The loader did a three-point turn and rejoined the others on their track while one of the back tires spun loosely on its axle.


    “Well, this has gone from terrible to horribly bad really quick,” Tony’s voice came over the comm, but it broke up as the link captured the engine noises of the tractors. “Does anyone have any brilliant ideas to deal with demonically possessed farm vehicles?”


    “This isn’t really a great time for jobs about cars getting repossessed, Tony,” I said. I wanted to laugh. It would have been great to clear the mind. I stayed in the ditch while the rumbling got steadily lower, quickly sounding like a rapidly beating heart of the quick procession of a drum, moving up and down the lowest bass scales. We were all in various positions and Mr. Morris stared at the fire as it mixed with the sky.


    “I''ve never seen something this big before,” Pop said, as he unzipped a duffel bag. The aurora had turned into waves sloshing across the sky like the gentle tide of a quiet beach. It would have felt serene and peaceful if the lighting didn’t pierce the harmony illuminating the mountain line that saw off to the southeast. The whole sequence felt like drips of watercolors being dipped into a large bowl that was being gentle. Mixed with a spoon and till the colors were meant to set in.


    “Why are the tractors outlining the field,” Mom said, “Mr. Morris ordered them to come after us.”


    “They will,” Dad said, “If we try and get close.”


    A thunderclap intensified the incalculable challenge implied beneath Dad''s words. Mr. Morris had planned this out perfectly. Splashes of crimson, maroon, amber, and purple spilled across the ground, spreading in multiple directions. The essence closely resembled fog but morphed into puffs of smoke, like an engine being a countdown.


    “That drumming!” I said, “Is that a countdown?”


    “You’re probably,” Pop began, but the colored smoke began to trace the edges of the tractor path. Each one maintained the proper speed, and the tractor exerted a ton of force to make a strong impression on the ground. Once the colors reached the road leading to the other parts of the farm, and back toward the house. I recognized a path being charted right toward the bonfire and the field. Whatever was going on, it seemed like it was reaching its pinnacle moment.


    “I think something is coming,” Dad finished.


    Far down the path, it suddenly became occupied. I watched two dozen if not more, white and blue specks bounce up and down. The drumming continued, but it was pretty obvious now that it wasn’t drums. Rather, it was hooves beating against the ground.


    “Come on, yeah.” Multiple voices yelled.


    “Keep it together!” a higher-pitched voice yelled.


    “Yaw, stay strong!”


    “Everyone stays put!” Dad ordered.


    I felt my chest seize as the measure of a massive herd came charging across the neighboring field, and with clear focus and drive, the massive round-up followed the path and began to pursue the fleeing tractors like a humongous, out-of-control stampede. I ducked back into the ditch and shielded my head out of self-preservation. Yet, it didn’t take long before the last few wranglers and wandering cattle were following the path, but they were several feet above our heads.


    “They’re all ghosts,” Mom said, over animal sounds and relentless huffing and puffing. The wranglers hollered and bellowed as their horses fought to keep pace with the cows. The herd sped across the sky, and every few seconds, more cows came into view. They were all translucent, but their horns were dark, and I could see dirt being kicked up from beneath their hooves.


    What’s it going to take to bring them down to the ground level?


    The cowboys directed the herd, and as one solid group, they sped up and curved in an arch, tracing the perimeter of the field. As they came closer, the energy spilling out from the bonfire spun, swirled, and swayed. Then, the dust clouds trailing behind the herd expanded and hung within the energy, and like a tiny stream of water, the energy began to feed into the herd, and it slowly worked its way up across the hide of each cow.


    “Why a cattle drive?” Dad asked.


    “It’s a symbol of the Old West, I would imagine,” Mom replied. “He said this was an opportunity.”


    But for what? Irony kicked me in the teeth as I thought about the point of view, and the answer came as the high-pressured pace of the herd intensified following the scurry yip of several dogs that pulsed visible and invisible as they fought to keep their positions while the cattle were on the move. I counted three dogs, and they held my attention for two laps. Once they began the third one, within my observation, my insides prickled when something strange leaped across a barbed wire fence. I didn’t catch it at first, but thunder cracked multiple times, and a figure on horseback kicked up a lot of dirt. I followed its path, and as expected, it came to a stop right beside the bonfire and the van’s crumpled remains.


    “There’s a new ghost!” I said, I watched a horse leap over an unseen obstacle before disappearing like a smudge being cleared from a countertop. “It''s bringing up the rear. I don’t like this one. There is something different about him.”


    “Bark bark,”


    “That’s it!” a voice yelled, “You show them whose boss!”


