The Chevy climbed up the road.  Joseph navigated through a one lane bridge, turned left past a bamboo thicket, then right, behind Tucker's place.  He never did understand Tucker: the man's ratty double wide trailer was about to fall apart, but the vehicle parked next to it was an enormous red Dodge that had to have cost close to forty grand.  Does a man spend more of his time at home or in his truck?  "Fix your damn trailer," Joseph murmured.

He passed another bridge and made a sharp right onto a narrow dirt road flanked by chalk maple shrubs entangled with whiteberry.  Branches scratched at the truck.  Joseph swore.  Uncle Morris was always a bit of a recluse, and his wife Adele was perfectly content to never leave the house except for an occasional run down to the store.  They grew their own vegetables: beans, corn, potatoes, peppers, and squash, and canned a good deal of what they grew.  With two horses, four cows, and a mob of chickens with whom Aunt Adele fought a never ending battle for her porch, they made most of what they needed.  But it was one thing to keep to themselves, and another to let the road overgrow to impassable jungle.  He'd have to talk Morris into taking a weedeater to it.

The brush ended, replaced by a single row of tall pines.  Between them Joseph saw the green meticulously cut lawn and the house, a small two story with freshly painted white siding and green roof, and beyond it a pasture running up a low hill. 

To the left of the house three old, rusted cars dotted the grass.  Morris hated to go out, but he liked to tinker with cars.  Joseph sighed.  If his uncle wanted to half of his yard into a used car lot, not much he could do about it.

He turned into the long driveway.

To his right in the pasture, a horse lay on its side.  A cloud of flies swirled around the carcass.

Joseph slammed on the brakes.  Morris would never leave a dead horse to rot in the pasture.

He slapped parking break on, leaving the engine to idle, swiped a shot gun from the floor, and jumped out.  Gravel crunched under his feet.  Joseph headed toward the wooden fence flanking the pasture. 

Both mares lay belly up in the grass, their throats torn, their bodie stained with dark blood.  Further up the hill, dark brown mounds marked the places the cows had fallen.  Morris's entire livestock lay dead in the field, slaughtered. What the hell was going on?

A dark shape darted to the left, just on the edge of his vision.  Morris turned, whipping the shotgun, but it dashed behind the house on all fours.  A changeling gone mad?  It was possible, he supposed, although the only changeling around now was Rose's baby brother and the kid wasn't big enough to bring down two horses and a four cows.

Joseph advanced up the gravel.  It would have to be a drifter or something worse, something weird that crawled out of the depths of the Wood.

Another shape jerked to the left, behind the rusted truck.  Joseph veered that way, walking slowly, his shotgun at the ready.  "Uncle Morris!" he called.

The house lay silent.

"Aunt Adele?"

A bright spark in the window on the top floor jerked him back to the right – someone caught the sun in a small mirror in the guest bedroom.  A signal.  Someone was alive up there.

Wet clammy magic rolled down his back, slow, like a gob of snot sliding along his skin.  Joseph turned.

A dark thing emerged from behind the rusted truck.  It was tall like a pony and ghastly, mottled purple.  Four slanted eyes stared at Joseph, full of silver fire.

Joseph cursed and stumbled back a step.   That was no damn changeling.  He wasn't sure what the hell it was, but he knew it wasn't anything he had ever seen.