For a moment while he watched, Mr. Gidden could not move.  The children placed the rabbit upon the grass to see what it did. 

--T.F. Powys
The Hunted Beast

 "I didn't dislike them.  I felt no anger toward any of them.  If that's what you mean."

--Jeffery Dahmer

     Norman Kirk adjusted the lapels of his new smoking jacket. It was ridiculous, but he was feeling ridiculous lately.  He was in semi-retirement and he felt the urge to indulge in a few luxuries.  An antique hassock covered in needlepoint supported his feet.  On the hassock was a hunting scene.  Horses and dogs were in the middle of a forest, running down a stag.  He tapped a brand new meerschaum pipe into the ashtray. 
     A phone rang somewhere in the house.  His was turned off--doctor's orders.  The ringing, was a dull knocking in his head.  It gave him a shock just to hear a sudden noise.  Marian came into the living room and spoke gently from behind his chair. 
     "It's for you Norman.  It's Frank," she said. “He sounds upset.”
 Husband and wife looked into each other’s eyes.  She didn't know much about the last few months.  That part of police work bothered her more than she would say.  There were so many things that she wouldn't say.  Kirk felt a dull pain in his chest.  He picked up the phone.  Before he heard the voice he knew that it not going to be good.
     "Frank," he said.
     "Norm," Holtz replied, as though to be sure that it was him.
     "Listen son, I've heard things that I know can't be true."
     "They think I killed that woman.  Somebody pulled the plug on her and I was the last one in the room.  My prints are all over everything."
     "I assumed as much.  Listen Ace, we have to turn in a full report now and get some help on this. I don’t know whom we can turn to since the last hearing, but we're going to do the execution.  You understand me?  There’s no other way.  You stay out of sight.  You have a place to go?"
     "Yeah."
     "Then you go there.  I'll make one call.  I'll get to you somehow and you be ready when I do.  We have to confuse him."
     "When?"
     "He'll let you know.  He'll keep on letting us know," Kirk said, steady and even, keeping the edge out of his voice. 
     "How will he get to me if he can't find me?"
     "It'll be me.  He's not done with me yet.  By the way, Frank, I've started smoking a pipe.  Never smoked one before.  It's a genuine meerschaum--white as ivory.  After you smoke them for a couple of years, they turn brown."
 Frank stood in a phone booth with the wind whipping at his back.  He stared into the receiver.  Kirk had hung up.

    Bret Wilson, ten years old, dreamed about baseball.  In his mind, he saw the pitches coming.  The first two were balls, no good.  The third was a strike; Bret swung for the scoreboard.  The fourth was a fast ball, low and way inside.  He caught it just right, an inch below the logo, and by the crack he knew it was gone.  He made the slow triumphant run around the bases.  Everyone was yelling his name.
     Through the trees that grew in front of his porch, Bret saw a police car pull up.  It parked across the street.  The windows were very dark.  This seemed odd to Bret, but he just watched. 
     The Kirk house sat on the corner of Maplewood Drive and 2nd street shrouded by trees.  When seen from the mountain above the town, only a few housetops were visible.  The house was a split-level frame with a recreation room in the basement and no attic.
     Bret's eyes were perfect.  He was a pitcher.  But nobody would believe what he saw.
     A police officer that he had never seen before got out of the car.  The man crossed the street and went toward Mr. Kirk's house.  Halfway, he turned to see if anyone was watching.  Bret was, but the man couldn't see him. Sneaky, Bret thought.  Then the man kept turning like a screw.  His uniform changed color from brown and tan to dark blue, almost black, and his head got bigger.  Bret could see teeth, but that would be hard to say later.  This all happened before Bret's young mind could react.  He began to feel a stomachache coming on and he went to his room.  Before he lay down, he looked out his window and saw the black thing plunge through a screened window in the side of the Kirk's house. It made a whoomp sound like somebody had set off an M-80 inside a barrel.  He got woozy and went to sleep.

    A haze of aromatic smoke hung in the breeze.  Leaves, freshly fallen, not quite dry, burned in piles turning gray from the top down.  It was the rakings of sticks and dried grass at the beginning of autumn.  Almo poked at the smoldering heap.  Old black Almo was retarded, but he wasn't really old.  His age was actually about twenty-five.  He moved and spoke very slowly most of the time. 
     Mr. Kirk had died and Almo was beside himself with grief.  He and the white haired old man had been great friends. They talked about catching crooks and Almo had once gotten a ride in an un-marked police car.  His best friend in the world was Kathy.  She was five.  Mr. Kirk was her grandfather and he had "pass da way" and the "fooneral" was tomorrow.  Kathy had auburn hair with streaks of gold and cerulean blue eyes.  Almo had wandered into her life like a big friendly elephant.  He was over six feet tall, tending toward baby fat, and his mom got his head shaved instead of a haircut.  Haircuts were too complicated.  For three dollars, the barber would "just skin ol' Almo".
     For a peanut, Almo would move the picnic table anywhere Kathy wanted, or turn it upside down and make a boat.  While she sat in the middle, he would push it around the yard.  But Grandma had really been mad at the "tored-up grass".  So they didn't do that anymore. 
     Grampa passed away, and it made Mommy and Grandma very, very sad.  Kathy and Almo just stayed out of their way.  There was always some question about Almo.  He was, after all, a grown man but he showed no tendency toward sexuality in any way and the old man had given his trust long ago.  Norman said, 'Almo is only seven years old upstairs and he's totally harmless.  I think he looks after Kathy like a big brother should.'
     But that was before.
     We have to be real quiet now, she thought.  Grammy didn’t feel good.  She was lying down.  Mommy said she would stay with them for a while now that Grampa was passed away.  It must have hurt because he had a "heart-tack".  A boy had put a tack on Kathy's seat once and it was not funny.  She spent a few minutes trying to imagine the little boy who would "heart-tack" her grandfather.
     Marian Kirk lay upstairs in the spare bedroom.  The yelping had come through the windows and she had been awakened by the noise.  Her first thought had been that Almo had hurt her granddaughter. She hated herself for thinking it, but it was the first thing that came to mind. The wailing brought everyone on the run.  Both parents had thought the same.
     Kathy ran to scold the kitten that had been her birthday present.  Yesterday, she had a party and a clown came and did magic.  The kitten was in a box with a ribbon.  It was tearing up a patch of Johnny Jump Ups and Kathy pulled it away.  She held it under the legs like Mommy showed her.  Turning to show Almo, she smiled brightly.  Her red dress was smudged with potting soil, and a scrape on her knee was almost the same color.  The snow-white kitten was a ball of soft fur against the crimson party dress.  She insisted on wearing the dress the day after her party. 
     "I got that darned Kitty," she laughed.
     "I seed that you got that darn cat," Almo said, blowing on the end of a burning stick.
     "He wants to dig up Mommy's Johnny-Jum-Pups so he can--" 
    The words froze in her throat.  Her smile flicked away.  Just around the corner of the house, a dog stood crouched.  Black and gray with small ears, it had a funny piggish nose.  Its eyes seemed like metal beads.  Kathy would have been thrilled to see a dog, but it was a "pit-pull", and her Daddy said they were dangerous and shouldn't be next door.