    For a moment, there was one dog and then four more rallied up behind the first, who was the largest and most vicious of the pack. All five were ghosts. The wild canine spirits growled at each other and then darted around each other nipping at their legs. Wranglers rode up beside them, and one of them tossed multiple small objects into the air. The dogs barked and plowed into each other, snatching the projectiles out of mid-air. The dogs licked their chomps and chewed merrily before bounding across the sky toward the charging herd. They caught up to them in less than a minute. A few cattle tried to break away. Each one let out a bellow and darted toward the inside of the field in an effort to evade the dog, but it had to pull back, alarmed and frightened when a second dog joined its brother and pushed the fleeing animals back into line. Each of the cows bucked and bellowed, but in the end, they compiled. A few others tried as we witnessed their advance, but none of the new ones made it nearly as far.


    When the herd cleared the track running near the bonfire. The herd came closer to the group. They didn’t break stride, pace, or appear phased by the change in position. The cowboy reappeared, along with impressions of heavy barrels and large rocks. The cowboy sped toward the obstructions and vanished, only to reappear a moment later mid-leap across the land. His horse came down with a triumphant winny and then snorted before racing across the field. He seemed the only one able to break away. The cowboy came close as four cows broke away and I felt a chill that made me shiver as his mere presence pushed them back in line. He fingered the lasso strapped to his horse''s saddle.


    “Everyone,” Pop said, “We’re dealing with an ascension ritual.”


    “A what?” Dad asked.


    “An ascension ritual is a rite of passage,” Pop said, “I’ve only ever heard of one person ever trying it. Back in the eighties, some idiot thought he could build a rocket and launch himself into space in an effort to take over the skies from Zeus. He was captured before liftoff and his house and capsule were loaded with occult tomes, spellings, potions, and symbols on the tractors.”


    “Could it work?” I asked.


    “I don’t know,” Pop admitted. “This is a new level of crazy, and that cowboy gives me the creeps.”


    “It’s like every ghost story and Wild West,” Dad said dryly. “Like the old Stan Jones song.”


    The herd, the wranglers, and the cowboy completed another lap and descended toward the ground. The bonfire erupted with streaks of color as they neared me. My eyes fell on the cowboy, he looked human, but there was a hellish fire that burned inside him.


    There are holes in his head! I averted my gaze, not wanting to see anything that resembled a brain. The cowboy vanished and then reappeared a moment later. He looked a bit more solid, and less ghostly as he gripped the reins and was leaning into his horse, who was pushing a full gallop. In any other situation, I would have thought the horse’s heart and lungs would explode from the excursion. The riders approached the wranglers, who cleared a path. His duster whipped and shuttered behind him like a cape. He leaped over unseen obstacles, and his horse’s movements proudly displayed well-defined muscle. The horse shook its long mane, and I couldn''t hear it breathing, but I saw snot fly out of its nose, and its side compressed and expanded as it fought to fulfill its dream and to catch up with the never-failing herd that had grown in number since it had appeared. I watched the wranglers move in and out of focus, along with the dogs. None of them were gone for more than a few seconds, and occasionally new wranglers materialized and took over for the others. With each completed lap, the herd and crew came closer. The sky sparkled, twinkled, and shimmered. The whole thing looked like a canvas, recreating a scene where the writers were in the middle of a roundup and were enjoying every minute of it.


    “What are we going to do?” I questioned. “What’s going to happen when the herd reaches the ground?”


    “Emma,” Pop said, “Are you near the farm trunk?”


    “Yes.”


    “I’m coming to you.”


    The riders continued hollering, and they lashed out with whips and fired wild shots into the air. No one had noticed us or didn’t seem to care that we were there. A clump of weeds rattled, and I glimpsed an animal poking its head out to watch.


    Bark. Bark. I winced as a few mangy-looking dogs hurried over. I ducked down worried they would have seen me. I heard them sniffing at the ground, and as quickly as they had come. The animal spectator decided to leave. The dogs panted, and it wasn’t until a wrangler whistled that I couldn’t glance back across the field. The dogs were lean, vicious, and dirty, even for ghosts.


    “Emma!”


    Pop and Dad came up at a crouch beside me. I looked over Dad’s shoulder, but I didn’t see Mom or Tony. They had probably stayed back, so we hadn’t all conveniently congregated in one place.


    “Honey,” Dad said over the comm, but we had to pause as the tractors made a loop past us. “You two good?”


    “Yes,” Mom replied. “What was all of that talk about Westerns?”


