Many Indigenous people believe that one should never whistle at night…
We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Never Whistle at Night, an indigenous dark fiction anthology edited by Shane Hawk and Theodore C. Van Alst Jr., filled with original and shiver-inducing tales full of ghosts, curses, hauntings, monstrous creatures, complex family legacies, desperate deeds, and chilling acts of revenge—out from Vintage on September 19. Please enjoy Shane Hawk’s “Behind Colin’s Eyes,” included here in its entirety.
Many Indigenous people believe that one should never whistle at night. This belief takes many forms: for instance, Native Hawaiians believe it summons the Hukai’po, the spirits of ancient warriors, and Native Mexicans say it calls Lechuza, a witch that can transform into an owl. But what all these legends hold in common is the certainty that whistling at night can cause evil spirits to appear—and even follow you home.
These wholly original and shiver-inducing tales introduce readers to ghosts, curses, hauntings, monstrous creatures, complex family legacies, desperate deeds, and chilling acts of revenge. Introduced and contextualized by bestselling author Stephen Graham Jones, these stories are a celebration of Indigenous peoples’ survival and imagination, and a glorious reveling in all the things an ill-advised whistle might summon.
Behind Colin’s Eyes
Shane Hawk
Dad’s still asleep, so I’m loading my gun all quietlike.
Everybody’s snores drift down the hall to the living room couch where I sit with my favorite mongrel, Tiny, squeezing bullets into my Savage 99E’s rotary mag. Maybe Mom, Grandma, and my sisters are dreaming about Dad and me bringing home Sergeant Rock, the all-powerful elk that always flees. I hope today will be the day.
My eyes want nothing but to close. Sacks of commod flour droop beneath them. I’m the protector of this house when Dad is off duty, and I haven’t slept a wink from the noises outside.
The winter wind howls and the oak tree swipes at our roof with its giant branch-claws as if it wants in. The scratching never ends. Reminds me of the thumbnail coming loose on my left hand; I pick at it when I know I shouldn’t. It separates from the nail bed a bit too far, and red-hot lightning shoots up my arm.
The back door creaks, rumbles, then slams.
Buy the Book
Never Whistle at Night
My head and Tiny’s whip toward the noise. (Pretty sure I locked that door last night… ) I spring from the couch, and my protective little terrier hops to the carpet, following me to scope it out. As I tiptoe to the back of the house, rifle in hand, something murmurs from the dark corner where a couple of frozen pounds from our last victim lie. (Did it whisper my name?) We leave the covered porch’s windows open to let in the freezing air: our make-do meat locker.
I name everything we kill and drag home. This one’s Kolchak. Got his name from these new stories on the television, Night Stalker. I promise Kolchak that we won’t waste any of him. We can’t. But my nose picks up his dried blood despite the thick ice, and some stink coats my tongue, forcing a dry-throat swallow.
The blank windows catch my attention. Our closest neighbor is a few acres away and, like us, they don’t keep night-lights on. The porch windows push out black—like I’m staring into Tiny’s mutt eyes—and the dense trees block out the stars.
A whistle rings out like someone far away is calling their kids back inside. (This late?) Don’t think there are any railroads around here either. I try to match the tune but can hold it only for a few seconds. The whistling stops abruptly after mine. It was probably just the harsh wind.
My retinas singe as I flip on the backyard light, so I scramble to turn it off and readjust my eyes.
(Wait. What was that tall thing by the dog pen?)
(What were those red dots?)
The flash image pulses in my vision as I tuck my rifle stock into my armpit. I flick the light switch again, leaving it on. Just the empty yard, crusted in snow. I ease my trigger finger. Swear something big was there. It was like a tree, or a man, or both. (Am I dreaming?) I pinch myself, and it hurts like hell. Nope, I’m just dog-tired.
Dad and I have a long day ahead of us, and I’m regretting not going to bed. We always leave before dawn, and he’ll wake any minute now. It’s my job to throw our gear into his pickup. That blue-and-white Chevy Cheyenne 10 is a beauty. Sometimes, on the way to Vernal, Dad lets me sit in his lap and pretend to drive. Vernal, Utah—where hunting’s real good. There ain’t much here in Tridell, or even Whiterocks, so we drive to our food.
We used to hunt with Uncle Chaytan, Dad’s best friend, before his motorcycle accident. Uncle and Dad did a lot of stuff together down at his ranch near Fort Duchesne, stuff I wasn’t allowed to know about—still not. They always answer my questions with a silent smile or a flat-out “no,” leaving the curiosity monster in my belly forever hungry.