     The dog wanted the kitten. 
     Kathy dropped the cat and it ran toward a tree.  Infuriated, the dog plunged across the distance in four leaps.  It changed its mind mid flight, deciding to kill the child instead.
     Almo looked up.  He saw the dog and recognized its intent.  Dropping the stick, he took two steps and stopped in the middle of the burning leaves.  His bib overalls caught fire, licking up over his work boots.

    Frank Holtz lay on his back in a small room.  The mattress was cold and stiff.  It reminded him of army life and so he became used to it.  He risked a fire only at night.  The derelict old cabin was some distance from the dirt road with only an occasional car going by.  Each day grew a little longer.  The novelty of being on the run dried up quickly and Frank began to wish for his electric heater and a newspaper. 
     Broken windows were patched with cardboard, but a hard freezing rain from the night before had them sagging.  He thought about the irony of his situation.  Not since the age of eleven had he run away from home--or anything else for that matter.  In high school, he had been a top achiever, with awards for academic excellence.  His natural agility has seen him to All-State champion in wrestling.  Gymnastics had almost taken him to the Olympics.  About that time Vietnam began to heat up and with a few good friends, he signed up.  They wanted to stay together and were promised that they would. Yeah sure.  A team of hot-to-trot young jocks out the save the girls of the U.S.A. from Asian Communists, they celebrated the night before leaving.  Each one did a handstand on the end of a street light. 
     Frank was the only one to come back.  It was the usual story.  When they were dropped off in the middle of the action, they were split up the first day--hell, the first hour.  They never saw each other again. 
     He graduated from college with a degree in criminal law.  A rich grandfather had left him over a million dollars, and at 27, he could have retired, but he wanted to be a cop.
     Now he was wanted for murder.  His life was in the hands of a man who had been hospitalized and legally insane.  Frank had been hiding in the cabin for a week.  A tiny battery operated radio kept him in touch with the world, but the 9-volt's power was getting smaller and smaller.

    Almo was burning.  The pain was curling up his legs and his pants were smoking.  He began to close the distance, not thinking about the fire.  He was always uncomfortable running, because people always laughed at him.  Despite his size, when he got moving, he was 240 pounds of blind momentum.  He had momentum now.
 

    " ...and the d-dog h-had his mouth open wide a-and he was running to bite me and he bite-ed my dress up here."  She pointed to the torn cloth at the neck of her dress.  "And he scratched me."

    "He got it by the mouth and kept pulling on it, and it was crying."

    Almo's right little finger was gone.  The dog had taken it off right away, swallowing it.  It had been just enough of an advantage to grab the studded collar. 
     They were astounded by what they saw.  The dog had been pummeled into unconsciousness where it lay curled on the ground, dying.  The big retarded man had protected their little girl.  The hero drooled now and then, and he smelled bad sometimes, but now, he was a member of the family.
     The dog's owner was called.  He came right over in a Ford truck with oversized tires and a rack of lights on the roof.  When he saw the dog, whose name was Lil' Bo, he threatened to kill Almo.  He was a short powerful man with a small sausage of blonde hair behind his ears.  A huge belly hung over his wide belt buckle.  The buckle was of brass with a picture of a bull rider. 
    "Son of a bitchin' reetart killed my dog."
    By this time Bill Taylor had had enough of pit bulls and their owners.  He said flatly, "The dog tried to kill my daughter.  Look at her."
    "Lil' Bo wouldn't hurt no kid.  He likes kids."
    "Well Little Bo got out of your yard and attacked my kid and you're lucky I don't have you arrested," Taylor snarled.
     "Well, I'll tell you what; you do what you have to, son."  The fat man made a move toward Almo.  "This dummy has to lose some teeth," he said.
     The punch came from behind his ear.  It sounded like a rock dropped onto cement.  Taylor stood over him as he tried to rise.  His eyes were flickering, rolled up behind his eyelids
     "You ever try to touch Almo again and I'll break your neck!"  Taylor had his face down close to his neighbor's.  "Get out of my yard, and I'll be talking to animal control."  He picked up the dog and threw it into the man's truck like a sack of onions. 

     Almo's legs were burned.  He seemed not to notice.  They had to be bandaged and the Taylors paid for the hospital bills.  No one ever worried about Almo again, not until a month later, when they buried him.

    Marian Kirk opened a letter with the butter knife she held.  Inside was a note from their oldest daughter.  Handwritten in typically neat script, it enclosed a transcript of her grades.  All A's.  She tacked it up on the drawing board.  It was time to make Norman a snack.  The refrigerator gushed cold air and odor of stale food.  She pulled a saucepan from a shelf and set it on the stove, over low heat. 

     When Bret Wilson began to recover, he went to the window.  Curiosity overcame him and he pulled back the curtain.  The police car was still there.  Whatever had caused him to get sick was gone and he felt better.  But the guy had gone in old Mr. Kirk's house through the window.  That was wrong.  Bret thought of calling the cops and thought better of it.  The man was a cop and Mr. Kirk was a cop.  So who would listen to a ten-year-old kid about such things?

     On the counter, the small Sony portable TV went to a commercial.  Marian stood watching the young people dancing on the beach, surfing in the turquoise blue water.  At the end, she had no idea what they were selling, but it was nice to watch.  The tomato sauce in the pot started to gurgle.  Green spinach noodles went into boiling water.  Reluctantly, Marian turned away from General Hospital, carrying the tray out into the living room.
     Henrietta raced through the Habitrail.  The elaborate tunneling system of clear plastic tubes covered half of the table.  The mouse dropped down into its nest and quickly covered itself with sawdust.  Kathy loved the mouse and played games with it when she came for a visit. 
     Afternoon light shone through the overcast sky.  The sky was silvery and the air was comfortably cool.  Kirk sat patting his paunchy middle, watching the little pile of sawdust stir as Henrietta settled in for her nap. 
     "Hungry," Marian asked.  She lowered the tray onto the desktop. 
     "Ah, what a nice surprise," Norman said.  "I was just starting to think about lunch."
     "Do you want a soda or Perrier?"
     "Fizzy water," he said.  "Is this hamburger in the sauce?"
     "Ground turkey," she replied, with a trace of smugness."
     "Turkey?"
     "And I threw in half a cup of bran."
    "Well, it's really very good. I can't tell the difference."
     "He had just gotten a haircut, the first one since the hospital.  The top of his head flattened into a perfect plateau of ivory white spikes.  Reaching for the bowl, he straightened out his arm and stretched the fingers almost without realizing it.  A little sensation tingled into his hand. 
     Small favors, he thought. 
     Having tasted the sauce at arm's length, he was ready to dig in.  Henrietta burst from the little sawdust cocoon and stood dog paddling against her window.  Marian went for the water and to find out if the rich young doctor would operate on the young heiress. The mouse was making a thumping noise on the inside of the glass. 
     "That must hurt," Norman said, frowning.

