
by Norman German
Prize Winning Author of No Other World
The chair was made of heavy, dark oak, like a throne. Someone, a man with children perhaps, had crafted the chair especially for this purpose, put the care of his hands into the wood. A heavy mask was fitted against Toni Jo’s face and secured to the chair with laces. The barn-like smell of leather and decay filled her nostrils.
The man in the back of the truck looked at a dial. “We’re below threshold!” he bellowed as the motor was winding to the high-pitched wail before the squall of deadly energy.