The moon was rolling across the sky and a slight breeze cut through Mannington, just enough to keep things cool enough for a jacket. But the trees on the property were swaying violently and a black fog boiled out of their branches in a towering head of swirling, misty terror. On the ground, crawling across what used to be a farm and had been derilect for nearly thirty years, was a teenager with trashed hair, torn clothing and a thousand small cuts. In the distance behind was an old mobile home with the front door open and the lights on. On the floor of the mobile home was a chain that had been bolted down and a hole in the floor where the chain had been savagely, desperately beaten and ripped loose.