I return to the couch and reread my August issue of Weird Western Tales: Jonah Hex with a flashlight, Tiny curling up next to me. The first page is an advertisement for an authentic 1973 Daisy BB gun, and I giggle under my breath. I’m ten and three-quarters old, but I got two real guns myself. I can’t hold in my laughter after I read a panel where a white cowboy yells, “Great Scott! Indians!” before an arrow ruptures his organs. Dad must have heard me because now he’s stirring. I roll and tuck my comic book into the couch.
It’s time.
We pull off the main road, sweat dripping down my back as the pickup’s brakes squeal. The headlights brighten the ground, looking like when Mom puts that peroxide stuff on my wounds: a mixture of snow, mud, and pine needles.
My imagination runs wild, and I wonder how this area looked a hundred years ago. My school’s textbooks mention nothing, not that this is Ute land, or that our tribes lived just north of here before a bunch of crinkly government paper pushed them elsewhere.
The velvet painting of Grandpa wearing a Hidatsa war bonnet enters my mind. It still hangs on the wall of a trading post in Denver. He journeyed when I was too young to remember. Old things deserve respect. Makes me feel bad whenever Dad and I do our job, clearing trees for the forestry service. All of them trees earned their rings, then thwack, gone.
“Colin, let’s get a move on,” Dad says, picking up Tiny and exiting the truck.
I stretch so good my body trembles underneath all the layers of my favorite blaze orange jacket. I love orange. It means grouse; it means deer; it means elk.
The slamming of the truck doors startles me. That backyard visitor, if it was real, still lingers in my brain.
I take turns narrowing and widening my eyes to see better as the frozen pine needles crunch beneath our boots. Fog hangs in the air, wrapping around us like a Beaver State blanket. The stars blink at me and Dad, reminding me of the sparkle of Grandma Gracey’s jewelry, and a smile stretches my cheeks while the cold bites at my nose.
Dad and I sling our backpacks on and shoulder our rifles. We trade looks and nods and set off on our usual path. I sigh in my head, knowing there’s nothing but shin-deep snow and darkness ahead of us. Tiny, she’s in my arms and I get a little lost in those eyes again, like two black suns; she knows today is the day we secure Sergeant Rock.
After about a mile, an owl hoots, and though Dad is facing away, I know he’s wincing with me. Boy, I don’t think Dad’s ever taught me to shudder around them, but I can’t help myself. Might be in my blood. Those front-facing eyes give me the heebie-jeebies.
Tiny is making my left arm sore, so I switch. Making a fist, I loosen the flimsy bandage on my thumb. The nail bed has separated completely, but it’s so cold out, I damn near don’t feel its sting. I leave the bloodied wrap behind in the snow like a discarded soldier.
Dad says his rifle was his best friend during the War. It saved his life and never let him down. But he never discusses it. Two things Dad refuses to talk about: the War and the “school” they forced him into. But I lack the hide to question him like I’m some Indian Columbo. The last thing I want to do in the world is upset or disappoint him.
The wind picks up and wails against my ears. I ask Dad if we can take a break to sip water. He agrees right away. The cold must stiffen his joints. Shining our flashlights around, we find a few tree stumps to rest.
“No,” Dad says in his stern voice, the one he uses whenever I make a mistake.
Biting my lip, I bring Tiny back up into my arms instead of setting her down.
“Dad, what are the stars made of?”
“They’re our ancestors. They’re always there, watching, making sure we are living the Indian way, doing the right thing.”
(The Indian way?) Not sure if he’s telling the truth or pulling my leg because he mimicked those Hollywood Indians with how he said it.
Tiny shifts her head with perked ears, so I listen hard.
A low whistle travels through the trees, ending in a higher pitch. My ears must be lying like earlier. Could be the wind again, or another nighttime bird. But Dad tenses, and we both peer into the blackness. (Might be other hunters seeing if we’re human before they fire. It don’t sound like a cow whistle.)
To prevent us from getting shot, I whistle back, but Dad lunges at me and covers my mouth before I can get a good one out.
There’s a pause that feels like forever, with my blood pumping fast and thick through my palms and neck. Another whistle rings, this time unnaturally high. My spine is an icicle, my heart a raging engine.
As quietly as possible, Dad loads his bolt-action and readies it.
The crunching of snow, so subtle, almost undetectable, is nearby. About fifty yards out.
