The First Call DONE

"So, you're trying to tell me that people who come here believe in all that mumbo jumbo?" Matt Lowell said, closing the door behind him with his free hand.

"Yessiree!" Tristan Pierce replied, rising from his chair and grabbing the beverage container from Matt's other hand.

"Thank you—black, two sugars, right?" Matt's smile briefly softened the usually serious set of his face.

"Right! A man could get used to this—coffee and donuts! Welcome to Bozwick, Sheriff Lowell!" Tristan grinned, taking a large bite from one of the doughnuts.

"How'd you know which one was yours?"

"Oh, did you want the jelly?" Tristan replied, red jam slipping out the side of his mouth.

"No, I'm good. So, about this town…" Matt continued, shaking his head slightly.

"Yeah, man. It's genuinely haunted or something. Weird things happen here all the time, and I've seen some of it with my own eyes."

"Did you ever stop to think that the weirdness might be caused by naturally occurring events? Things tend to look like whatever we believe them to be," Matt said, his voice measured.

"Man, I'm telling you, this town is strange. It's not just the people coming in—though some of them look like ghouls straight out of a movie—but the townsfolk… well, they seem normal enough, but you'll see."

Matt shook his head again, more out of habit than disbelief, and sat down at his desk with the plain cake donut he had bought for himself. He took a generous bite, followed by a sip of hot coffee.

Matt leaned back in his chair, letting Tristan's words wash over him. Bozwick might be a strange little town, but after years in Chicago—the shootings, the endless crime scenes—he needed something different. Something quieter. And if it came with a side of eccentricity, he could handle that. At least, that's what he told himself.

Looking around the office, Matt smiled; though small, he thought it had a strange charm to it. Mostly, it was a throwback to the Nineteen seventies with wood-paneled walls adorned with old maps and faded photos of the town from years gone by. These elements gave the place a sense of history that seemed to give weight to the room. Outside, the lake shimmered in the distance, its waters deceptively calm beneath the gray sky that always seemed to linger over the center of Bozwick like a shroud.

"Listen, I was a cop in Chicago. Believe me, nothing in this place is going to shock me." He glanced out the window at the sparkling lake in the distance and sighed as if remembering something far away.

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"Listen," Matt continued, taking another sip of his coffee, "I get that you think this place is strange. But trust me, I've seen worse. Nothing here is going to shock me. You ever tried patrolling the streets of Chicago at night?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "No, but I've dealt with plenty of folks who think the world's ending every Samhain." "Samhain? That some kind of witch thing?"

"You could say that. You'll see soon enough," Tristan said, flashing a mysterious grin. "Bozwick has a way of getting up under your skin."

Tristan leaned back in his chair. "Plus, you have to admit, though, there are a lot of disappearances here. And even deaths. Not to mention the turnover in this very office over the years."

"What we've got here, Tristan, is a town with transient people coming in, dressing up, and attending the little fairs this place puts on. Nothing more than folks expanding Halloween, trying to make it year-round," Matt said, as if dismissing any larger concern.

"But—" Tristan's protest was silenced by Matt holding up his hand.

"The so-called missing people probably got drunk or high, left of their own accord, and every city, town, and village have deaths. It's just part of life."

"Sabbats."

"What?"

"They aren't fairs. They call them sabbats."

"I stand corrected." Matt gave a small shrug. "At any rate, I'm not leaving. Here, I've got the mountains, a lake, and a mostly sleepy little town. Putting up with people who want to think it's Halloween every few months? Worth it."

Tristan opened his mouth to speak again, but the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, glancing at Matt with raised eyebrows.

"Sheriff's office," he murmured. As he listened to the caller, his eyes widened. Tristan's face suddenly grew serious as he listened to the caller on the other end. His brow furrowed, his earlier grin fading into a look of confusion. "Wait, what do you mean by that?" he asked, leaning forward and scribbling notes furiously. "Okay, we're on our way."

Matt watched him, intrigued. After the weird stuff he was speaking about, what could possibly be strange enough to rattle Tristan Pierce?

"What is it?" Matt asked, leaning back in his chair, casually crossing his legs with his arms folded over his broad chest.

"Just another normal day in Bozwick—a murder."

"What?" Matt's thick, dark eyebrows shot up as he bolted from his chair, knocking his coffee cup slightly and deftly steading it.

"Whoa, easy there!" Tristan said, holding up his hands. "A *murder of crows,* that is!" His mischievous grin made him look even younger than usual. At twenty-eight, Tristan still looked like he could get carded at any bar. His sandy brown hair, kept slightly long in the front, swept across his face, highlighting his crystal-blue eyes.

"Damn it, Pierce, you almost made me eat my words. What do crows have to do with the sheriff's office anyway? Doesn't this town have animal control? Did someone get hurt?" Matt asked, tugging his hat down over his dark curls as he reached for the keys.

Matt adjusted the brim of his hat, feeling the familiar weight of it as he pulled it low over his forehead. His dark curls peeked out beneath the edges, tousled from the long morning. He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of stubble that had grown in since his early morning shave. His mouth was pulled into a thin line, and his dark eyes narrowed as he stared questioningly at Tristian

"I told you, this town's strange. In the five years I've worked here, it's been policy to respond to every call—no matter how insipid or insane. You'll come to realize it's a huge part of the job."

Matt sighed, his disbelief barely concealed. "Well, I've been a cop for sixteen years, and I've never once been called out because of birds."

"This is gonna be a strange job, huh?" Matt muttered, more to himself than to Tristan.

"Full of strange people and strange magic," Tristan grinned, pulling the door open.

As Matt stood up, ready to leave, he glanced at the pictures of all the previous sheriffs who had served in Bozwick. Strangely, there were far more than he expected, given the town's size.

Tristan noticed him staring. "Yeah, like I said," he said quietly, "they don't usually stay here long."

Matt set his mouth in a grim line, groaning as he stepped through the doorway, followed closely by Tristan, who was chuckling under his breath.