    “Pop called it an ascension ritual,” Dad replied.


    Mom audibly gulped. “Pop, do you think the cowboy, is that the Ghost Rider?”


    “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Pop replied.


    The ghost rider made a rush towards what appeared to be the back end of the herd. He was trailing them by several feet, but he made up that distance pretty quickly. I felt a slow gulp make its way down my throat and nearly make me choke. The lagging cows. Doesn''t it somehow manage to get away from the wranglers, and the dogs put on a burst of speed? Such an act only egged the Rider on. There was a brief glimpse of excitement on his face before his eyes burned with such a loathing fire that it made my skin crawl. He glanced in our direction, and he smiled a toothless smile. The energy from the sky washed over him. And then I glimpsed the skull tinted with a sickly blood-red stain every ounce shrouded by what I could call describe as hell fire.


    “Isn’t the Ghost Rider the devil?” Tony asked.


    “I’d wager people think so,” Pop said, “but ascension rituals aren’t your run-of-the-mill evil plan. They’re getting closer to the ground by the minute. When they do, that is when Mr. Morris is going to go for it.”


    Indeed, they were closer. The wranglers and cattle put on a burst of speed and were nearly on top of us visually if the area had been divided into levels.


    The Ghost rider veered up upon the nearest of the trailing cows, and they put on a burst of speed, quickly running back to the original herd. There were a few others. The Ghost Rider decided to lag back despite his horse’s protest. There he waited.


    The rest of the Herd in a unified arch comes back around for a brand-new lap. The tractors were coming up right on them, smoke billowing from the engines and the hard shells were bubbling and oozing due to the heat. They veered slightly to the side, inching closer to the ditch and to us.


    “Options, people,” Dad said, coming up beside Mom. He was breathing heavily, and he had a cut across his temple and a bruise forming across his cheek. He favored one side, but he did his best not to let it be noticed.


    “There''s nothing we can do except try to confront Mr. Morris directly. A ritual builds up energy, like fear energy, but it will eventually burn out. The herd is here because of the fire.” Pop spoke with aggression I couldn’t recall him ever embracing. Neither him or Grandma had been too eager for any encounter, and I was beginning to understand why.


    At the same time, he was right.


    Pop spoke again, “I wish I understood what Mr. Morris was trying to accomplish. The ritual will burn out eventually.”


    “If we can keep him busy, then it could go to waste,” Dad said, “It’s not pretty, but we can work with that.”


    “He said something about fulfilling his dream,” Tony said, “and I’ve got riot ammo, fudge your senses, and a strange catcher’s mitt. How could we even get close? They''re running so fast, and if you didn’t notice, the van is a pile of scrap metal.”


    “When dealing with phantomists and necromancers you’ve got to understand their motives.” Mom said, “They compel their targets to do their bidding. Why create the path? Why use fear to bring the herd here?”


    I dug my fingers in the dirt, “What do you think Mr. Morris meant when he said wanted to fulfill his dream?”


    “He referenced history,” Dad said, “But what does history have to do with the ghost herd and rider except that their story is built on myths and legends.”


    I snapped my fingers. “Legends! He seemed almost sad that the West had been destroyed like the one President Roosevelt said. Cowboys, the free spirits, that’s a popularized stereotype. What if Mr. Morris was to live it for real?”


    Pop coughed as a wave of cold washed over the field. “Mr. Morris wants to be something he’s not. He wants to take over and ride with the herd. As the Ghost Rider himself.”


    Dad pulled his tie off and tossed it on the dirt. “Necromancers teach themselves self-animation. What if what he''s trying to do is just a branch off of that?”


    “They’ve come down more,” Mom said, “and Mr. Morris’s tractor has joined the chase.”


    I searched the field as Mr. Morris cut at an angle and assumed his position right at the front of his tractor line. The symbols burned, but the tractors were looking mechanically ragged. There was no coming back from this endeavor, but that was what Mr. Morris had been counting on. Mr. Morris balanced himself on the exhaust stack as a lone cow lurched across the field, and a wrangler and a dog laughed and barked in delight while in hot pursuit. The cow bucked and tossed its head back and forth. This one had decent-sized horns on its head that easily could have enlarged a man’s belly button with such fierce swings.


