Billy Calaway cut through the fog like a lance.  His totally restored '57 Chevy cruised at around 85 but the new wide tires held the road.  It was too fast for conditions.  At two o'clock in the morning he and his three companions were drunk.  Billy had a luke-warm quart of Miller Highlife between his legs and the others had shared three six-packs.  He was one of those young men who demonstrated his manhood with excessive speed.  Passing on blind curves, drag racing and driving too fast; Calaway established his place in the pecking order of life by scaring the shit out of the other guys.  The fact that he hadn't the brains to see death around those corners didn't slow him down.    He had never sold a car.  None of the ten he had owned had made it that far.  The Calaways had always been drivers.  His grandfather was a mechanic.    The farm was always littered with rusting old cars, stripped for parts and left to the weather.
     There were pictures of him at the old time stock races.  Jimmy Calaway, Billy's dad, had belonged to a biker club called Satan's Children.  Billy wondered where his dad was sometimes. 
     He went out for football.  That would have been a good way to prove himself, but he had astonishingly bad reflexes.  If you rode with him and if you were smart, you didn't protest. 
     Tim Hammond sat in the back seat.  Too fast for conditions, Tim thought.
     Sandra Deemer sat close.  Her hand was on Billy's thigh where he liked it.  She whispered, "C'mon Billy, you have us a little worried."  His worn leather jacket caught her blonde hair in snags of cracked rawhide.  He dropped the transmission into third gear and plunged a black engineer boot into the gas pedal.  The car shrieked in protest as it gained 95 m.p.h..  On the wet road surface, steam mixed with the fog as tires grabbed a tight curve. 
     "Why don't you go to hell, Sandy."
     In the back seat, Tim Hammond and Betty Weaver were thrown into the left rear door.
     "Lay back Calaway," Hammond yelled, gripping the driver's headrest. 
     "Hey!  Nobody's tellin' me how to drive and I ain't gonna die tonight," Calaway yelled into the mirror, throwing Hammond the finger.  They were heading east on route 212 towards the Delaware.  Calaway slowed to just under cornering speed and went out into the 611 junction sideways.  Maybe they weren't going to die. 
     "Let's go to New Hope," Hammond said, more relaxed.
     "The home of bottomless bartenders," Billy sang, a little calmer himself.
     Thick headlight beams shot out over the river.  The old lights were better.      Square beams were space age bullshit.  Everything should be round.  Above the river's surface, a mist floated thick and opalescent.  Trees swept by in one continuous shape as the four teenagers were pushed back onto the rolled and pleated interior.  Sunday Road appeared like a black moth, cutting its way into the hillside.  Calaway didn't bother to slow down.  The car made a right angle, again throwing passengers against each other.  Clouds of dust mixed with the wet air and stones thumped under the hood as the Chevy slid to a halt. 
     "Jesus fucking Christ," Billy screamed.  "What the hell is that?"  His right arm was straight out in front of Sandy's shoulders.  Without sea belts, it was the best he could do.
     Two yellow saw horses were set across the road. 
     "Police barricade," Sandy said with her hands on the steel dashboard. 
     "Mother Fuck!  What did they leave it there for?  I probably fucked up my front end."
     "There's a house up there," Hammond said.  "I know that place."
     "Look's like a good place to spend the night," Betty giggled.
     "Right on," Calaway agreed.  He got out of the car and took a long swig from the quart.  Satisfied, he smacked his lips and exhaled slowly.  The night smelled of hot rubber and freshly dug earth.  As the dust settled and the forest sounds began to filter back, four dim figures bathed in Chevy headlights looked toward the hill that led to the house.  The girls got into the back.  A stream nearby gurgled softly as trees reached up like bony hands on both sides. 
     "Shit Hammond, help me move this thing.  We'll just put it back where we found it, and nobody will bother us."
     Calaway drove slowly up the lane.  The Chevy lurched back and forth over deep ruts.  He pulled up the mailbox.  There were no visible details; the house was like a cemetery monument. 
     "Look at that place," Sandy said.  "It's almost scary."
     Billy threw his empty quart into the trees, smashing it against an invisible rock.  He opened the trunk, pulling another beer from the ice in the cooler.  The moon was full overhead.  It floated in a cobalt grey sky amid lavender clouds.  Fog began to move aside, cowering from the silver light.  As the wispy cumulus mountains parted, Billy's jacket gleamed. 
     "It's Miller time," he said.
     "I wonder why they have the road blocked off," Betty thought out loud.
     "I heard something about it," Sandy answered, "on the plectron."  She spoke in an officious tone that grated on Caloway's nerves.  "My uncle was on this case," she said.
     "Yeah," Tim Hammond said, "I heard a cop almost got offed up there."
     "We really shouldn't be here," Sandy said, almost a whisper.  A light breeze blew between them, lifting her hair in slow motion. 
     "You couldn't get me to go up there for a hundred dollars," Betty said, shivering, her ample breasts pushed together.
     "Me neither," Sandy agreed.
     "Sheee-it," Billy chimed in, "I'd go up there and bring back the kitchen sink for two bucks!"
     "That's a deal," Hammond yelled.  "I'll go inside and bring something back."
     Calaway pulled two dollars from his shirt pocket.  "Here you go, numbnuts."
     "Don't do it Timmy," Betty said.  "I want you to stay here and keep me warm."  She pressed her hip against his side. 
     "No way," Hammond stammered, "two bucks is two bucks."
    "Go on pussy."
    "The kitchen sink!" Tim yelled over his shoulder as he vanished into the landscape. 
    He jogged up the yard.  The fog grew thick as though for effect.  He appeared halfway up, then disappeared again.  Calaway took a swallow of Miller and laughed. 
    "What an asshole," he said.  "I wouldn't go up there for any money.  Otis Toole's probably up there with a hatchet."
     "You're a jerk, Billy," Betty said, glaring.
     "Yeah?"
     "Yeah."
     "I'll bitch-slap a chick just like a man, and Hammond won't do shit."
     "You're still a jerk." 
     "Hey, don't blame me if he goes in for haunted houses."  It was a weak attempt to regain his self-esteem.  Betty had called his bluff.
 