Fumbling to muzzle Tiny’s snarling, my left thumb shouts in pain. She never snarls.
Holding it beneath his rifle, Dad clicks on his flashlight to illuminate the forest, though it’s struggling to penetrate the dense fog, and it flickers. He whacks the flashlight to make the batteries connect better, exposing something up ahead. I squint to make out the vague outline of a figure walking between the trees.
The silhouette stops and turns our way, Dad’s flashlight still picking up fuzzy detail.
Its eyeshine blood red.
Before my mind can process, Dad is yanking me down our path, crushing my left hand in his grip. I want to scream my lungs out. We’re booking it up the trail, the bitter wind forcing my eyes into slits. But I can navigate this path blindfolded. It’s like we’ve done this before thousands of times, cutting through with ease. Our footfalls and Tiny’s whimpers are all I hear.
We run for an eternity through the darkness. It’s so complete it’s like that Cygnus black hole they discovered not long ago.
Dad flashes his light to the right and says, “Over there.” His words are drenched in exhaustion.
We stop behind a snow-covered pile of logs, catching our breath. My eyes burn as I wipe them with my frozen hands. Dad is panting but not dead-tired yet. He uses his boot heel to clear out a cut in the earth for us to huddle in. We take off our backpacks, and I set my rifle down. I crawl into his arms and sit in his lap with Tiny, our backs against the pile. Dad is alert, scanning the area with his rifle in hand. My protector, as always.
“What do you think it was?” I ask, knowing to keep my voice low.
Dad sighs through his nose. “Can’t say. I—I don’t know.”
“It had red eyeshine like a bear. Do humans have red eyeshine?”
“Never seen a bear walk like that. And… humans don’t got eyeshine, Colin.”
My shoulders sink, and my mind races. I don’t want to bug Dad, despite the storm of questions brewing in my head.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, Colin.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too, my boy,” he says, squeezing and rubbing my burning shoulder.
Even though my heart is still thrashing against my rib cage, I bury myself deeper into Dad’s chest, smiling. I’m drained. Could sleep right here in his arms, but I shouldn’t. We’ve still got to be the hunter if we can avoid being the hunted.
Dawn is upon us.
Didn’t mean to doze off, but my body needs the sleep, and my eyes had started to play tricks on me—had seen strange, floating orbs off in the distance before I last closed them. But now my vision is clear, and I take in Creator’s work of art for a moment, how fiery oranges and pinks paint the sky, knowing it’ll soon fade to a lifeless gray.
The air tastes metallic like my mouth is full of pennies. Hunched over in Dad’s lap, I reach two fingers into my mouth. And as I pull them out, their new color glistens in the morning light, some shade of red I’ve never seen. Like ancient blood. I grimace and swallow the taste.
Then the pain hits.
It’s like a blade is corkscrewing into my gums. I hold back a squeal, a hot tear melting its way down my frosty cheek. My curious tongue searches my mouth while the frigid air eats at my chattering teeth. It snakes its way between my top-left molar and the gum it’s hanging onto by a thread. It comes loose with a weak snap, and my eyes go wide. I spit the tooth into my hand, and my tongue checks the others. My opposite molar on the top right is wobbly, too. After a few seconds, I’m holding two blood-caked teeth. My tongue can’t help but play with the two new holes in my gums.
But I already lost my baby molars, and these are supposed to be my adult teeth. I scan the area for any sign of danger since Dad’s off duty again. Bright colors peek through these wooden giants confining us. In a way, the close-packed trees are protectors, too.
Out of the corner of my eye, I detect movement in my right hand, so I bring it to my face. Small black veins sprout within each tooth. Like muddied, raging rivers after a rainstorm, the veins rush to cover the teeth. Suddenly I’m certain: something evil is in these woods. Then in a split second, all the blackness retreats, leaving the teeth salmon colored. When I nearly drop them out of fear, my eyes dart to my left hand.
All the nails are missing.
I start to—what I think is called—hyperventilate. (Goddammit, what is happening to me?) My right hand’s still normal, just the left is all wrong, and I can feel my eyes twitch a bit too much, so I squint them shut—so hard the blackness goes all colorful, nothing but red through my closed eyelids. Forcing my brain to project a memory, it conjures up me and Dad at our favorite lake, me hooking a big, beautiful rainbow trout after hours of nothing. I shove my teeth into my breast pocket and push the worry away like I always do.
