Show Notes
Every October, after the season's last storm, a lineman cuts the power to an entire Cajun shrimping town on the Louisiana coast for three nights. Behind drawn blinds, families sit in silence while pale, eyeless creatures crawl out of the bay and carry people from their homes. The town believes the creatures hunt the light; he has known for eleven years that they hunt the current in the wires, and he has never told a soul.
In 1977, an officer from the Army Corps of Engineers stops him at the last lever, the one that feeds the poorest street in town, and orders him to leave it on and tell no one, not even his wife. The eleven families on the marsh edge are told their power was kept on to save their catch, and they thank him for it.
That one live line keeps the rest of the town quiet, including the house where his own children sleep. The longer he holds the secret, the clearer it becomes what the arrangement is buying, who is paying for it, and how close the dark could come to his own door if he ever pulls that line down.
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More from Galactic Horrors
In the spring of 1959, an autoworker out of work for eleven months takes the only job anyone will give him: driving the truck that hauls a traveling carnival's sideshow Martian through the farm towns of the Midwest. The lot boss asks him a single question, how many children he has, then parks his wife and two young sons in a trailer at the far edge of the lot, nearest the open fields.
For twenty winters he has built the ice at the hockey arena in his Minnesota hometown, and he can tell by sound which ice will carry a man. That is why, when the war stalls on a frozen marsh nearby, the army hands him a ring of keys and the job of walking thirty convicts half a mile out onto the ice each dusk, chaining them by the neck to iron posts, and unlocking whoever is left at dawn.
In 1968, an Air Force loadmaster has spent three years flying the war dead home from Vietnam, and his career rests on never asking what is inside a box. Moved to a night route whose cargo no crewman may see, he keeps the habit until a stopover in the middle of the Pacific, when he turns on the hold lights. The seats are filled with dead American soldiers in dress greens, embalmed, made up to smile, and wired to battery packs that let them walk.
When the reactor at the heart of a West Virginia mill city explodes, its night engineer runs for twenty minutes without warning anyone and reaches a fence he has never seen. Outside it, eleven years have passed. The blast has bent time around the plant, so the nearer anyone stands to it, the slower their clock runs, and the city inside is still living its worst night while the towns along the fence watch through telescopes.
A failing colony on a distant world builds its chapel around an ancient black stone, its top worn into two smooth hollows by knees no one can account for. After forty nights of unanswered prayer, the chaplain who talked thirty-four families out of Kansas kneels there to beg for rain. Before dawn, silver shapes come down out of the hills on their knees, and rain falls on the fields and nowhere else.