    “Get him, girl!” the wrangler yelled. He had lean frame and a round face perfect for riding what looked like a fast horse if given the chance. I watched him sniff and then spit while the dog darted around, barking and nipping at the cow’s hooves. The wrangler yelled and then tossed a lasso that spun through the air. For a moment, I thought the cow was going to get away, but the lasso flew true, and the wrangler didn’t waste a second to pull the loop snug. The cow tried to bolt, but with one precise tug, the cow snorted and then collapsed on its side. It hollered and jerked off effortlessly to try to get back upright, but a second wrangler rushed forward and looped a second lasso, which forced the cow into complete submission. The wrangler pulled the wayward cow upright, and they had no sooner set their hand positions than the ghost rider rushed up. The wranglers handed over the duo lines with glowing eyes and a snarl across his face. The Ghost Rider tugged on the rope, and after a few attempts, the cow began to trudge sluggishly in the direction the rider wanted him to go.


    “Come!” the ghost rider barked. The single word snapped like a firecracker. The delivery had carried a sharp, malicious tone that, for a moment, my mind felt blank, and a submissive spark nearly compelled me to follow. The wranglers and the dog veered upright, and the dog jumped in a twirl as its master tossed her a treat.


    “Let’s head to the far side,” Dad suggested. “We don’t have much cover-“


    “No, no” Tony exclaimed. “Pop, what are you doing?”


    “What do you mean,” Dad turned and scowled when he realized Pop wasn’t there.


    “Pop!” Dad said.


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    The tractors rocketed past us. Several of them were now smoking skeletons. Hoses had been snapped and were spraying liquid across the dirt. Some of the tires looked deflated, and the engines were gridding gears and spitting small bits into the air that had broken free from their larger counterparts.


    “There!” I yelled.


    Pop had made it across the field and stood beside the farm truck where he hid and hoped Mr. Morris wouldn’t see him. He hid on the far side and looked most successful. At the same moment, he rose though, the Loader tractor that had skewered the van began to slow. The movement was subtle, but then it whipped away from the pack and accelerated right toward Pop.


    “Not good, not good,” Tony exclaimed. “It’s heading right for him!”


    Dad bounded from the ditch, but I seized his hand and pointed at my belt buckle. This was the first time I had seen Dad display anything resembling panic. He acknowledged me and helped me out of the ditch. I was amazed my belt was still intact, and I wasn’t about to complain. Instead, I smacked the buckle and felt power tickled through my hips and down to my calves and my toes. My muscles and organs pulled in the power, like curling up in a blanket and feeling warm and relaxed. The sensation was exhilarating. I immediately felt loose and lively with a spring in my step.


    “Go!” Dad said.


    There was no telling what Pop was doing, but he hadn’t moved very far, so it was possible, given the noise, that he didn’t know the loader was on his tail. I took a huge breath and set off at a full sprint. From the corner of my eye, I could see Tony had triggered his own belt. Buckling was coming up behind me. The enforcement helped us clear the distance. With labored breath and a shredded lab coat, Pop tossed his goggles aside and held up a glowing canister with a meter level that was bright like a glow stick.


    “Pop, get out of the way,” Tony yelled. “There’s a tractor.”


    whether Pop heard him, I wasn''t sure, but his shaky hands and dancing in place told me how worried he felt. We closed the distance, but we didn’t have a plan other than to get to him. I considered changing course, trying to get the loader to chase me. If I did that, Tony would have a chance. I checked to see if Tony hadn’t done what I had planned to do. Instead of seeing my brother, my attention fell on Pop who extended his arm and pressed a glowing red button. Time slowed as I registered what was in his hand. He held it like a football and the illuminated portion of his device began to blink. It blinked slowly but then began to pick up speed as though it was set to blow.


    Blinking lights. Ominous beeping. Those are things we don''t question. An explosion is an explosion, no matter how explosively combustible or obnoxiously loud. You do not want to be within the blast radius. Especially if Pop’s the one setting it and had pieced it together under duress.


    Tony pulled away and I relented as Pop and the Loader engaged in their standdown. I pulled to a stop as Pop watched the oncoming tractor, and he fumbled with his device in the firelight, I could see knobs, buttons, and small external boxes that appeared loose, held in place with zip ties or duct tape.


    The Loader leveled its prongs. Within the last few feet, I felt an iron grip, and my chest was going to burst. Pop pulled back his arm as the Loader’s engine shell split down the middle. The casing popped and also began to curl while the body shook as it hit divots created by tractor tires or previous passing animals.


    Tractors do not have the best turn radius. They''re built for strength. Not for bestial pursuits.


    Pop judged the distance and then threw the device as hard as he could. I started to run back to the ditch; Toy was heading back to Mom. While Pop was no longer eager to be anywhere near the fire, the trunk, or the tractor.


