The small square room, with its low ceiling, cinderblock walls, and lack of windows, felt like an old 1950’s atomic bomb shelter, which made perfect sense because it was.  While the triple-decker bunk beds and metal shelves, packed high with canned goods, had been cleared out long ago, it still retained its apocalyptic mystique and a lingering scent of perpetual dampness.  At some point in the intervening years, the walls had been painted a vibrant blue in a misguided attempt to brighten the space.  Unfortunately, this had only succeeded in making the underground bunker seem even colder.

   Around a large oval table that nearly filled the room, men and women dressed in business attire sat stiffly in high-backed chairs.  None of the dozen or so gathered appeared happy to be there.

  “All I’m saying is that it was irresponsible and could have completely ruined our plans,” said a man in an immaculate gray suit.

  “And I’m telling you we had nothing to do with it,” glared a woman sitting across from him.  “So, you can stop accusing everyone.”

  Had Lester and his friends been in attendance, they would have recognized many members of the group as longtime residents of Giles Hollow.  However, they would have had difficulty putting a name to any particular face.  Each person seated in the dank chamber had carefully avoided all types of local notoriety.  Instead, they’d purposely chosen positions as nameless cogs, toiling away anonymously at unremarkable businesses or within the inner workings of small-town government.

  “Well, if it wasn’t your group, then who was it?” the man practically spat.

  “Shout all you want.  I refuse to believe that anyone at this table would do something to jeopardize what we’ve all worked so long and hard to achieve.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled around the room.

  “I, for one,” said a voice, “was well aware of young Thomas’s plans.”

  The conversation fell silent, and all eyes turned to the head of the table.

  Annie Quince, dressed in a flowery skirt and matching jacket, sat perched on the edge of the largest chair.  Her bright hair clashed with the blue walls as she stared back at them, daring someone to challenge her.

  “In fact,” Mrs. Q continued, “I not only knew of his plans but did what I could to encourage him.  The Dark were growing too suspicious, and we needed something to throw them off our scent.” 

  “But what if he’d succeeded?” the man in gray asked incredulously.

  “Which is precisely why I chose to involve Ben Titus,” said Mrs. Q.  “Unfortunately, he turned out to be a sentimental old fool.  Though, in the end, he too served his purpose.  Regardless, all of your protests are irrelevant.  We won’t have to tolerate The Dark for much longer.  The time has come to put our plans in motion.”

  “Are you sure?” the woman asked.

  “After the events of Halloween, there can be no doubt.  That bumbling postmaster continually tried to make his case for the North boy.  It pains me to no end to admit it seems Benjamin was right, but that matters little now.  Soon, we will draw upon the courage to finish what our ancestors started.”

  Mrs. Q slowly got to her feet, and the others followed.

  “We won’t repeat the mistakes of Salem,” she said, eyeing each of them in turn.  “This time, we shall not fail.”