A government can only do so much directly against these degenerates without risking the title of democracy. But a band of serial killers with this woman at the heart of them? They could cause all sorts of useful chaos. Perhaps we can help each other, said the woman with many names. And the government official felt his skin crawl. But he nodded. Yes, I think we can. She smiled. She had this conversation with many government officials over many years, and they always said yes. No one could resist the terrible freedom she offered. Her side of the bargain would be providing an excuse to take care of enemies and troublemakers. Their side of the bargain was to merely stand aside and offer no obstacle as she sowed the kind of freedom she hungered for. 1983, Olive, Montana. Elizabeth Harris, one of the last children to grow up in a town that would soon fade from existence except as a name on a map. She was playing in a field near her house when she came across a deep hole she had never seen before. Peering into the hole, she saw at the bottom a small, frail woman. The woman's face was covered in blood, and her eyes were looking back up at Elizabeth. The woman began to sing in a sweet, high voice. Oh, martyrs, she sang. Oh, soldiers of a lower cause. Elizabeth turned and ran. She would not put together until later that evening, but subsequently would be unable to forget that as the woman sang, she had been slowly floating up out of the hole toward the surface. Elizabeth moved away from Olive as soon as she was old enough and dreamed of that woman's song and the whites of her eyes floating slowly upward at least once a month for the rest of her life. Once

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