Winter Moon. By: Dean R. Koontz

The moody amber light was now threaded with red, like blood in an egg

yolk.

Eduardo was scared, miles past fear into sheer terror, fighting a

looseness in his bowels and a weakness in his bladder, shaking so

violently that he would not have been surprised to hear his bones

rattling together–yet his heart was no longer racing. It had slowed

drastically and now matched the steady thirty-beats-per-minute of the

pulsating sound that seemed to issue from every radiant surface.

He couldn’t possibly stay on his feet when his heartbeat was so slow,

the blood supply to his brain so diminished. He ought to be either in

severe shock or unconscious. His perceptions must be untrustworthy.

Perhaps the throbbing had escalated to match the pace of his hammering

heart.

Curiously, he was no longer aware of the frigid air. Yet no heat

accompanied the enigmatic light. He was neither hot nor cold.

He couldn’t feel the earth under his feet. No sense of gravity,

weight, or weariness of muscle. Might as well have been floating.

The odors of the winter were no longer perceptible. Gone was the

faint, crisp, ozone-like scent of snow. Gone, the fresh smell of the

pine forest that rose just in front of him. Gone, the faint sour stink

of his own icy sweat.

No taste on his tongue. That was the weirdest of all. He had never

before realized there was always an endless and subtly changing series

of tastes in his mouth even when he wasn’t eating anything. Now a

blandness. Neither sweet nor sour. Neither salty nor bitter. Not

even a blandness. Beyond blandness.

Nothing. Nada. He worked his mouth, felt saliva flooding it, but

still no taste.

All of his powers of sensory perception seemed to be focused solely on

the ghost light shining from within the trees and on the punishing,

insistent sound. He no longer felt the throbbing bass washing in cold

waves across his body, rather, the sound was coming from within him

now, and it surged out of him in the same way that it issued from the

trees.

Suddenly he was standing at the edge of the woods, on ground as

effulgent as molten lava. Inside the phenomenon. Gazing down, he saw

that his feet seemed to be planted on a sheet of glass beneath which a

sea of fire churned, a sea as deep as the stars were distant. The

extent of that abyss made him cry out in panic, although no thinnest

whisper escaped him.

Fearfully and reluctantly, yet wonderingly, Eduardo looked at his legs

and body, and saw that the amber light also radiated from him and was

riddled with bursts of red. He appeared to be a man from another

world, filled with alien energy, or a holy Indian spirit that had

walked out of the high mountains in search of the ancient nations once

in dominion over the vast Montana wilderness but long lost:

Blackfeet?

Crow, Sioux, Assiniboin, Cheyenne.

He raised his left hand to examine it more closely. His skin was

transparent, his flesh translucent. At first he could see the bones of

his hand and fingers, well-articulated gray-red forms within the molten

amber substance of which he seemed to be made. Even as he watched, his

bones became transparent too, and he was entirely a man of glass, no

substance to him at all any more, he had become a window through which

could be seen an unearthly fire, just as the ground under him was a

window, just as the stones and trees were windows.

The crashing waves of sound and the electronic squeal arose from within

the currents of fire, ever more insistent. As on that night in March,

he had an almost clairvoyant perception of something straining against

confinement, struggling to break out of a prison or through a

barrier.

Something trying to force open a door.

He was standing in the intended doorway.

On the threshold.

He was seized by the bizarre conviction that if the door opened while

he was standing in the way, he would shatter into disassociated atoms

as if he’d never existed. He would become the door. An unknown caller

would enter through him, out of the fire and through him.

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