     Cans of Campbell's soup made a red and white wall in the back of the kitchen cabinet.  They were a throwback to the days when she had allowed him to eat his way heart disease.  Two strokes had rendered his left arm forty-five percent usable.  It was a blessing that the department had kept him on.  Numbness was a constant annoyance to him.  She had always advocated healthy foods, but the hospitalization had convinced him.  She pulled a bag of brown rice down from the shelf and began to untwist the wire wrapper.  Tap water fizzed into an orange pot.  She got a measuring cup and leveled off a cup of the rice.   Some of the water spilled over, ran down the side of the gutters, and into the drain. 
     She was suddenly stunned.  What it was exactly that had paralyzed her wasn't clear.  She leaned back into the refrigerator door.  Several moments passed.  In the part of her mind not yet shut off, she knew that a very bad car crash had taken place on the adjacent street.  She could hear a group of people and frighteningly, two or three children were hurt.  A tableau of horribly mutilated male and female bodies filled her head with vivid graphic realism.     The people were moving, still alive thank God.
     Kirk, in the living room, winced at the impact.  With one eye closed, he stared through the lace curtains.  He pushed himself up, grunting at the exertion on his knees, and went to open the curtains.  A multiple car crash had piled up just out of sight.  It was bad.  Obviously, children were involved.  He moved back to the phone.  The receiver was cold in his hand.  He reached down and plugged in his phone.  He dialed. 
     In the kitchen, water boiled on the stove.  The cherry-red burner was sizzling.  A cloud of steam filled that corner of the kitchen.  What should she do?  She went to the window and looked as far as possible to the right.  Norman could see it, surely.  She heard his voice speaking on the telephone already.  He was describing it to the dispatcher.  A tan uniform flashed by.  What timing, she thought--must have been close by.  But they should be out there, not in our yard. 
     The phone wouldn't work.  He tried to dial again and just got static.  Sure that someone else would call it in; he gave up and went to see how bad it was. 
     Marian heard the screen door break in another room.  Kirk heard her scream.  The sound went through him like a drill.  It went off in his head like a thunderclap.  Then it was choked off.  He heard her gagging.  He was up, running.
     "Mare?"  He slammed his head on the stairwell, and the white hair grew red.  He swore he would file the offending corner into dust as soon as he--
    In one sweep, he shook off the pain, rammed his hand into a drawer.  The realization hit him harder than the bump on the head.  And he was ready.  The gun was a .44 with a six-inch barrel.  The hollow-point bullets were filed to accept a tiny plug of oak.  The wood was saturated with sarin, a powerful nerve poison.  A little more bang for the buck.  He ran trying to find the trigger.  In the hallway, the light went out.  The door to the kitchen was open.  Marian was against the sink.  She was in the throws of a seizure.  Her lips were drawn back, teeth tightly clenched.  He thought her face would tear.  Her fingers stuck out in odd directions, one arm going up and down as if holding a heavy barbell.  She was gaping with empty eyes. 
     As he passed the wall shelf, he picked up a record album.  He tore off the dust jacket.  There was no time to prepare anything fancy.  He was overwhelmed by the need to protect his wife.  Passing a doorknob, Kirk smashed the record to bits.  The bathroom door flew open from the impact.  He groped through the scattered pieces for the hole.  Pressing the triangular black shard to his left eye, he turned right and scanned the kitchen. Between the two windows, its form passed.  Kirk faced its direction and felt the wave of sickness.  As he panned the small aperture over the creature, he felt his tongue rise up like a spoon going down his throat. 
     It was a few feet from the kitchen door, a swirling mass of transformation.  The door was standing open.  The top of its conical head brushed the ceiling.  Kirk could make out the tremendous musculature thought the tiny hole.  It flicked like an old movie, melting between human and something undreamed of.  It was an evolutionary horror in his kitchen.  It squatted on the brown tile floor, grunting like a huge animal, an almost sad forlorn sigh.  The anthropomorphic shoulders were a yard or more across. Its hands were like thick tennis rackets, with black-skinned fingers ending in scythe-like talons.  The claws were dripping to the floor, hard and soft.  They were cruelly hooked, razor-keen, and meant to open prey in a hurry.  The entire skin was black and glossy, covered with coarse, gleaming fur, which was as thick three-penny nails.  Resting on massive paws, the tips of grapnels appeared and disappeared.  The nose, in the center of the face was a bloody pair of holes that seemed to go right into the brain cavity. 
     A stream of viscous dark red fluid meandered across the tiled floor from under the haunches.  It was secreting from a vertical opening between the legs. 
     The 44. would kill a rhino.  Peering through the record shard, Kirk aimed level and squeezed off a round.  The concussion was deafening in the small kitchen.  He knew the shot had gone home.  Cocking his head, he fought the urge to uncover his eye. 
     It moved a split second before the shot and formed into a snake, tightly coiled in the corner.  Norman was amazed at the speed it was capable of.  It had to weigh half a ton, but could dart like a weasel.  The move was a flow from where it had been to the stove.  Reforming, it exhaled foul, rotten air, dead steam, like a forgotten sewer pipe.  Norman raised his head and caught sight of the mouth.  It was closed now and a split lip was visible.  A warm vibrating muzzle was pressed lightly to Kirk's face.  The breath was like the bottom of garbage cans, a rat in the walls, two days dead, decayed roots.  Kirk's teeth hummed in his head like they had bitten into a live wire.  His lungs squirmed in his chest. 
     He fired again.  His right eye was squeezed tightly shut.  He knew he must not get a full look at his attacker.  The embrace was never complete.  It never actually touched him. 
     Marian turned away and sagged to the floor.  The whole terrible sequence had taken place in less than two minutes.  Kirk was heaving.  The jagged black triangle was still firmly planted against his eye.  He lunged at the kitchen door, kicked it shut.  He grabbed Marian and walked backward to the hallway entrance, covering the doorway with the .44.  Staggering like over-the-hill marathon dancers, they retreated from that unholy kitchen.  The desk, about midway down the hall, went over with a crash.  Then the numbing wave of cool fear came from the front and back.  As they entered the living room. Kirk threw Marian on the couch.  He took a position at the window, and slowly removed the plastic from his eye.  Later, he would see a long scratch under his eyebrow. 
     Outside, the street was quiet.  He understood that the car crash had been a fantasy, yet still marveled at its accuracy. 
     The only noise he could hear was Henrietta in her cage, still thumping on the glass.  She was still stiff as a stick, paddling furiously.  She must have been doing that the whole time, he thought.  The street was hazy, platinum-colored in the late afternoon.  Cool air blew in through the windows.  It was icy on Norman's drenched body.  He gazed at the hallway door.  Would it come through there?  Had to.  Expecting at any moment to lose his life, he nodded his head.  He was pissed. 
     "C'mon," he whispered, "come and get me."  He checked the gun.  Four left.  Two rounds had done nothing.  There would be no good "next time".  He was sure.  Marian lay on the couch with her face buried in the cushions.  She wasn't moving.  Apparently she had gotten a good look.  That was bad.  Norman wasn't sure what that would do to her.  He realized they were trapped.  If it came now and he killed it she would be covered with the spray.  Running to the couch, he ripped up the rug and threw it over his wife.  Quickly he lifted her and stuffed it under her and flipped it over so that she was wrapped in a cocoon.   He scanned the room for some protection.  Curtains might repel the spray for a few minutes.  He tore one from the picture window, the hooks popping.  He threw the cloth over his head, forming a cowl.  He kept his precious peephole to his eye and held the fabric closed.
     A scrape came from the hall.  More, it was like an entire tree had been dragged three of four inches.  He remembered it from the house.  That sound had come just before.  The old cop straightened, gasping for breath.  His legs shook.  He was very near collapse and was afraid he might urinate in his pants.  In the hallway, a board broke.  The door was splitting, bulging forward.  It hit the floor in pieces.  Books were being riffled, thousands of pages turned simultaneously.  Then came a great thud and the house seemed to jump off its foundation.  Kirk's fear was like ball of fire in his stomach.  Then he saw it.  At the base of the hallway door, a brown globular shape covered with hair protruded slowly from the baseboard. 
     He tightened the trigger.
     "This is it, you son of a bitch!"
     A piercing, ripping sound filled the room.  Kirk was confused.  Had it jumped into the room?  On the couch, the form of his wife wrapped in the rug began to move.  He aimed down the sight at the thing protruding from the doorway.  He couldn't miss.  He squeezed one off. 
     Misfire.
     Then on the couch, the rug began to split open.  It burst like a seedpod, a hideous insect breaking from its confines.  The long nap carpet was cut in long spinous strips.  Kirk began to shriek Marian's name.  Dragging the shredded carpet across the room, the Lobesomen leapt out the picture window.  Glass exploded onto the grass.  The creature rippled like a giant slug across the yard, emitting an ear-shattering snarl. 
     It was gone.

