All Hallow's Eve. Midsummer Night. Halloween.

'When the freaks come out'.

Or for the residents of Wakiomo, 'The Damned'.

Four Histish(1) boys live on the edge of the junkyard with their grandmother, who most call 'Auntie Fey'. They're a good bunch, polite and easy to get along with. Many are friends with the boys. Some aren't, but even though there are disagreements about whether this family can be trusted--they do live, after all, on the edge of the junkyard--everyone belonging to this small town knows of the sixth resident in the boys' home, and his purpose--and they keep him secret.

They call him Gabe, after the angel Gabriel, because that is what he is to them--something of an angel, and he is the only protection on All Hallow's Eve, 'when the freaks come out'.

When The Damned come out.

But there is a new family moving in. A broken, incomplete family, consisting of Emeline Engill, her son, Brett, and her daughter, Jack. At first, the newcomers seem reasonably normal and the people of Wakiomo are reassured they'll take no serious notice of the strange little superstitions and rituals, and overall odd behavior of Wakiomo's residents and consider them nothing more than just that--little superstitions and rituals and simple overall odd behavior.

But Emeline, Brett, and Jack moved into this small, somewhat 'country' town for reasons. Reasons they don't plan on sharing--not the real reasons anyway. For the Engills, this new home is a safehouse from their previous life. But they have no idea how dangerous it really is. Or rather, Jack has some idea, but no one's listening to her. Jack is immediately drawn to the Fey boys, and especially Gabe. Yet her behavior is odd--it's obvious she wants to really talk to them, yet she stays on the edges, not approaching the boys or anyone else unless absolutely necessary. But then Jack and her family experience something they can't believe and can't deny. And because of this, they all becomes involved with the dark circle of the small town's dark history and pulled into in the never-ending battle with The Damned.

But it's not just the dark past of the town Jack herself gets involved with.

She gets involved with Gabe's dark past, too.

And he with hers.

(1) Histish: my word for a kind of cross between Hispanic and British. They have weird accents, okay? Just...just don't ask...

Kogurae

Like The Damned.

There are places we shouldn't go.

Like the back of the junkyard on Mower's Hill. There are bad things there.

Halloween is when the freaks come out.

The man strode through the rows of piles of various thrown-out machinery and junk, his arms swinging at his sides in a carefree manner. A straw farmer's hat sat on his head at a jaunty angle, the sides fraying and stray straw sticking out. He had the appearance of a farmer, a loosely buttoned plaid red-and0white shirt, the collar askew in an easygoing style, his faded jeans sun-bleached like the man's dirty-blonde hair, his once-black boots mud-spattered and faded like his jeans. He wore faded dark green gardening gloves on his hands. He whistled a merry tune, his voice every now and then breaking into deep, rich song.

As he entered and passed through the yard-lights of the flat sandlot near the middle of the junkyard, there could be clearly seen a noose around the man's neck, fraying at the end of its rope where it had snapped, the rope of the noose tightly biting into the man's neck. Dark red blood, still drying, stained the rope where the flesh had been rubbed raw, and at the back, where the white bone of the man's spine was visible.

The sign at the front of the junkyard, "TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT" held no meaning for the man. Why should he care?

After all, he was already dead.

"Ohhh, heyyyy," Jay said, turning away from the window to face his companions behind him, which were gathered around a poker table in the room's dim light. "Hey, hey!" Now they were paying attention.

"Ey man, wha' izzit?" asked Jamal, Jay's twin. "We go'a game goin' on eyh, man!"

"Sh-sh-sh," Jay insisted, holding a finger to his lips. "Lissen. You c'n ea' th' Fahmah whistlin', ey?"

The four boys around the poker table fell quiet, eyes bright and ears pricked.

"...and when I came to Sally Jane

I saw another man

And from then on I could not refrain

From becoming like The Damned..."

The man's rich tenor faded back into cheerful whistle, and the whistle gradually faded into the night.

Reiko, another of the boys, shuddered and twisted around in his seat to speak to the shadow in the corner.