Dad wakes from his nap, and without hesitation, I grab some snow to wash the old blood off. After wiping them on my pants, I plunge my hands into my pockets.
“Ready?” Dad whispers, prompting me to stand and stretch. His face says we won’t talk about what we experienced hours ago, and inside my head, I wish we would. I open my mouth.
“Dad, what was the thing we ran from?”
Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. He reaches into his jacket pocket for one of his hand-rolled cigarettes and his matchbox. After lighting up and taking a few drags, Dad studies me for a moment, then waggles his eyebrows. “S’go then,” he says with finality.
I swallow whatever anticipation is bubbling in my throat and offer Dad a hand to get up. We gather our things and continue our well-worn path, but it seems almost too worn. Since the hunting trail is packed down by a bajillion footprints, I set Tiny down to walk beside us. Sergeant Rock is nearby. I know it.
Tiny licks my fingers after I give her some pemmican. Well, not the real thing, but this jerky stuff is tasty enough. I couldn’t last much longer without ripping, chewing, biting into something. My eyes are heavy, but at least my stomach ain’t empty no more. Though, not having all my best chewing teeth is making this harder. I conceal my wincing from Dad, who’s checking the area with his rifle scope. He’s on his second day of fasting; no jerky for him.
“You ready to find our elk, Little Big Man?” Dad asks, shooting finger pistols at me with his signature half-mouth smirk.
He makes me giggle at this nickname. We watched that Chief Dan George movie at the drive-in a few years back with Chaytan. I stand at attention and mock a salute. “Sir, yes, sir!” For a moment, I forget Dad doesn’t like me poking fun at military stuff. So much respect for the military, but never the government.
“Let’s set up here. This is where they graze before passing through to the valley. Sergeant was here last time, so we must be patient. Now seal your food; they can smell for miles.” Dad hands me his rifle while he kneels to join me on the ground with Tiny. His arthritic knees pop as he dusts his hands. Out of instinct, he reaches again for his cigarettes, but he follows his own advice and stops himself. No doubt Dad’s sacred smokes wafting through the wintry breeze would tip off Sergeant.
There are few places I’d rather be than right here with Dad, waiting to meet the mighty Rock. Maybe fishing, but we’re months away from warmth and running streams. Or summer: no school. I can put my new ten-speed to good use and get the next issues of Turok or House of Secrets off my favorite spinning rack, flip through those crispy pages by the riverbank. But then there’s always Saturday morning cartoons with my sisters. We haven’t watched in a while on account me and Dad have been busy with the forestry service.
As I sit here next to Dad, appreciation warms my blood. Grandma Gracey always reminds me to be grateful. I’ve learned a lot from her. And? I’m loving how determined Dad looks right now. He wants this as badly as I do. Yet, the thought of my plucked molars and nails gnaws at the base of my skull like some starving wolf whose hot breath and slobber signal that this is only the beginning.
A gust of wind swirls some browned pine needles toward us, carrying the scent of dead bark and chimney smoke. It’s been a few hours since we settled in this downwind spot. The sun is making its way west, providing us with just enough warmth and light to lead us to where we need to be.
Something crunches the snow and snaps some twigs up ahead.
I gulp and control my breathing to make sure it ain’t too loud. Never know if these animals have Superman’s hearing ability or not.
Dad gestures for me to get ready. Both our rifles are loaded, and Tiny’s awareness is peaking as she watches the field.
There he is: Sergeant Rock, named after one of my favorite DC characters. He must weigh a ton. He alone can feed us for several months. And he’s traveling in a herd of other wapiti, no longer rutting season. Looks like he’s the lone bull walking among yearlings. I’m awestruck, admiring these beautiful creatures with their dark brown heads and legs, a light tan running across their torsos. The angle they’re facing gives us a clear broadside shot, a lot less room for error.
Dad taps my shoulder, giving me the signal to bring up my iron sights. I don’t have a neat scope like him, but it gets the job done. And Dad knows I want Sergeant Rock, so I aim for him and assume Dad will get a yearling. He counts down from three, then—
Birds break out of their nests and rage in the sky from the crack of our soft-nosed bullets and the yearlings bugle before stampeding away. Sergeant and one young elk remain like two fakes in a museum display. The yearling drops. But Sergeant… he staggers, shakes his head, and snorts out a plume of hot, angry breath. He doesn’t drop. (There’s no way I missed.)