    The loader drew close, but recognizing the device like a mouse near a trap, the tractor swerved to avoid it, and it moved wide, but the movement wasn''t enough. The Loader lifted its fork, and the bomb exploded. I picked up my feet to run, but I only managed a step or two before I felt my feet rise off the ground. At the same time, power threw me forward, while gravity brought me crashing to the ground. Pop had been coming toward me, and I perceived something being thrown over my head.


    I closed my eyes and did my best to bring my arms up by my head. I rolled and then found myself on my back. All I could see was black, and then dozens of stars twinkled across my vision. I tried to crawl out, but my voice went mute. I hit the ground and then rolled. Surprisingly, I still remain conscious. I put my hand in front of my face. It was night and dark, but I could not see the slightest indication of my hand. Had Pop''s device blinded me? I tried to roll onto my side and curl up, but as my abdomen constricted, My lungs froze. I remained motionless and felt paralyzed. I waited, unable to smell, unable to process, unable to comprehend what had just happened.


    Then I saw my finger, and then my arm came into focus, and I saw blood running down from my elbow toward my wrist. The warmth and the wet sensation felt odd, but it was enough to bring my senses back to life. And it reminded me that I was still alive and could still move. A moment passed, and I got to my knees. I crawled toward Pop, who was lying on his stomach a few feet away. I crawled, fell to my stomach, and did more of an army crawl. Once I was by his side, I found the strength, got back to my knees, and then placed the hand on his shoulder.


    “Wow!” he said, shaking his head and he swayed from the shock. “I’m surprised that worked.”


    Pop shuttered, and then, through gritted teeth, he had a hand wrapped across his chest and favored his lower back. I didn''t see any blood. And there was no indication that bone had broken through his skin. I was pleased that he was intact.


    “If anyone tells you explosions are like getting punched. Don’t let that person anywhere near a fuse.”


    “Understood,” I said with effort. I pulled myself into a sitting position and stared wide-eyed at the tractor marooned at an awkward angle thanks to a glossy pile of orange goo.


    “What the?” I stuttered.


    The explosion had caught the Loader near the back tire. The sudden upward force had knocked the entire tractor forward, basically making it fall on its face. The fork prongs or teeth broke off, while the attachment nearly severed itself from the tractor’s arm and boom. It hadn’t been a concussion charge, something that would have super-focused energy into one place to make a crater. No, Pop had used a combination to stop the tractor in its tracks.


    We’ve always joked Pop’s spirit animal was a mixture of the old shows MacGyver and Columbo with a sprinkle of Bill Nye, the science guy, and this moment was a prime example.


    Now suspended at a permanent angle, The back wheel spun at a breakneck speed, kicking fire and purple essence within a few feet of its position. The other tires dug into the ground, kicking dirt, weeds, small bones, and twigs into the air, trying like an animal to break free from a larger one''s unbreakable grip.


    Tony hurried up beside us. He held out a hand and I stood up. My entire body felt constricted from the movement and pain compacted against my shoulders and upper back. I groaned; but grateful I was no longer in the swimming aerobics class.


    Bruises are not sexy in a two-piece swimsuit.


    I was going to be sore tomorrow if I was lucky.


    Tony helped Pop, and I saw the blood across his forehead and his lip had split. His tux shirt was stained, sweaty and a shoulder had been torn. I moved to Pop’s side, but he pushed us both back.


    “Don’t worry about me!” He huffed.


    “We’re worrying about you!” I shot back. “I’m glad it worked, but why did you do it? Grandma would never have let us live this down.”


    Pop chuckled. “It was her idea. When you get to be our age in this job, experience comes from testing the waters and a lot of risk. I wanted to test a theory, and I think we’ll have our opening. Look.”


    The herd was now only a lap or two away from the ground, and Mr. Morris, who had finally taken note of what had happened, stomped his foot atop his tractor and shook his hands in the air in childish outrage. His tractor broke from the pack and rocked and bumped across the ground. Mr. Morris made a motion, and it came to a halt. He then jumped down and sprinted the rest away to way to his immobilized tractor. There was no compassion as he examined the damage and the substance. There was only fury. We weren’t too far from him, but his sole focus was trying to get it free. The elevated wheel twitched back and forth, and exhaust came out in weak puffs that almost resembled tears.


    “Shouldn''t that thing be out of gas by now?” Tony spat.


    “All of them should,” Pop said, “but that’s what happens when things are possessed. The visitor is rarely a happy tenant.”