     Tim Hammond ran his fingertips along the clapboards.  The wood was wet and dirt clung to his fingers.  He gently lifted the window.  He had never felt so alone.  This side of the house was in the lee of the moon and he couldn't see his friends, couldn't even hear them.  When he was a kid, he had dug into a pile of hard snow in front of his house.  The igloo was warm and so quiet that he could see the wheels of cars go by without making a sound.  He heard that kind of quiet now. 
     Jumping up, he was over the sill and onto the floor.  It occurred to him that someone might be home.  There were no lights on, but they were sleeping, no doubt.  This was burglary.  He was already convicted and in jail.  Might as well be.  Fucking Calaway.
     Then he heard the snake.

    When Tim didn't return, the girls got nervous.  It wasn't going the way it should.  Billy was pissed, whistling through his pursed lips.  Now he'd probably have to go up and get that stupid little prick. 
    He wouldn't go the funeral.  He never liked Hammond anyway, but he would miss Sandy forever. 
 
 

Norman Kirk opened his eyes and pressed a palm to his forehead.  The pounding temple told him that he wasn't fully awake.  It was late, nearly 4 a.m. and he began to feel his age.  He swung his legs off the bed and stretched.  The shrieking telephone seemed to jump at him.  He severely regretted being on call to the citizens of Pennsylvania at times like this. 
    Marian stirred next to him. After thirty years she was still a warm continent of pleasure and sensuality.  She reached up and stroked the white stubble of his crew cut.  It felt like a Doberman's back. 
    "Poor baby," she said.  "I hope it's not another dammed homicide."
    "Me too," he agreed.  "Inspector Kirk," he sighed.  "How may I help you?"
 The voice was faint and tinny.  It sounded like it was coming from a long way off. 
     "Detective Kirk, I am Dr. Iranio from the Huntington State Institution?"
     "Yes, go ahead Doctor."
     "You came to see one of my patients yesterday.  I have something rather urgent that I need to tell you."   Foreign, vaguely familiar, maybe Spanish.  Kirk reached for the pad and pen that were always available.  He was immediately alert, and began writing.  The left hand started doing the piano exercises.
     "Marta De Falvo has died."
     Kirk took a moment to adjust to that.  Though the nurse said his visit would kill the old woman, he hadn't really believed it.   Highly agitated and aggressively trying to get free of her restraints, but not near death. 
     "I'm sorry to hear that.  How did she die?"  His true feeling was that his best witness, the closest he had come to finding answers, was gone.  He chastised himself briefly for his insensitivity.
     "Can we meet at my office tomorrow.  Forgive me, I keep very late hours.  Say around nine?"  In the background, someone else was talking.  It was a strange, small voice, a voice from a closet, another room. 
     "Nine it is," Norman said.  He had placed the accent.  It had been right there all the time.  It was identical to that of the late Mrs. De Falvo. 
 