     Bret Wilson saw it.  He saw it crash through the window.  But the window didn't make a sound.  It was like the TV was turned down and you knew what it should be like, but it wasn't like that at all.  He told his mom that a thing big as a whale lay on the grass and opened its giant mouth and cried.  The boy got real tired of people making fun of him.  He could still strike out any batter in the league. 

      Norman Kirk stood breathing heavily, his mouth very dry.  The ruined rug was spread across his feet, the gun trained on the windowsill.  Misfire.  He was still confused.  He moved to the empty space where the glass had been.  Pulling the cord, he closed the single drape, as thought the very air outside was poisoned.  This began to clear his head.  He spun around. 
     It was still there.
     A brown clump of thick hair was lying at the bottom of the door.  A claw was visible, and it was moving.  He approached with the weapon cocked.  Desperately he flipped the cylinder and checked the remaining rounds.  He clicked it shut.  Kirk wanted to rid himself of this fiend.  The wall covered him.  The blood could spray as it had that day on the cliff and it couldn't reach him.  His finger tightened.  On the floor at his feet, a face looked up at him.  It had never been her in his arms. 
     "Oh my God, Mare."
     She had crawled from the kitchen and fainted at the door. 
     "Norman, help me to the bathroom," she said through rubbery jaws.
     "It's gone sweetheart," he said.
     "I have to throw up," Marian moaned, already on her way. 
     As he looked out the window, he saw the squad car turn the corner.  It weaved a bit and brushed the curb before it went out of sight. 
     The thumping caught his attention again.  In the Habitrail, he saw that Henrietta was tapping her head against the plastic.  She was like a worm on a hot skillet, trashing back and forth.  Then she gradually lay still and Norman thought she was dead.

    October came.  The colorful month always approached at night.  It prepared for those few magnificent days by stealing life from the leaves.  The ever-present corn of summer was reduced to sharp spikes, harvest's victory spears.  The leaves, not yet convinced, began to lose their gloss.  Color would come in a few weeks; green would all but vanish--except for the pines--and red, yellow, brick and fire shades would blaze into the azure sky.  From any angle, any location in Mercer, Photographers snapped flawless postcards, book covers and calendar sheets.  Bucks County's most picturesque sites were there.  Red shale and ferns splashed by waterfalls, were the drinking spots of deer.  Raccoon and possum thrived in the rain forest that surrounded the town. 
     Pheasant hunters began the annual ritual of throwing feather-covered spurs to their dogs.  Rabbits, sluggish all summer, began to hop higher in their curious mating dance.  With a melancholy feel that announced the onset of fall, October permeated the streets as well.  Small groups of premature leaves began to clog the gutters.  Streets and roofs would be jammed with fallen piles of maple keys and soaked sticks.  There was a definite nip in the breeze. 
     No one ever noticed that the activity of the bat population had increased.  The bats always got aggressive, and folks said the same thing every year that they might be rabid.  In the history of the town, no one ever got bit by a bat. 

*  *  *

     Grass had begun to sprout from the mound.  The first frost nearly killed it off.  Of course, next summer the root system should take hold and the site would be carpeted with lush new sprouts.  Dried earth crumbled and blew amongst the tender blades.  The grave was lonely, by itself on the outside of the field.  It was Sunday and strollers stood like figures in a painting.  Fresh flowers were placed neatly at the bronze markers, held with rocks to keep them from blowing away.  The rock was Kathy's idea.  She and Marian walked slowly away from the plot. 
     To a passerby, "My grandfather's buried under there," she said, "but I dint go to the fune-rule."  She was speaking to a young couple.  Marian reached down and lovingly touched her head. 
     "Hush dear," Marian said, more to comfort herself than the child.
     She knew Kathy didn't understand and as she looked back at the already wilting carnations, she began to cry.  The frustration, the loneliness, the man she'd lived with for thirty years, gone.  Her heart--whatever that was--had gone blank, since...something had happened.  She struggled to remember.  Now she was by herself. 
     They walked by a group of mourners at another grave, past the great monument to the Civil War, and the tomb of one of the founding Mercers.  Marian herded Kathy toward the car.  The local police car interrupted them.  Kathy waved to the officer.  They couldn't see the man through the windows, tinted nearly black.  Then the window rolled silently down. 

 

The central body of centrosome lies at one side of the nucleus near the central part of the cell; the other intracellular structures are arranged around it, and it serves as a dynamic center, especially active during mitoses.

--Henry Grey, F.R.S.
Grey's Anatomy

     "Do you notice anything about the way I walk?  Kind of cat-like?"

--Elvis Presley

    Written in charcoal and red paint, the walls were inscribed with hieroglyphics.  The glyphs told what Billy had done to Sue.  They told what Bruce K. had done to the rest of the guys and what you could do to yourself.  Frank Holtz wondered about Billy and Sue.  He wandered why kids did that.  When he had checked into his little private motel, it was just as the previous owner had left it.  Plates, bowls, and silverware were still on the table.  Canned spaghetti, dried long ago into a hard know was left uneaten.  Old newspapers, yellow with age, covered the floor and the furniture was torn to shreds. 
     The roof leaked.  It was leaking now. 
     He had told his wife and little Kevin that he would be gone for a while.  She knew he was fleeing from his own people.  It had bothered her that he couldn't tell the truth.  He hadn't called for days, knowing that his phone might be tapped.  He had been positively identified.  To turn himself in was nothing but trouble.  That day in the hospital, they all saw him, and they all knew him. 
     Someone had had him.  Was having him.  No alibi was good enough.  Over fifteen people swore that he had been there.  He had to be free to move,  even if he could get bail, they would just cut his nuts off.  They would watch him.  So he remained out of sight. 
     Well, Norman would fix it.  He would fix everything.  But they had to deal with the Goddamned cat-thing first.  Until then, he would lay low.

