Hex

by Thomas Olde Heuvelt

The town square was a surging horde of human abnormality. Now not hundreds but two or three thousand people were participating in the total pandemonium of bellowing, wailing, and brawling people. Everyone was there—all of Black Spring. And it was impossible to tell who was fighting what cause. Griselda’s Butchery & Delicacies lay in ashes; other buildings were burning as well, billowing fires that lit the mob, grazed the treetops, colored the bronze statue of the washerwoman at the fountain with a reddish glare, and reflected in the odd-shaped windows of Crystal Meth Church, giving it the surreal appearance of rising even higher and looking out over the unholy throng with the eyes of the inferno. Steve tried to recognize his fellow townsfolk in the features of individuals, but realized it was impossible: Their faces seemed rubbed out, without eyes and without mouths, and not a single madman’s face deviated from that of another. These were the faces of Black Spring, and Black Spring was at its darkest hour.

Again, those final lines in this highlight. Wow!