Something else was at play. It had to be. On first entering Boseman’s hut, he’d come face to face with his own dead corpse; skin turned white and blue, eyes gone, mouth tongueless, arms cut and bloodless from fingertip to elbow, one hand ripped from its wrist. A brown cloud billowed like morning mist in front of him and he’d strangled his scream, though the horror was imprinted in his memory, a visitation of his nightmares in broad daylight. The cloud attached itself to his body, real and imaginary, a threatening veil of malevolence. When it cleared and he could see, the corpse on the floor remained and Clement knew the reason he’d been unable to find George Boseman.
The Ponsonby boy was gone and so was the body of Will Downs. Though the mangled mess in the hut would not be identified as