    Almo was helplessly drifting into a situation.  Kathy looked up at the giant black man.  One hand on her hip and toe pointed out, she tapped her foot.  She squinted with one eye. 
     "Well, all you have to do is stand.  And you might have to wear a tie."
     "I doe know," Almo said.  "I never wore no tie."
     "All I do is show ya and tell all about ya to my class," she said. 
     "I never done no show-an-tell," Almo said, coming as close as he would to an argument.
     "It's on Friday, an we're going up to the big pink school on the hill.  We get to be with the big kids, an see what it's like.  If we like it, then we can go there.  And they're gonna hab show and tell and I'm gonna show you."
     "I doe know,” he said again.
     "Well, you have to go," Kathy stated firmly.
     In the house, her parents were talking.  Grown-up things.  Her ears were on stand-by alert.  She could hear her father. 
     "How is she fixed for cash?  I'm just asking because I'd like to know how long she'll stay--you know--stay here."
     "We have his pension, and I guess she gets some insurance, though the pension is up in the air for now.  Since they couldn't--you know."
     "Well, how--"
     "Bill, I just don't think I want to discuss it with her right now.  She has a little more because they did it that way.  So she has some money.  But I didn't ask her how much."
     Bill Taylor absorbed what his wife said.  His objections were being diminished by his guilt.  He wanted to have his house back.  With the old woman here it felt like he was being pushed out.  That was ridiculous of course.  But feelings are not always rational. 
     He said, "Kathy, you and Almo go up in the yard and play now.  Mommy and Daddy want to talk privately."
     "All right Daddy," she said.  "C'mon Almo, we better not eebs-drop."

    That evening, Larry Stern and Scott Allen sat on a dirty mattress in Allen's garage.  The building had been turned into a workshop for fixing dirt bikes and now and then, a Harley.  It had become a hangout sometime during the summer of Scott's 16th year.  To the neighbors, it was a den of inequity where young girls lost their virginity and old women lost consciousness late at night.  All types of unsavory characters were seen going in and out of the Allen's driveway. 
     Tonight there were new additions to the group.  Buddy Martinson was bad news.  Every cop for a hundred miles in Jersey and Pensey knew his name.  Bud was a career criminal at 18.  At 21 he was on his way to death row.  His three companions had as yet, not been introduced.  They were not a gang.  The concept of organization just didn't gel with Buddy Martinson.  But he had his hopes.  Martinson was a drug dealer, a supplier of crank, which was methamphetamine.  This was the drug of choice with bikers, dragsters, stock car stars and teenage goddesses.
     Inside the garage, which had been furnished with couches and a mattress, they were in the process of getting high.  That's when the idea struck.
     Buddy Martinson sighed as he pulled the syringe from his arm, wiping the spot of blood with his thumb.  "I was up on the hill the other day by the Booda' temple." 
     "Yeah," Scott Allen said, scratching his huge stomach, "those bald mother fuckers come into the store where my mom works."
     "They come in there and act like their shit don't stink," Martinson said, with an icy tone as his tongue rolled in his head.
     The three unknowns had Scott Allen very nervous.  They seemed to be watching everything, but saying nothing.  They wore Pagan colors.  This was a local motorcycle club with a large membership.  The Pagans definitely were a gang.  The three of them sat on the old couch against the wall.  They wore leather jackets that looked like they came from the First World War.  Their hair was long and they had untrimmed beards.  They had about a hundred tattoos spread among the three of them.  Most of the skin art was covered, but one of them had FUCK NIXON written across his neck.  Scott and Larry were scared to death of them.
     "I got this idea," Buddy Martinson said.  "They all park right along the road in a long line."
     "Who," Larry asked.
     "The fuckin' Booda's, you asshole," he answered. "Ever see those assholes walking bald-headed down the road?"
     "Yeah, they think their shit don't stink!"  Larry Stern was warming up.  The gush of molten metal joy was spreading through his body.  Once he began to verbalize, it would go on for hours.  His tongue twisted and rolled in his mouth. 
     "Fuckem'!" One of the Pagans shouted over the mouth of a Michelob bottle.  He reached down and pulled two cartons of empties from under the couch.  "Git me that can'a gas." 
     The others watched in varying stages of mirth and horror as he began to tear strips of cloth from an oily rag.  Without direction, one of the other Pagans began to funnel lawn mower gasoline into a bottle. 
     "We'll fry their slope asses,” Buddy Martinson shouted, gleefully.
     "Well," Larry Stern said, "they're not slopes."  He was trying to make sense.  Things were moving toward a bad compass point and he tried to ward it off.  Larry wasn't bad.  He was simply fascinated by people who were.  "They're all white kids from different colleges," he said.
     The Pagan stood now, threatening.  He bent over Larry Stern and jammed a finger into his chest.  "Look, my brother's dead."  He said this with finality, still pushing with the grubby finger, his breath like the first whoosh from an old out house.  "They're fuckin' Booda heads!  My brother got shot by a fuckin' Booda head in 'Nam!"
     "All fuckin' Booda heads must die!" Shouted Scott Allen, who wanted to fade into the background.  For some reason the Pagan's dead brother was something that couldn't be challenged under any circumstances.  The killing of the brother by a college student studying Buddhism during the Vietnam War was totally acceptable.
     They loaded their deadly treasure into the back of two pickup trucks to head out on the highway toward the Huay Ning Temple.