Frantically cranking my lever-action and getting my sights set, I shoot him again in the same area behind his shoulder blade. Exactly like Dad taught me. It should mushroom inside him and mess up his innards.
Sergeant turns toward us, barks (Holy moly! His eyes are glowing red) and runs off in the opposite direction.
I shout, shouldering my gun and sprinting after my undead elk.
“Colin!” Dad follows, his boots pounding the ground behind me.
I’m running through a thicker part of the forest, no logging here, and there’s more snow, about ankle-deep. Sergeant Rock is fading from view. I can barely see him. (Is he now running on two legs?) He’s bleeding out, so I follow the red trail.
Dad and Tiny have caught up to me, and together we track the blood path. Tiny hops with ease through the snow. She’s as hungry as I am.
The blood is getting spottier, and it’s like Sergeant is now zigzagging through the trees. We veer left, then right, my eyes pinballing between the red dots in the snow and what’s ahead of me. Like the beating drums at ceremony, my heart has found its rhythm, and it’s burning and pounding against my lungs.
All three of us halt.
Before us lies a blood-soaked elk organ, melting the snow beneath it. Looks like a liver, or a lung. I’m still not too good at identifying. (How’d it just fall out like—)
The organ flops over.
It’s squirming in the rounded pocket of snow. Tiny unleashes her fury by barking and snapping her jaw at it.
Dad and I back away, though something is tugging me toward the body part. My nailless hand actually swings forward before I instinctively recoil. Looks like a small animal is trapped inside the organ and thrashing to break out of it.
Then it levitates and explodes into red steam, raining fire ants and spiders onto us.
I scream and spring backward, my head slamming into something. Sharp pain rings through my skull and down my spine. Last thing my eyes take in before going black is Dad rushing my way, covered in bugs.
Soft light hits my eyes as I come to. The sky is noticeably different. Tiny licks my face, and I cringe in pain.
“Son.” Dad towers over me, his icy hands rubbing my cheeks. “I was thinking I lost you. Hohou, Heisonoonin…” His eyes trail upward, and his chest huffs in relief.
The wriggling, exploding organ reenters my mind, and my breathing intensifies. Feels like I’m in my own weird western tale. “Where did all the bugs go?”
“Bugs?”
“Before I blacked out, that chunk of Sergeant burst into bugs. They were all over you.”
Dad twists his face, checks his watch, then peers around us. “There weren’t no bugs, my boy. Now, I know you’re freaking out—I am too—but something’s going on with your left hand.”
I fake a confused face. To be fair, I forgot about my nails coming off in all the commotion. It hurts to lean over, but I get up anyway to inspect my hands, ready to put shock on display for Dad.
But there are nails, sort of. They’re white and curved like mini elk horns.
“I seen nothing like this before, and I’ve seen my fair share of weird shit, Col.”
In my head, I’m manic, but I try to keep a cool exterior, though I don’t know how good that’s holding up. My nerves are spent, like rats have been chewing on my body’s wiring all day. My left eye is even twitching now, and my neck cords are being jerked sideways. “Let’s go back to the yearling you downed, Dad. Load it up and get home. I’m tired.”
Before nodding and helping me stand, Dad eyes me, inspects me like I’m some freak. But maybe I am. “How ’bout I carry Tiny? The temperature’s dropping again, and you’ve got to take it easy, son.”
I return the nod and shoulder my rifle. My body aches, my head hurts, and I’m due for a forever-nap. I give Dad a sideways hug as we march back to his kill.
While trying to whistle to the tune of my favorite Linda Ronstadt song, I discover I can’t. I drum my fingers on my leg instead, but the elk horns tear my pants. (Do I need to chop it off?) I daydream about our record player, Mom’s posole, and my warm bed—even if I have to share it with my sister Mary. I need out of this place.
“Well, let’s get to it,” Dad says, weariness seeping from each syllable.
We stand before the yearling, or what’s left of it. The snow beneath it has melted away, revealing a bloodied patch of grass. The body is ripped in half, with its entrails completely scooped out. Its neck is sliced with some stringy muscle and cartilage pulled through the slit. The mouth gapes. Both eyeballs are missing, and all four hooves are ripped off. The sight makes my stomach queasy, enough to make me run to the side and spray the cold ground with hot stomach acid.
“Jesus H—What’s gotten into you, Colin?” Dad asks.
But my vomit’s all wrong, like I chugged black and red war paint and attempted Indian abstract art. Something else for the Smithsonian to steal. (Is this blood? What’s the black stuff? Who the hell mutilates a poor animal like this? Or was it that thing from the backyard?) Vomit makes Dad uneasy, so without looking I know he’s averting his eyes.
