Carlisle Street — T.M. Wright

From Carlisle Street, the children's voices call. Their strange eyes stare through the tall grass in the middle of a country field. In darkened air beneath a bright blue sky, their desolate mother's scream falls into silence. Beside an unseen lamppost, among the darkening trees, a gentle killer, smelling of cloves, waits to repeat, "I love you." Carlisle Street's people wants. They need. They're here. Now.