    Mr. Morris gripped his pistol but then extended his hand, creating three purple dots that leaped from his fingers. Each one flung itself over and three men in battered hats, ragged coats, and rusty pickaxes appeared beside the tractor. All three spirits had nimble bodies and feeble frames. With nothing more than a gesture, the worker ghosts set to work ripping chunks of the substance out with solid, consistent strikes.


    “Why worry about one tractor?” Tony said. “He’s got so many.”


    “A show of force,” Pop said. “I found it odd that since the herd appeared, he’s not fired his gun. Instead, he ordered his tractors to attack us. Essentially, he compelled his minions to take us on.”


    “Like the rider,” I finished, “when he ordered the one cow he lassoed back into the pack.”


    “You felt that,” Pop said. “Terrifying, but yes. The wranglers are keeping everyone in line, and his necro fire is sustaining them being here, but if he’s going to take over, he has to show the forces in play that he had the command to never be challenged.”


    “So why not just shoot us?” Tony asked.


    “Because he can’t,” Pop said. “I wondered if he has unlimited rounds, and I’d love to study his gun, but anyway. The Rider is his end game. He’s going to take a shot.”


    “So, you can kill a cosmic being?” Tony asked. “That sounds dumb.”


    “It is,” Pop agreed. “You can’t upset the cosmic balance without paying a huge penalty. Morris assumes he’ll become the rider if he can take the current rider out. He might be able to do that, but he can’t show weakness which is why he’s working to get that loader unstuck.”


    “He’s only got a few more minutes at best,” Tonu said, “That fire looks to be at its peak.”


    “Those tractors have got to be on their last leg as well,” I added. “Do we have a chance to take them out as the literal body gets weaker?”


    “Maybe but we can’t wait it out,” Pop replied. Mom and Dad hurried over to us. Both of them had ripped or shredded outfits and had severe injuries across their faces and exposed skin. Dad held up a withered and severed arm and then tossed it aside before pulling off his trench coat.


    “Possession and physical strain do go hand in hand but a mechanical possession. The nonliving parts, like iron alloys, would hinder that connection. Mr. Morris must have cushioned the entity in order to empower the machine for as long as they’re along for a ride.”


    Off in the distance, we watched the phantom miners pull back as they extracted the last of the material, and the loader tractor came down with a resounding thud. The miners glanced at each, and then each one vanished in a swirl of purple smoke. Mr. Morris grunted in annoyance before tossing some purple energy toward the tractor and then he pointed toward the lineup. The loader kicked some exhaust into the air, and then it began to move. It picked up speed, but considerable damage had been dealt to the wheel and its connecting joints.


    The spirit is cushioned inside and is powered by the fire. It’s a connection. I followed the dirt, and a grim thought came to mind, but I also pictured the solution.


    “Hey!” I said quickly, “Can we consider possession a link or bond?”


    “Yes, but,” Mom began.


    “And if a being is being fueled by an external power source, is that a bond?”


    “It is,” Pop said.


    Everything began to take shape. I recalled Pop’s attempts at comedy. I worked through what had been said about ghosts and possessions and spotted a blinking light, a fragment from Pop’s incendiary device. Next to it, ironically, a tractor passed by, and I glimpsed a familiar device. A device that gave me a plan.


    “The fire in the linchpin,” I said firmly. “So, let’s sever the connection.”


    “We won’t get close, and you’ve used the speed belt- Emma!” Pop yelled.


    My step felt like a nail being driven through my heel. My skirt billowed around me as I rushed forward, snatching up the discarded duffel. I quickly reached inside and pulled out the odd-looking baseball glove; the You''re out, sparky! The thick glove felt awkward as it pinched my fingers and was snug across my palm.


    A hard shell of plastic stretched across my knuckles, and a section stretched upward and encased a small portion of my thumb. There were wires woven through the material, carefully stitched, and secured by what appeared to be little copper brackets of some kind. I moved my hand around. And notice the crisscross section that came up over my knuckles. I had only glanced at the instructions, but there was no time to do anything else.


    The herd was on a parallel track with the road, and they were inches from touching the ground. The air wreaked of ash and I clicked switches and hopefully set everything into place.


    “I’ll destroy all of you!” Mr. Morris yelled.


    He charged at me, and I felt my legs buckle, but I stayed put. Mr. Morris glowed deeply, sickly purple. He had reached the peak of his power. I waited for him to draw his weapon or call on an undead to challenge me. When he didn’t, I settled on the realization that he was going to run me over.


    I spread my feet apart as Mr. Morris cut in front of the herd, and I held my arm out, unsure what to expect and unsure if it would even work. I winced, but then I heard a soft bell chime. My jaw dropped, and a hard vibration rocked up and down my arm. I seized my wrist, and that brought a relentless pressure down on my chest before power began to centralize in my palm.


