Free Dark Hope (The Devil's Assistant) by H.D. Smith Page B

oddly placed plantation-style home.
    Everything appeared as if its heyday had come and gone fifty years ago—a snapshot in time of a small town in middle America. Except there weren’t any people.
    I was heading down the empty Main Street when a faint breeze passed over me. The threshold was light—no more than a whisper so it wouldn’t have disturbed a feather, but when there’s nothing else to feel, everything can be felt. I spun around. The road behind me was gone. Instead, I stared at a brick wall. I turned when a soft noise whistled in from the street.
    I was at the dead end of an alley. At first I thought I might be in the middle of a movie set. The concrete and brick were meticulously clean—almost sterile. The street and sidewalks ahead were perfectly pristine. Nothing like the grungy decay of the dead town I’d just walked through.
    I breathed a sigh of relief. Civilization—finally.
    I checked my phone, but it was still on the fritz. A sharp clink drew my gaze up. Striding toward me was a man in a white ten-gallon hat and a tin star reminiscent of an Old West sheriff. His hair was white enough to be a pagan, but his bent nose and cold brown eyes looked more druid. He was neither; just an average human.
    His shiny spurs clinked as he walked. Tipping his hat, he said, “Good day, miss. Have you seen the postman yet?”
    This was not what I’d expected to hear, but at least he seemed friendly. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m new to town. Can you tell me where I am?”
    “You’re in Hell.” He paused then continued, “Montana.”
    I held back a snicker. I’d heard of Hell, Michigan before and often wondered if telling tourists they were in Hell was a running joke. Despite the amusement factor, I didn’t have time for jokes. I needed to find my way out of this place, and so far, this guy wasn’t helping. “Well...I’m fairly sure I’m not in Hell or Montana, so...is there someone around here I can talk to who might know what’s going on?”
    “It’s better if you accept things now.” His tone was sympathetic and condescending. “The longer you wait, the unhappier you’ll make everyone else.” Then his voice hardened, and he shifted his belt to make sure I noticed the six-shooter. “I’d hate to have to retire you so early.” He smiled again. “It’s not like we get new people every day.”
    Okay, not so friendly after all . My gaze darted from the gun to his face. “Right. So you said something about the postman?”
    The sheriff motioned for me to follow him. He stopped when we reached the sidewalk and pointed to a sand-colored brick building at the end of the street.
    I smiled. “Thanks.”
    I headed toward the building, glancing back a few times. The sheriff continued to watch me.
    There were a few other people on the street, but they avoided eye contact as they hurried past me. My senses told me they were all human , but who were they and why were they here? Someone had to have answers.
    I peered in through the large windows at the front of the post office. No one was at the counter. I glanced back toward the sheriff. He shifted his belt again—watching and waiting. I put my hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
    The top edge of the door smacked a small bell dangling from above. The loud chime announced my arrival and dropped a blanket of energy on my head.
    It didn’t hurt, but a tingle of magic rippled across my skin. For a moment, the room became vibrant and warm. A yellow flyer, pinned to a nearby corkboard, rustled in the breeze from the door. The flyer announced a bake sale on Main Street tomorrow. I was happy and content. I wasn’t in a rush to do anything. Nothing at all seemed important, except going to the bake sale.
    Just as I was thinking about what I might bake, the magic reversed. The happy feelings backed away from me, as if the blanket of energy had been removed. The flyer was now curled and faded—barely readable. The dull reality