    Marian Kirk was dreaming.  She wasn't part of the dream, but somewhere just to the left and above the action.  She watched a dog paw the multi-colored earth next to a tree.  It seemed so important to identify the type of tree.  The dog was a snow-white pit bull.  It was gnawing on--at that point she woke up. 
     At once, she felt the loneliness and despair of having lost Norman.  It was an effort to get out of bed.  So she didn't.  She pushed her face into the pillow and stared at the dark, sparkling screen behind her eyes.  Before Norman had left her, he told her of the events of the last few months.  He had been careful to cover every detail, which was unusual.  She understood that she and Frank knew the truth and that they were on their own.  That Frank was hiding somewhere and couldn't help.  It had been so hard for Norman at the end, but he had covered everything.  At first, she wouldn't, couldn't believe any of it.  He was talking about monsters.  But she believed him.  It had happened.  It was confusing and hard to remember.  Her stomach still flipped over every time the thought about it, but it had happened.  When she closed her eyes, she still saw that sickening thing in her kitchen. 
     It was 10 o'clock.  She made her way to the bathroom and brushed her teeth.  As she changed into her clothes, she heard Kathy playing in the yard below. 
     The dog was dead, and she was glad. 
     She heard the child's voice as she opened the screen door. 
     "Hey squirly-whirley, did you watch cartoons this morning?"
    "I watched-ed Sesame Street and Micky Mouse and Popeye and after they went off, I came in and I watched-ed you Grandma," Kathy sang out.
     "You watched me?"
     "I came into your room real quiet and sat in your chair."
     "That's nice.  How long were you there?"
     "Oh, for about sixteen-twenty hours," she said twisting her Shirley Temple mop.
     "What's Mommy doing today?"
     "She's at the store."
     "So it's just the two of us."
     "Yes, I guess so.  Were you watching cartoons Grandma?"
     "When?"
     "When you were sleeping."
     "When I was--"
     "You were talking and rolling around and that's how I watch cartoons and I thought you were watching them, that's all."
     No, I was just dreaming.  When did Mommy leave--for the store?"
     "Well," Kathy said, after a long sigh, "she left right before you woke up and then Micky Mouse fought-ed a big fight with a big giant and Popeye went to see Sinbad, who's the most remarkable most amazing kind of fellow, and I made some toast and the nice policeman came and talk-ed to me and he wanted to have some tea and take a ride in the police car and we played tid-i-ley binks and--"
     "What--what did you say?"
     "TID-I-LEY BINKS!"
     "No, no, sweetheart, what did you say about the policeman?"
     "The nice policeman came and talked-ed to me and he had some tea--"
     "Was it the one we saw...when we went to see Grandpa at the cemetery?"
     "Yup, that was the one."
     "Kathy, did he touch you?"
     "No, but he touched-ed dolly.  See, he was mean to dolly."
     Marian held up the doll, a close facsimile of Kathy.  They had bought it because it looked so much like her.  Its right plastic leg was gone, chewed away.  There were puncture marks all over the chest and a long tear from chin to abdomen.  As she took the doll, she examined it closely.  In the hollow of its back, on the inside, was a tiny red spot.  She heard Norman's admonition, If it gets on you,  if it merely touches the skin...
     She was looking at a single drop of dried blood. 
     Marian took the mutilated doll and went to look for matches.

    10 PM, Mammy Morgan's Hill.  The mission that united them was not founded in fact but this mattered not in the least.  The combined zeal of the small group was overpowering.  Theirs was the single mind that has ruled bloody riots and rebellions since the first ape-men banded together and overtook another's cave.
     They climbed the hill to the temple.  Three six-packs of Molotov cocktails were divided between the two trucks.  Buddy Martinson's '78 Chevy pickup had a 327 cubic inch engine with wide dragster tires in the back and small tires in the front.  It was built for the track, for speed.  Inside, along the top of the windshield was a fringe of tiny plastic nudes.  The mirror extended from one side of the cab to the other, made up of sections that aimed from left to right dividing in the middle.  Red bulbs that were hidden under the dash lighted the floor.  Like a surreal cockpit, the interior of Buddy Martinson's truck gave off an evil red glow.  The vehicle was a J. C. Whitney museum. 
     Buddy and one of the Pagans, whose name was Lucky Strike, each had a beer between their legs, and a bottle of gasoline in hand.  The smell of Texaco Super Unleaded permeated the air.  Lucky Strike loved the smell of gas and refused to let Buddy open the windows.  Each time he lit a namesake filterless cigarette, Buddy thought his heart would stop. 
     In the truck bed, the other two Pagans, Rosco and Animal passed a small bottle of crank between them.  They sat huddled tightly against the back of the cab.  Scott Allen had the wind at his face.  Not wanting to get too close to the Pagans, he was in a corner, pressed into the tailgate. 
     Larry Stern had collected Billy Calaway, no stranger to the police himself.  They rode in Larry's brand new Ford truck.  He was a very hard working nineteen-year-old who had never gotten into any significant trouble.  He had only one major flaw; he couldn't say no.  His personality was weak and he could easily be coerced.  Larry Stern and Scott Allen were very much coerced by the Pagans and Buddy Martinson.  A ready source of drugs and a tendency toward extreme violence removed any reservations that the two friends might have about committing arson. 
     Scott Allen pulled up his pants, which were continually dropping.  He weighed over 250 pounds and was very uncomfortable in the windy truck bed.  He wished it were over.  There was an unspoken understanding.  He could feel it.  If this went well, he and Larry and maybe Calaway too, would be accepted by the Pagans.  Fat, stupid old Scott Allen could wear Pagan colors.  If he had trouble, it was their trouble, and if he got killed in a bar fight, they would take care of his mom.  Above all, getting laid would no longer be a problem. 
     Biker chicks.

    He reached into his pocket and groped for his dad's pipe lighter.  It would light in 80 mile per hour winds.  The faces of Larry and Bill were like two painted balloons behind the glass.  They trailed a few yards behind.  Scott gave them the thumbs-up.  They gave him the finger.  He grinned.  He was so high that he couldn't feel his enormous ass, or his legs.  His lips were sticky and drool flew steadily from the corners of his mouth.  It was now 10:30, overcast and there was no moon.  Hallucinating and ready to take another snort, Scott Allen saw the night as an immense series of dark blankets tearing at him, lightening strokes and living neon wriggling off in his peripheral vision.  He felt beautiful.

    Most of the students were asleep.  Five were in the flagstone temple, having sat for an hour, engaged in a conversation about the trials of the saints.  Cool night air flowed into the open door, among the orange-robed figures. 
    Reverend Lee was in his room.  The small Spartan cubicle smelled like limes.  There wee no limes in the room, nor was there any incense.  Every night, when the Reverend slept, he passed through the etheric plane.  At that point he gave off a strong scent of citrus.  The young priests who hovered outside his door would sniff the air and nod to each other knowingly. 
     Lee was gazing into the thousand-watt bulb between his eyes.  Fast asleep, he was more awake than anyone for thousands of miles around him.  The perfect contemplation that he had long ago accomplished allowed him to enter the fine balance of enlightenment.  Light continued to unfold like a glass onion until his world became the lotus gently unfolding at the feet of God.  He would later tell students that such visions were nothing but a trick of the mind.  This in order to diminish their desire, which stunted their progress.  He watched all his bodies and glanced at the lower forms of his existence.  In an insignificant corner of this immense world, he saw that his beloved temple was about to be attacked.  It was not a surprise.  The scene as it unfolded in the billions of transparent living cells was like a crystal of sand lost in a rain forest.  Still, it drew his attention more than he would like.  He had seen the tiny image more than a year ago.  But what he had seen this night was a new revelation.  He saw a needless death.  A small passing of light into light.  It was a death brought about by greed and vanity.  In a small place set aside for such things, Lee was thankful for his place in the great world.  His priests moved each day further from these passions, and that was good.
     There was nothing to be done for the temple or the one who would die.  To stop this attack or interfere was to tamper with the will of the Tao.  And that he could not do.  As he lay motionless on his cot, a single tear escaped his eye.  That did surprise him.