 

As Tim Hammond stepped into the De Falvo house, he held his breath.  He stood still for a few minutes in the dark.  His bowels reacted and turned to water.  There was momentary panic as he fought the urge to find a bathroom.  It subsided.  The first thing that assailed him was the smell--a kennel or rotten eggs.  He didn't want to go through with the bet, but Calaway would never let him live it down. 
      His stomach gurgled and it frightened him so that he jumped free of the sill.  He slipped and rolled into the middle of the room.  The light came and went as the moon was covered by clouds.  He thought he heard something.  It had occurred at exactly the moment he fell and whatever it was blended perfectly.  But that was crazy.  It was rustling leaves.  That was it.  Rustling leaves just upstairs over his head. 
      Shadowy forms seemed to move all around him.  Tim looked for something to grab and get out.  He decided he was in the kitchen because no other room could smell like that. 
     "What am I doing here," he whispered.
     Reaching out to what he thought must be cabinets over the sink, his hand brushed something that felt like hair.  Stiff damp hair.  The texture of thick matted hair was totally unexpected and he felt a severe swelling in his throat.  His stomach closed, doubling him over.  The shock bent him backwards and he nearly passed out as his head struck the floor.  He tried to get up, but something knocked him back down. 
     Something hit me, he thought. 
     A snake coughed and hissed next to his ear.  He had no doubt.  Even in the total darkness, he knew what it was.  Poisonous and pissed off, ready to strike. 
     In all the world, one thing that had always terrified Tim Hammond more than any other thing was snakes.  He rolled to one side to get away and never felt himself die. 

    "Did you hear something?"  Betty looked at the house, which was still obscured by the shroud of fog.
    "It's been a long time, Bill."  Sandra said.  "He might have gotten hurt in there."
     "Nah, he's just screwing around," Billy said.  "He's up there laughing at us and I want my money's worth out of the little freak."
     "Hammond!" Billy yelled.  "Hammond!  Come on back, you little son of a bitch."
     "Well," said Betty, "I'm going up there.  You can stay here if you want."
     "I'm going too," Sandra said, shrugging. 
      As they started up the path, Billy smashed another bottle.  "Wait up--I'll bring my flashlight.
     "Stupid bitches," he said.  He reached into the trunk for the light.  He knew it was in the glove box.  Calaway was no hero.  He took his time.
 

     Norman Kirk thought about the events of the past weeks as he drove.  It was a beautiful morning; grey, overcast and cool.  It was the kind of day he loved.  He was certain now that he was dealing with more than just a murderer.  This was no serial killer.  First, the guy had only killed one victim.  Second, there just wasn't the right ring to it.  For now the Easton Express and The Intelligencier were satisfied that they had a great story.  They were ghouls as far as he was concerned.  The man or woman--though a female was too farfetched--was strong, much more powerful than an ordinary man.  Norman had been handled like a child and without any hesitation. 
      Under the fear, under the terrible feeling of helplessness, beneath the duty as a cop, he was truly fascinated.  Not a believer in ghosts and a total skeptic in the area of anything of the psychic, this was a compelling mystery.  In the De Falvo house he had experienced something that just couldn't be.  There was, in those moments before his wrist was broken, a glimpse of the perpetrator.  It had made him dizzy to look, but he had forced himself.  He saw it, but couldn't grasp the definite shape.  He had fired five rounds point blank and missed.  It had been solid.  So why didn't it fall?  Holtz was in the expert class with a handgun, and he missed. 
      Kirk thought of his wife, his men, his old legs that were beginning to ache and grow stiff.  He had hemorrhoids.  Norman Kirk now saw his sanity as a nebulous thing, invisible like the bad man, a thing to be questioned and judged, a thing that was slipping away. 
      He stopped to call Marian.
     "Mare?  What's the number of Frank Holtz's room a P-Burg Hospital?"
 "Hmmm," she said, "let's see...room 118 and the number is 782-2233, extension 202.  I'm glad you called."
     "Well I miss you during the day and it's always nice to--"
     "Norman, I'm sorry to cut you off when you're saying such nice things.  I just got off the phone with Gretchen and she's upset."
     "How is your sister?"
     "Sandra didn't come home last night and she's frantic."
     "How old is Sandra now?"
     "She's seventeen and she's been going out with that Billy Calaway and you know what a bad actor he is."
     "The boy has a record in Juvee; that's a fact.  But I heard that he had settled down.  Listen, kids do it.  They stay out overnight and drink and I know you all think Sandy is above that, but it's part of growing up.  You tell Gretchen I'll put a man on it and we'll have her home in no time.  I'll talk to Calaway myself."
    "Oh good.  She'll be so glad.  They all think you're a hero over there."
     "Yeah.  I'm a little fish in a little pond."
     "My little fish," she said.
     "Has anyone told you how much they love you and adore you yet today?"
     "No, nobody has."
     "Well, let me be the first."
     She was gone.  Some glitch in the line or an eager operator or perhaps, simply, the thrill was gone, like the old song says and loving wives just hang up in your face.  No, that wasn't it.  He said her name into the empty static,    "Marian?" 
     The air outside the phone booth smelled like metal shavings, oil, heat, like a welding shop.  He looked around at the trees, the street, people walking by.  He was afraid.  Afraid of his bones being broken by an apparition that smelled like shit, as though the familiarity of this common scene etched deeper the memory of hanging by a leg; of a wrist that wasn't knitting right.