Page 74 of Demon and the Raven

I scoffed. “You mean the ones I don’t bore to death.”

“No matter what Malachi Gant says,” Father Dennis chimed in, “most of the history of Osprey is, in fact, a snooze fest.”

“Truer words,” Lorne grumbled.

“May I ask a law-enforcement question?”

“Father, I can’t really comment on Kathy Hayes’s death until⁠—”

“Oh no,” he said quickly. “I wanted to ask after the folks Pete ticketed in town last evening—the ones throwing rocks.”

“What about them?”

“I feel like you might want to consider turning those tickets into warnings.”

“Why would I do that, Father?”

“Because right now, as far as I can tell from all the parishioners I’ve talked to, everyone in town is suffering from the same malady.”

Lorne pulled over, parking on the side of the road before turning around in his seat to look at the priest. “And what is that, Father?”

He took a quick breath. “I know this is going to sound like something simple, but I can assure you it’s not. Almost everyone who’s come to church is exhausted and suffering from insomnia brought on by terrible recurring nightmares.”

“Almost everyone?” I asked, worried. “I don’t mean to doubt you, Father, but almost everyone seems like a lot.”

“And yet, that is the correct assessment,” Father Dennis insisted. “No one is sleeping, and because of that, there’s an increase in aggressiveness and anger. I’m certain the fighting at the carnival can be attributed to the rampant insomnia as well.”

“You’re serious?” Lorne asked him.

“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “That business meeting going off the rails, Diana and Ken going after Troy, the yelling in the streets, it can all be traced back to lack of sleep accumulating over time.”

“How much time are we talking about?”

Father Dennis was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I would say it’s been steadily worsening over the last two weeks, give or take a couple of days.”

Lorne glanced at me.

“And you know, the few parishioners I’ve visited at the hospital in Jamestown have all said the same thing to me—that they’re so happy to finally be getting some sleep.”

“In a hospital?”

He nodded. “Yes. Imagine that.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“I am. Soundly,” he reported. “As are you, I assume?”

“Yeah,” Lorne agreed. “I wonder if people are having some allergic reaction to something blooming right now or⁠—”

“This is the middle of summer,” Father Dennis reminded him. “Everything has bloomed already. I mean, certainly we could put in a call to the CDC or some other agency to come and test our water, the vegetables grown in town, and a myriad of other things, but I suspect that by the time they get around to a full investigation, the problem will already be solved.”

“And what leads you to that conclusion?” Lorne asked.

Father Dennis grimaced.

I smiled at him. “You think it’s something paranormal.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said, sounding exasperated.