caught a glimpse of her, red curls scraped away from her face, jaw set, eyes darting quickly. She cast a glance at Roy’s truck, parked beneath the overhang of a carport. Then, using a small flashlight, she walked swiftly toward the cabin’s door, tested it, and found it locked.

      “Roy?” she called, knocking loudly, a hint of her perfume wafting his way. “Hey…what’s going on?” Then, more softly, “If this is some kind of sick joke, I swear, you’ll pay….”

      Oh, it’s no joke, he thought, every nerve stretched to the breaking point. She was so close. If he leaped out, he could tackle her.

      She shined the flashlight’s beam over the dilapidated siding and onto a sagging, battered shutter. “What’re the chances?” she asked herself. She reached behind the broken slats, extracted a key, and looked at it a long moment. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered, inserting the key into the dead bolt.

      With a click, the old lock gave way.

      As she stepped into the house, he moved swiftly. He had his knife gripped tightly in his hand, and he desperately wanted to use it, to watch as it slit her soft, white flesh. But, just in case, there was always the pistol, a small-caliber one but deadly enough.

      A light snapped on inside the cabin.

      Through the dusty glass of the kitchen window, he saw her, her hair pulled away from the long column of her throat. His heart kicked into overdrive, and he drew a shivery breath, envisioning the act.

      She’d hear his footsteps, turn, gasp when their eyes met. Then he would move quickly, slashing that perfectly arched throat, slicing her jugular, crimson blood spraying.