    A massage pillow hell.


    I screamed and momentarily saw Mr. Morris get thrown off the tractor, and he rolled across the dirt while his tractor went dark and began to sizzle and smoke from everything that had been put on it. My joints popped, and I felt a strain beneath intense cold followed by intense heat. My hand danced wildly around in front of me. Whatever I held wanted to pierce my chest and throw me around like a rag doll.


    “Hold it.” Dad and Pop appeared by my side. They both grunted and gasped beneath the pressure as they tried to support me.


    “It has to be the redirected,” Pop yelled.


    “There,” I cried, but the dust in my mouth made me cough. I tried again. But the coughing only intensified. I tried to twist and turn, then let my hand drop. As my eyes fell on the old farmer''s truck. There was a blast and a creak, and I felt something sink into my skin. I yelled and screamed as the pain shot up my arm and concentrated in my shoulder.


    Dad pulled me close to his chest, and I watched as a blast rocketed through the air and hit the tailgate of the truck. The transformation was nearly instantaneous. The old phone track spit flames from its exhaust. The bumper arched into an awkward demonic smile, and the headlights became narrow triangles. Then, multiple jagged edges created pointy teeth along the grill. The truck''s fiery look was quite intimidating. But then it kicked up dirt into the air. And the engine roared. But even with the possessed powers. It only produced a whine, about the equivalent of a little newborn puppy.


    “I don''t think it''s happy,” Pop said. “It''s like the power. It wants to be back in the tractor.”


    “That’s probably not going to end well,” Dad barked. We staggered a few steps back as the track back tires began to smoke. It had obviously been years since the truck had moved, and its condition was causing some problems for the ghost. The engine section and the spit twisted and moved side to side before lurching forward. The entire body of the truck wobbled, and its top speed was no more significant than that of a bike going down a steep hill. With the demonic power, it kicked in and gave it a small burst of speed, almost like a Sprint near the finish line. I can see the determination in the truck’s triangle headlight eyes. The truck is like someone running through mud. First, it moved a few inches, then crept forward a bit before, and in a frantic burst of speed, it kicked itself forward towards the fire.


    “NO!” Mr. Morris yelled indignantly.


    He''d come out of nowhere. Purple veins were spreading across his body at the exact moment Mr. Morris aimed his gun and fired at the truck. The truck jumped into the air and crashed into the bonfire, showering the entire area in Amber''s ash and construction material. It soared several feet into the air and went limp and dark as it collided with the ground in a thundering crash and bang.


    “Look,” Pop exclaimed, “the herd.”


    Dad helped me turn, and we watched as the herd began to visibly fade away, along with the wranglers and their hound dogs. Thanks to the colors, the ripples in the energy. The entire area seems to have been shadowed by an Aurora borealis. Mr. Morris screamed in outrage, leveled his gun, and fired again. I followed the bullet’s trajectory on a line of energy that streaked through the air like a firework. The ghost rider reared up on his horse. Mr. Morris''s shot would have been perfect if he had had time to do it just a few seconds sooner.


    The Ghost Rider pulled away, then in one fluid motion as the shot streaked past him. The cowboy reached out and grabbed the trailing. Power tail. Mr. Morris attempted to fire again. The three of us watched. His entire body went limp, and he had no strength to pull the trigger. He brought his hand down, but a stark white, ghostly impression of his hand remained in the air. Little by little, as he lost his strength, Mr. Morris''s physical body fell to the ground. The look of horror on his face was abject and mortified. He looked towards the Ghost rider, and then he glanced at us. There is a furrow in his brow. And I will say they told me he wasn''t ready to give up. This wasn''t how it was supposed to be. He clung to his dream every second he could, and it pained him as outside energies were pulling it away.


    “You Fosters have done it again,” Mr. Morris wheezed. As the Ghost rider gave another tug on that trailing purple line that connected them? Nearly a third of the herd had faded from view, and the tractors, one by one, had begun to sputter and darken as the truck had. One lost a wheel, and another had multiple pieces fall to the ground and smolder. Mr. Morris''s wife, where was she? I hadn’t often felt sorry for the monsters we’d dealt with, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Mr. Morris and started to feel sorry for him.


    I rationalized this was his choice, and I wasn’t upset that he had dealt with the penalty. Mr. Morris swayed back and forth, but it was a vain effort, and his entire body buckled in duress.


    “Fosters, you''re living,” he said breathlessly. “On borrowed time.”


