I got to the nearest of the rocks and stopped. It was one of the five-footers. At first I thought there were faces carved in it-not human faces, either; the faces of beasts and monsters-but then I shifted my position a little and saw it was just a trick of the evening light, which thickens shadows and makes them look like…well, like anything. In fact, after I stood in my new position for awhile, I saw new faces. Some of these looked human, but they were just as horrible. More horrible, really, because human is always more horrible, don’t you think? Because we know human, we understand human. Or think we do. And these looked like they were either screaming or laughing. Maybe both at the same time.

I thought it was the quiet screwing with my imagination, and the isolation, and the bigness of it-how much of the world I could see laid out in front of me. And how time seemed to be holding its breath. As if everything would stay the way it was forever, with sunset not more than forty minutes away and the sun sitting red over the horizon and that faded clarity in the air. I thought it was those things that were making me see faces where there was nothing but coincidence. I think differently now, but now it’s too late.

I snapped some pictures. Five, I think. A bad number, although I didn’t know that yet. Then I stood back, wanting to get all seven of them in one picture, and when I framed the shot, I saw that there were really eight, standing in a kind of rough ring. You could tell-when you really looked, you could-that they were part of some underlying geological formation that had either poked out of the ground eons ago, or had maybe been exposed more recently by flooding (the field had a fairly steep downward slope, so I thought that was very possible), but they also looked planned, like stones in a Druid’s circle. There was no carving in them, though. Except for what the elements had done. I know, because I went back in daylight and made sure of it. Chips and folds in the stone. No more than that.

I took another four shots-which makes a total of nine, another bad number, although slightly better than five-and when I lowered the camera and looked again with my naked eye, I saw the faces, leering and grinning and grunting. Some human, some bestial. And I counted seven stones.

But when I looked into the viewfinder again, there were eight.

I started to feel dizzy and scared. I wanted to be out of there before full dark came-away from that field and back on Route 117, with loud rock and roll on the radio. But I couldn’t just leave. Something deep inside me-as deep as the instinct that keeps us drawing in breaths and letting them out-insisted on that. I felt that if I left, something terrible would happen, and perhaps not just to me. That sense of thinness swept over me again, as if the world was fragile at this particular place, and one person would be enough to cause an unimaginable cataclysm. If he weren’t very, very careful.

That’s when my OCD shit started. I went from stone to stone, touching each one, counting each one, and marking each in its place. I wanted to be gone-desperately wanted to be gone-but I did it and I didn’t skimp the job. Because I had to. I knew that the way I know I have to keep breathing if I want to stay alive. By the time I got back to where I’d started, I was trembling and wet with sweat as well as mist and dew. Because touching those stones…it wasn’t nice. It caused…ideas. And raised images. Ugly ones. One was of chopping up my ex-wife with an axe and laughing while she screamed and raised her bloody hands to ward off the blows.

But there were eight. Eight stones in Ackerman’s Field. A good number. A safe number. I knew that. And it no longer mattered if I looked at them through the camera’s viewfinder or with my naked eyes; after touching them, they were fixed. It was getting darker, the sun was halfway over the horizon (I must have spent twenty minutes or more going around that rough circle, which was maybe forty yards across), but I could see well enough-the air was weirdly clear. I still felt afraid-there was something wrong there, everything screamed it, the very silence of the birds screamed it-but I felt relieved, too. The wrong had been put at least partly right by touching the stones…and looking at them again. Getting their places in the field set into my mind. That was as important as the touching.

[A pause to think.]

No, more important. Because it’s how we see the world that keeps the darkness beyond the world at bay. Keeps it from pouring through and drowning us. I think all of us might know that, way down deep. So I turned to go, and I was most of the way back to my car-I might even have been touching the doorhandle-when something turned me around again. And that was when I saw.

[He is silent for a long time. I notice he is trembling. He has broken out in a sweat. It gleams on his forehead like dew.]

There was something in the middle of the stones. In the middle of the circle they made, either by chance or design. It was black, like the sky in the east, and green like the hay. It was turning very slowly, but it never took its eyes off me. It did have eyes. Sick pink ones. I knew-my rational mind knew-that it was just light in the sky I was seeing, but at the same time I knew it was something more. That something was using that light. Something was using the sunset to see with, and what it was seeing was me.

[He’s crying again. I don’t offer him the Kleenex, because I don’t want to break the spell. Although I’m not sure I could have offered them in any case, because he’s cast a spell over me, too. What he’s articulating is a delusion, and part of him knows it-“shadows that looked like faces,” etc.-but it’s very strong, and strong delusions travel like cold germs on a sneeze.]

I must have kept backing up. I don’t remember doing it; I just remember thinking that I was looking at the head of some grotesque monster from the outer darkness. And thinking that where there was one, there would be more. Eight stones would keep them captive-barely-but if there were only seven, they’d come flooding through from the darkness on the other side of reality and overwhelm the world. For all I knew, I was looking at the least and smallest of them. For all I knew, that flattened snakehead with the pink eyes and what looked like great long quills growing out of its snout was only a baby.

It saw me looking.

The fucking thing grinned at me, and its teeth were heads. Living human heads.

Then I stepped on a dead branch. It snapped with a sound like a firecracker, and the paralysis broke. I don’t think it’s impossible that that thing floating inside the circle of stones was hypnotizing me, the way a snake is supposed to be able to do with a bird.

I turned and ran. My lens-bag kept smacking my leg, and each smack seemed to be saying Wake up! Wake up! Get out! Get out! I pulled open the door of my 4Runner, and I heard the little bell dinging, the one that means you left your key in the ignition. I thought of some old movie where William Powell and Myrna Loy are at the desk of a fancy hotel and Powell rings the bell for service. Funny what goes through your mind at moments like that, isn’t it? There’s a gate in our heads, too-that’s what I think. One that keeps the insanity in all of us from flooding our intellects. And at critical moments, it swings open and all kinds of weird shit comes flooding through.

I started the engine. I turned on the radio, turned it up loud, and rock music came roaring out of the speakers. It was The Who, I remember that. And I remember popping on the headlights. When I did, those stones seemed to jump toward me. I almost screamed. But there were eight, I counted them, and eight is safe.