To the left of what used to be beef jerky, there are two teeth. I check my jacket pocket for my top molars, but they’re missing. My left hand yanks me forward, grabs the ivories, and shoves them, one by one, into my upper gums.
In an instant, my vision changes. There’s no more color. (Whatthehell? Whatthehell? Whatthehell?) Everything is black with distinct white outlining. And I hear things Things I shouldn’t. I hear Dad’s voice but look at him and his lips aren’t moving. He’s saying a prayer for me. He’s worried about what’s out here, what’s happening to his only son.
The young elk convulses. Its head and legs thrash—even the detached hind legs—and a guttural bark escapes its throat.
My mouth opens but what comes out is foreign, like a hundred people’s screams before their death, some deep, some high. (What is pulling my strings? Will someone please… stop this?)
“Oh, shit!” Dad stumbles to the ground, feverishly crab walking back toward Tiny, whose barking is lost in the uproar.
The yearling lets out a prolonged screech as if replying.
There’s a commanding voice inside my head. It’s telling me to “do it.” (Do what?) My body constricts, forcing me to stretch and crack my back.
And in this cracking motion, my breathing is out of control, gasping. I’m behind my own eyes as if they’re windows, and I’m paralyzed, watching Dad, Tiny, and the shrieking zombie elk. But the sound is muffled and echoey. With all my effort, I scream, but there’s no sound. I can’t move my limbs, and it feels like I’m lying on my back, strapped to a canoe floating above this dark abyss inside my brain.
From my eye-windows, I watch my hands grab my rifle, but I’m not moving them. The outside-me is stepping toward the screaming elk, finger on the trigger. I’m—or it is—placing the barrel to the elk’s temple. It’s cranking the lever to discard the previously spent cartridge.
Bam. Lever clicks.
Bam. Lever clicks.
Bam. I toss the gun (or he/it does?) and turn toward Dad.
His mouth is a vast tunnel, and his eyes are teary and confused. He’s holding onto Tiny for dear life.
“Colin… hell’s gotten into you?”
I try to force a fevered explanation out of my mouth, but I’m mute. The outside-me answers in my place.
“Whatever do you mean, Father?”
Dad raises an eyebrow, then looks left and right before asking Outside-Me for a hand up. I’m now bawling my eyes out, though I can’t feel anything or hear myself. (Why is this happening? I want my mom. My sisters.)
“Father, let us take this animal’s nutritional value and return to the family. I must meet—I greatly miss them. I present you with my hunting weapon to carve off the exterior.”
[Dad, no. It’s not me! Please Do something, Dad!]
Some time passes, and I’m still in this two-window prison. I must have strained myself, leaving inside-me unconscious for a while. The outside-me is sitting passenger in Dad’s Chevy, my seat, and is looking down at Tiny, my goddamn dog.
Dad has the truck’s dome light on, and he’s fiddling with the radio. The speakers spill out static and jumbled songs as he twists the knob toward the one hundred mark. Once the antenna catches the main Salt Lake City station, he turns the volume up. He knows this country-rock song is one of my favorites. Whenever it’s on the radio, I whistle and tap my knee to the beat. But the outside-me is motionless, showing no knowledge of the music. It turns to Dad, and we both see him pursing his lips and nodding his head slowly.
“What is unsatisfactory?” Outside-Me asks.
“Oh, nothing. We’re going to take a detour, son.” Dad takes a drag of his new cigarette, cranking the window down to blow out the smoke.
The eye-windows reveal Tiny cuddling next to Dad’s leg, the farthest she could be from me across the truck cab. “To where are we traveling, Father?”
“Chaytan’s place. Need some good medicine for an ailment we’ve suffered before. Long ago.”
His ranch, way out there where no one would hear a scream. Uncle Chaytan, with the dead eyes and crooked grin.
As the outside-me turns away, observing itself in the passenger mirror, I grow a crooked grin of my own.
Without warning, my vision darkens, and I can no longer see the mirror. Blackness coils around me like a vicious snake, like I’m even deeper in this hole. My own eyes invert back onto me.
Two menacing, alien gods loom overhead.
[[Your body is mine now, and this time, your family won’t be able to kill me.]]
Excerpted from Never Whistle at Night, copyright © 2023 by Shane Hawk and Theodore C. Van Alst Jr.