"Ey man. Why don' you ligh' summora thos' spearih cannels, ey?" There were murmurs of agreement from the other boys as Jay moved away form the window back into the ring of light surrounding the poker table. The light was created by tall, half-melted candles of various colors which burned from atop several tall iron stands, intricate designs twisting around the otherwise simple structures.

The shadow shifted slightly, his yellow eyes opening. He moved the cigarette from his mouth, blowing out a stream of smoke as he straightened up. When he spoke, his voice was low and clipped, like someone who's on their last nerve but is managing patience.

"They're called 'Spirit Candles'. And I only have so many. So we'll be saving them for when we really need them. Not wasting them whenever you get the willies every time you think you hear a Damned."

He moved his cigarette back to his lips and his eyes closed, and his lanky, slim-yet-muscular body leaning back into his shadowy corner.

Muttering in slight but carefully masked complaint, the boys turned back to their poker game, chafing from the other's words but wisely unwilling to speak against him.

They were too smart from that.

Outside, a faint wailing began. The boys around the table shudded and drew in closer together. The one in the corner gave no reaction. His only movement was to let another stream of smoke trickle out of his mouth.

The wailing seemed to grow louder, and closer. One by one, the boys made slight, rapid movements over their chests. The one in the corner gave a faint snort of contempt. Like crossing themselves would help.

Then again, he knew they didn't really believe it did. It was a sort of competition thing, a little sibling rivalry. See who could last the longest before giving into superstition--bred upbringing and flash through the small ritual in an effort to protect themselves against sinister existences.

Louder still, the wailing grew.

He knew it would soon reach a climax, and then fade into the night. It always did.

Gradually, the wailing faded away, and an opressive silence fell.

It leaked into the room, filling it with thick, heavy silence. The silence that could drive a man insane if no noise was made.

But noise was being made as the boys played their poker games. If ever their voices fell silent, one of them was always tapping, coughing, anything to beat back the silence. It was actually a decent system, in the opinion of the one in the corner. Decent for people like them. He didn't need a system. He had...what was required.

The silence was the silence of the Predator.

The fourth Passing of the Night Patrol had begun.

xxx

"Events have been set in motion..."

"Yes, and they will continue in their current direction without your interruption, Hurias."

The lower half of the face of one of the two cloaked figures was visible in the flickering torchlight. His lips parted in a sinister smile, revealing long, sharp teeth.

"Surely you don't suspect me of foul play, Durmia?"

"No, only of being naturally foul," the other cloaked figure responded coolly. Her voice showed no sign of it, but she was annoyed. Hurias really could be so immature at times.

Both figures stiffened when the door they stood in front of was loudly rapped upon.

"Who strikes the door of Parimion?" Durmia asked sharply, her grip on her tall, gnarled staff tightening. Her already pale skin became nearly white at her knuckles. "Answer, or I shall strike with all the fury of the snow leopardess."

"Parimion strikes the door of Parimion," a voice replied, and it was clear its owner was struggling not to chuckle.

Swallowing back the heat rising in her face, Durmia answered.

"Enter."

The door opened, and a third cloaked figure entered, striding between the two others, his tall, black gnarled staff tapping firmly on the floor. The other two turned from the door after it had swung shut on its own, following their companion.

The three strode over to near the middle of the round tower room to where a strange object hovered. It was a perfect circle of flat glass, levitating about four feet above the ground. It was paper-thin, seemingly frail, yet in truth the magics that had been woven into it by its weaver, one of the most powerful of mages and glassweavers alike, protected it and it was practically indestructible. The tallest of the figures, Parimion, stood before the glass, his back to the window behind and directly facing the tower room door several feet across the room. Hurias and Durmia stepped into position so that a triangle was formed between the three of them.

Hurias began the chant, followed by Durmia, then Parimion, and then all three together.

Hurias spoke first:

"A circle for the purity-"

And then Durmia:

"And to show eternity-"

Followed by Parimion:

"Triangle to show the strength-"

And then on all three together:

"Together they create

The Eyeglass used by Fate."

Then, all three in unison stepped back a foot from the circle of glass before them, and joined hands.

"Let us begin," Parimion spoke.

His voice was not his own.