    Then I felt his gaze fall on me and his eyes went white before he muttered. “No Reservation!”


    My heart throbbed and I grasped.


    No Reservation. My recollection made me shiver, and my entire body tingled with numb, passive pain.


    Mr. Morris chuckled and regained a moment of his humanity. He sighed, then gazed longingly at the sky, before glancing out at his fields. He said nothing more, but I was sure he regretted the outcome. There was a look of cherished horror. The mix was bizarre, as I considered it. Mr. Morris had loved his land and had taken steps to be immortalized along it forever, although it was not the way he wanted. The ghost rider, followed by his horse, snorted smoke, and then it reared up one last time with effortless delight. I watched the translucent Mr. Morris fall forward, dragged by the long purple tether. After a few inches, his ghost form expanded. His hands and boots became hooves. And horns sprouted from beneath his hat.


    “You only get one chance,” Mom said. With one hand over her mouth, terrified. When the ghost cowboy crossed the dividing road between the two fields and moved into the following field, he had a steer trailing behind him. The steer pulled hard on the guiding line but was ultimately resigned to follow. Mr. Morris tossed his now cow head back and forth, audibly snorting until they vanished into the night.


    That’s why they wanted to get away. I shuttered at the idea.


    For several moments, we just stood there in disbelief. Mr. Morris had become a cow. I wasn''t sure if I should feel stunned. Surprised. Terrified or mortified.


    “We better go,” Mom began. But she was having a demanding time keeping focus and composed. She ran her fingers are crossed Dad''s arm, and then he pulled her into his chest. They embraced for a long minute, and it was hard to process everything we had seen and dealt with. We should have perished, but somehow, we hadn’t. We stood silent for a moment, and then Dad spoke.


    “It''s not quite over yet.”


    Pop handed down a silver tube similar to what I had used against the vampire and the craft store. That extended the baton to its full length and then released. The catch revealed the thin blade.


    Mom came up beside me. Dad let me go, and immediately, my legs felt the weight and visibly blurred.


    “It’s ok,” Mom whispered. She pulled me close and was careful around my shoulder.


    Dad and Pop moved towards Mr. Morris’s crumpled body. Pop used his foot and positioned it against Mr. Morrison''s shoulder. And then He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes. Dad held the blade and quickly covered his face, but not before I caught sight of the heavy energy traveling through. Mr. Morris''s body. I knew what it was, even though I hadn''t seen it personally before today.


    Even though Mr. Morris was a necromancer, we all knew what had to be done today. Dad flexed his fingers across the handle and took it in both hands. He had a hesitant look. And he gritted his teeth before making one smooth strike at Mr. Morris''s neck. His head came free, and the body rolled to the side, a bottle of purple liquid pulling beneath the neck.


    “Necromancers don''t die easily,” Dad said, “and I''m not going to take any chances that Mr. Morris''s last words were a threat. If we''re living on borrowed time and if we have other enemies. I don’t want them to have any advantage.”


    “Grandma is on her way,” Pop said, “it''s not going to be long before some higher hands show up and wonder what the heck happened here today.”


    “We''re going to have to leave them with the questions,” Dad said. “But we''re certainly not going to leave any answers here. The town''s had enough scares for one Halloween.”


    Dad stripped the body and then wrapped the head in the duster along with the guns, and he carefully. Also picked up the discarded book.


    “What''s the play, Dad?” Tony asked.


    “There’s nothing we can do about the tractors or the van,” Dad replied. “This damage is way too severe, so we’ll need to strike the van and blow everything and Mr. Morris’s body. We’ll need to be in the blaze.”


    “What was that about scares and speculation?” Pop asked.


    “The van links us here, and with everything going on, we can’t have it traced back to us.” Dad said, “It''s not the happiest solution. This is prime farmland. Sadly, all of this has to be burned. It’s the only way to ensure the sigils aren’t discovered, and society needs to see this as one more ridiculous thing.”


    No one argued. I briefly hoped that perhaps no one would notice for a day or two, but rationally I doubted that would happen.


    “Accidents happen all the time,” Dad said. Sounding a bit solemn, “I''m just sorry it had to happen to someone I thought was one of the decent neighbors.”


    “Agreed,” Mom said. She looked at the fire pit, “I wonder what happened to his wife?”


    “We''re just going to have to leave that one alone,” Dad said, “I think it’s better we don’t know.”


    Thirty minutes later, we were safely on the road. Grandma had red eyes, but she arrived promptly and did as Pop asked. Five minutes later, Mr. Morris''s fields, barn and home were up in flames.