    Billy Calaway opened the door and climbed into the back of the truck.  The vehicles slowed to a stop, two abreast.  Scott Allen and the Pagans began to toss unlit bottles.  The glass broke, spreading gas over three of the parked cars.  Stern and Calaway drew up next to the temple, which saw down in the small valley.  The cedar shake roof was just level with the road. 
     Calaway thought back.
     Just let me get out'a this.  Just let me, and I promise God, I promise, I won't do anything ever again.  Just let me go and don't let me get hurt.  What happened to them?  How could they get all broke up like that?  A fuckin' front-end loader couldn't do that.  Stink, stink, stink, the stink just stays in my nose in my mind and it won't let go.  Just keeps on stinkin' and it stinks now.  If you let me go God and don't let what happened to them happen to me...you can have my life.  Take my life.  Just let me go home.
     He thought back as he hurled the beer bottle at the stone chimney and silently asked the same God to help the bottle smash and soak the wooden roof.  And smash it did.
     "Flick your fuckin' Bic!"  Larry Stern lobbed the first lighted bottle, which exploded on the top of an MGB.  "C'mon throw'em man," yelled Larry as the air filled with the smell of heat and burning rubber.  Three lighted bottles landed on the roof of the temple.  Two rolled off the wooden shingles unbroken, but one hit the chimney and threw a wall of flame into the black cotton air. 
     Fifteen cars were now on fire.  The Pagans were howling like wolves.  The surrounding buildings had caught and were beginning to be consumed.  Dull orange ghosts glided from the inferno screaming, and cowered nearby. 
     The fire was getting close to the truck.  Scott Allen had two more bottles.  He threw one and missed the cars completely.  The glass shattered on the macadam, spreading the haystack of yellow heat even closer. 
     "Chaos rules!"  He screamed and stumbled, tilting forward.  The heat felt good.  His pants were baking.  He couldn't feel his feet and the truck bed seemed to vanish.  He was floating in the middle of flames and night.  Reaching out for the support he knew must be there, he draped the rag over the tailgate.  Placing his hand over the cloth, he pulled the bottle free, spreading gas all over himself and the truck bed.  He was standing in a puddle of accelerant.  He held the mouth-down bottle over his head and felt the irritating liquid drip into his eyes.  He threw the empty bottle.
     "Die you fuckin' Booda--” As his clothing ignited he began to gasp for air, inhaling flames.  The inside of his mouth and nostrils were seared.  Instantly, Scott Allen, born and raised in the small town of Mercer, Pennsylvania, who shouldn't have been there and was so high that he didn't care; Scott Allen achieved 1500 degrees Fahrenheit.  He stood in the back of the '78 Chevy pickup and raised his arms.  He was a fiery angel; an annunciation to the orange ghosts huddled below.  His last act was a benediction to those he had harmed.
     "Get the fuck out'a here!" someone screamed. 
     Lucky Strike attempted to approach the fiery statue, but was repelled by the intense heat.  Buddy Martinson popped the clutch and with tires spinning, screeching, the two trucks disappeared over the hill.  It was a reflex that came from somewhere deep in the primal self that Scott braced himself and didn't fall.
     The priests reported seeing the figure in the back of the truck, on fire, with arms raised, screaming, "ICE, ICE, ICE, IIIIIIIIICCCE."

     Reverend Lee rose slowly, careful not to jar his body after so much beauty.  He had felt the pain and bewilderment as the boy had caught fire.  The passing of light into light was not reluctant.  He understood and he was touched.  As he had seen the event clearly he had felt no fear or regret.  The last emotions of Scott Allen's tragic life were exultation and something like joy.

    In the morning, they sat on the hillside.  The fog was filled with the smell of charred wood.  The twenty-seven assorted priests, monks, and students sang their words and listened to Reverend Lee.  The grass was damp and the cool air flowed through the trees above.  An aroma of roots and decayed leaves wafted up from the forest floor.  Underneath those natural smells was the lingering scent of death.
     "You are still," Lee said in his resonant voice, "here."  He pointed vigorously to the ground at his feet.  "No one has joined Hashimoto in Pure Land."  This drew weak laughter.  "Buildings, cars, kitchen," he said, with a smile and a nod, "all nothing!"
     He told a tale.

     Long ago, in province of Dao Ching, a monk was accused of theft.  Was not him.  Monk was innocent.  Ping Mo was taken to local prison and stood in line to have head removed with rest of thieves.  All men thrash and fight for life!  But no good.  Guards only force head to block. 
 When Ping Mo's turn to place head on block, it is like standing in line to buy bread. Ping Mo bow to guard, bow to sword, and smiling, place head on block. 
 Guards are puzzled.  Wait! they say.  Something wrong!  They take Ping Mo aside.  Word comes from Emperor that Ping is great Zen priest.  Very famous, big mistake!  Because of who Ping is, because of Ping's life style, life is saved.

 "All are still alive.  Fire only hurt stone and wood.  Rejoice." 

    Though the talk that morning would be with them for the rest of their lives, more than half of the students at the Huay Ning Zen Temple left that day and never came back. 

    They idled into the opening of a looming hedgerow.  The trucks slipped in the mud and came to a stop in the middle of the field.  It was now 11:38, and they had spent time hunting for the spot.  High in the hills, they were secluded in the middle of a clearing.  The vehicles faced each other, the swirling fog illuminated by the headlights.  In the back of Stern's truck, the blackened form of Scott Allen lay like a walrus with his head pressed against the tailgate.  His face was visible above the nose and his burnt out lidless eyes gazed at the living men. 
     "What're we gonna do with him?" Larry Stern said, breaking the silence.  He was sure that he should have kept quiet.  He was right. 
     "We get rid of im' fast, motherfucker," Lucky Strike shot back.  His voice was filled with deep anger. 
     "But--but, he's still alive.  He's still breathing!"  Larry stammered.
     "You're fucking crazy.  He's dead!" The Pagan shouted.  "We take him anywhere but right fucking here and we're all dead too."
     "He's my friend--we can't just--"
     "Shut the fuck up," Animal said, stepping closer. 
     They were standing in knee high wet grass.  Mercer's lights were nestled like a galaxy below.  As the fog cleared they could see into the river valley.   Below, they could see a house with all the doors open and lights on.   Animal opened the tailgate and pulled on the dead man's head.  The body slid from the truck bed and landed in the grass with a thump.  Larry Stern thought he heard a grunt as his friend was pulled out, but he was wrong.  Scott Allen had died of a heart attack minutes after he caught fire.
     Lucky Strike looked down at the blackened face and thought it reminded him of something.  If the asshole would just shut his mouth, it might come to him.   Several years earlier, he had, by chance, seen a statue in a museum.  It was in Philadelphia.  What was the guy’s name?  Da Vinci, that was his name.  Lucky had gone with his aunt to see this big deal statue.  He didn't want to, but she was paying the bills.  It was Jesus, dead after he hung on the cross and he was in his mom's arms.  What was it called?  Whatever it was called, there it was.  Scott Allen's face reminded him of the face of the dead Jesus, only burned.  He wanted to talk about that, but not to these assholes, not in this place and certainly not now.  People got weird when there were dead motherfuckers around. 
     "We plant him right here," Buddy Martinson said.  "Calaway, you and Stern dig a hole.  A big one." 
 

    A farmer found the three bodies buried in the field overlooking Mercer.  As he plowed the field for soybeans he came across a patch of bare earth where nothing would ever grow.

