“Y

ELLOW

ARBLERS

”

ASON

IZEMORE

Jason Sizemore is a Stoker Award-nominated editorand writer who has seen his work published in anumber of science fiction and horror publicationsincluding

Dark Discoveries

Shroud Magazine

, and

TheWriters Workshop of Horror

. His first collection,

Irre-deemable

(a collection of Appalachian horror shorts),comes out in the spring of 2010 from Shroud Publi-cations. He maintains a web presence at jason-sizemore.com. Jason is originally from SoutheastKentucky, but currently lives in Lexington, KY,where he works as a software developer and bookpublisher.

ASON

IZEMORE

olden rays of morning sunlight filteredthrough the single-glass windowpane, illu-minating an elderly man sitting quietly ona cushioned pew, head bent in prayer. Histrembling hands held an ancient pair of reading glasseswith lenses so marred and scratched it was a wonderhe could see anything through them. Outside, a yellowKentucky warbler sang joyfully, welcoming the warmspring breeze blowing in from the south and the palegreen leaves covering the Appalachian countryside.“Amen,” the old man said aloud, finishing hisprayer. He stretched out his arthritic, tired legs. Bothknees popped like the BB gun he had used in hisyounger days to shoo away the hungry crows from hisgarden. He grimaced at the sound – a constant re-minder of his age – and at the pain that was his dailycompanion. Something told him, perhaps it was theLord whispering to him, to enjoy the warm season.Come this time next year, his old legs wouldn’t bemuch use to him anymore.A silence enveloped the church valley. The yellowwarblers hushed. The blowing wind stopped and theair grew still. A chill spread across the old man’s body.He’d lived long enough to know the way of the spirits,to listen when they shouted across the heavens to warnthe other side of danger.Outside, a small alien paused at the foot of thesteps. It glanced upward at the white-painted spirethat held the brass bell used for calling the congrega-tion on Sunday mornings. The broad leaves of a tallsycamore shadowed the church from the midday sun,giving protection and comfort. The alien climbed thenine wooden steps up to the doorway and entered

ELLOW

ARBLERS

through the ornate entrance. Angels and demons wel-comed it inside.The alien moved with a grace befitting its slender build and smooth, alabaster skin. The old man hadseen one of these before. A

Shadow

, they’d called it. Ithad been…what…twenty-three years since last he’dseen one? But there it was, no mistaking. Those largealmond eyes in an oval, slightly humanoid face. Nomouth. Skin that resembled the plastic of his sister’schildhood dolls. Shadows wore no clothes, nor didthey demonstrate modesty, avarice, or lust. The manwondered if the Shadows had succeeded in the Gardenwhere man had failed.

Many other thoughts crossed his mind as hewatched the alien walk forward. He watched as ittouched the back of each pew with padded white fin-gers. It made little noise, no perceptible sounds of breathing, and even the sound of its bare feet slappingagainst the hardwood floor was muted like feathersfalling from the sky.The old man stood up. After all, this was the Lord’sHouse and he had a duty to perform. “Hello,” he said.“I’m Preacher Jeremiah Jones.”The Shadow paused. Those big, strange eyes stared back at Jeremiah and then at the old wooden crosshanging from the stucco wall behind the pulpit. A mo-ment of worry passed through the preacher’s bones.Worry fueled by the deadly sin of pride. The cross had been in the church for 300 years; a true artifact, hand-made to perfection and passed down through the pro-tective custody of thirty-one preachers at Harlan Bap-tist Church. He often considered it divine, almost in thesame sense the Roman Church had once believed in