 
"The bolt," she cried loudly.  "Come down.  I can't reach it."  But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw.  If he could only find it before the thing outside got in.

--W.W. Jacobs 
The Monkey's Paw

 The next morning a frightful spectacle awaited me.  When I reached the back of the wash-house I found the glass over-turned, the ladybugs gone and the bat, though still half-alive, bristling with frenzied ants, its tortured little face exposing tiny teeth like an old woman's. 

--Salvador Dali
The Secret Life of Salvador Dali

The priest wept as he ran.  He had left the ass behind.  It belonged to the parish, but he would send for it later.  The animal be dammed.  He would not stay a moment longer.  As he stumbled across the dirt road that led through an olive orchard he threw a terrified glance over his shoulder.  He was a strong man, strong in his convictions and strong in the Lord.  If it had not been for his vows, he would have been attractive to women and would have had children. 
    But this! 
    How could he help?  How could even God help to exorcise what was steeped in the bones?
    And so he ran. 
    Father Alfonso Bragia tried not to hear and looked only at the ground rushing under his sandaled feet.  They had implored him to rid them of--No!  By the blessed Virgin, he would never speak of it to anyone lest it be brought into the light of day by the words alone. 

THE MONTAN FARM

     Hot, dry wind blew from the North.  The wind forced the cows and sheep to the salt blocks.  The sky overhead blazed with a rich blue that swallowed clouds and moisture like a forge.  Three of the wells were already empty.  Only two yielded water and it was the same each summer, but it seemed that there was less each year. 
     Materials had been collected over three months.  Nails, bolts, cement, 3\8" steel wire mesh, diamond plate steel sheets for the floor, and eight, ten inch thick oak beams.  The beams had to be ordered specially and took forever to arriive.  It felt like forever to Ruis Montan. 
     He had hired a builder to help with the design.  He and his sons carefully dug the foundation, which was in the rear of the barn.  It was to be next to a window to provide light.  Pipes were laid into the ground to provide drinking water. 
     The crude drawing showed a box that slid on rails controlled by a long wooden handle.  The box could not be manipulated from within.  Its thick metal sides were welded and bolted, filled with holes so that liquid would  not collect.  Its function was to gain access to the inside with the least contact.
     Holes were dug in the floor of the barn.  They were four feet deep and two feet wide.  These were to accept the oak beams, which would be cemented into the foundation.  The beams were to be laid out in the shape of an octagon, each one eight feet from the other.  The builder said the shape would provide the strength needed, but couldn't imagine why the Montans would waste the money. 
     As the steel mesh was hung along the sides it was held in place with thick steel cleats fastened by galvanized bolts. 

     It was finished and everyone felt that it was too late.  The door was fashioned in such a way that once it was closed, it could not be opened.  To gain access would call for the use of a cutting torch. 
 

    It sat like some medieval device in the gloom of the barn.  He would not keep animals in there anymore.  They wouldn't stay.  He alone would enter the barn from now on.  As he watched the sun set out over the ocean, the shapes inside melted together and he fancied that he could hear them subtly speaking.  Not so far from the truth, he thought.  The boys had worked hard.  Ruis knew he should send them away now.  His sons had worked and he had worked and spent money and his wife had stayed in her room as she always did.  He stood in the door alone and gazed at a cage.
 

    The priest had been called to bless the work.  Ruis Montan and his family was Roman Catholic and it was common to have clergy come and sanctify a new building.  The mother, Sonia had been bed-ridden for more than a year.  Rumors circulated through the church, but no one paid much attention.  They knew that madness ran through her family. 
     Finally, the house came into view.  It was such a long trip, but a young priest had to earn his way and Father Bragia believed in doing penance every day.  Why wait until he was old?  He saw the great shoulders and shaggy hair of Senior Montan coming up the hill.  The man was formidable and somewhat forbidding.  He certainly had something on his mind. 
     "Father," Senior Montan said, "thank you for coming."  Two boys appeared from behind a bush and took the reigns of the donkey.  They sang to it as they led it away.  The fado sounded forlorn without accompaniment, but their voices were clear and the donkey responded by walking with them. 
     "I'm most happy to consecrate your new well, senior."
     "No Father, it's not a well," Ruis said flatly. 
     They stood talking at the door of the barn.  An aroma of manure and sweet-sour silage rose in the air around them.  The priest had a perpetual smile that seemed glued to his face.   In a second story window of the house, a curtain stirred.  Father Bragia noticed this.  He was too concerned about the pigshit on his shoes to worry about that.  It was part of his job to visit these little farms, but he wasn't feeling well and he wanted to get it over with.  He hadn't been invited in to see the wife and there was no well. In the fleeting moment that the woman had appeared in the window, the priest thought that she had been naked and she seemed to be writhing, rocking back and forth.    The woman was in heat.
     The boys were whispering in the barn.  They were laughing.  He had not seen them go in there.  It was so dark inside.  Senior Montan pretended not to notice their impertinence. 
     "Please Father, won't you come inside?"
     "I don't understand this.  Why have you asked me to come?"
     "We need the power of your holy water and the cross of the blessed mother to--"
     "What is this?" The priest asked, now somewhat alarmed.
     "Bless this place Father, please."
     "What are they laughing at?  Have they no respect?"
    "No one is laughing," Ruis Montan said, curling his fingers into the steel mesh, his head bowed.
     Realization settled on the priest.  This was no cattle pen.  It was a cage built in the old fashion. He had heard about this when he was a boy.  Such things were a myth, a story to tell children.  He gazed into a corner at something pressed against the wire.  The shadow swirled and whimpered, folding on itself.  He felt it in his guts. 
     "Lobesomen," he whispered.  The effect was immediate.  He exhaled sharply and jumped back like a man who has discovered a hornet's nest.  He made the sign of the cross quickly and without any thought.  As he ran through the door, something brushed against the back of his neck.  Stomach muscles contracted violently.  Bile rose in his throat like acid.   Was it actually outside the cage?
 He never even realized that he was running.  A mile down the road the priest was out of breath and noticed the landscape moving swiftly past.   He stopped and stood.   He was feeling better.  Would he be reprimanded for leaving?  Not when they heard what he had seen.   And they would hear.

    The fado is a type of popular song sung with a guitar.  It is imbued with the quality of saudade, a combination of nostalgia and regret.  Father Bragia had heard of this abomination in these songs.  He had never believed in any of it.  Surely God would destroy any such demon.  They were tales told to frighten children, weren't they? 
     He was raised in the city of Bragia, his namesake.  Certainly, no one in the country's leading religious center believed in the stories of the peasants but he was running away and he would have to account for that somehow.  He had gone two miles already and he was on the road to Lagos.  A car approached.  He would ride with them.  He would send for the donkey.
     But he never reached Lagos.
   He had told no one that he was going to see the Montans and was gone for a week before an investigation was begun.  The body was discovered a year later.  It hung from the crossbeam of a mine deep under the ground.  Parts had been removed: arms, legs, the head.  All the entrails were gone and were not retrieved.  The strangest thing was that the priest's clothing was neatly folded close to where the body was found.