Black Cat Weekly #112 E-Book

Kaye George

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 711

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

This issue features a pair of original tales: a mystery from Kaye George (thanks to acquiring editor Michael Bracken) and a fantasy from Adrian Cole (written especially for this Halloween issue).

On the mystery front, we have a pair of great modern tales by William Dylan Powell (thanks to acquiring editor Barb Goffman) and James Holding, plus a classic novel by British master A.E.W. Mason, who is best known for his tale of courage and cowardice in wartime, The Four Feathers. Notably, Mason created Inspector Hanaud, a French detective who was an early template for Agatha Christie's famous Hercule Poirot. We even have a special Halloween solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles!

On the fantastic side of things, we have a seasonally-appropriate SF tale by Norman Spinrad, plus Golden Age reprints from Algis Budrys, Cordwainer Smith, and David Mason. Mason is one of my favorite sword & sorcery authors for his novels Kavin’s World and The Return of Kavin. Had Mason not died tragically young in a boating accident, I have no doubt he would have become a major novelist in the field. After reading all of his books one after the other, I suspect he was creating a vast common universe for his fantasy and science fiction stories. Check them out if you get a chance. They are in print from Wildside Press.

   Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Voices I Will Never Hear Again,” by Kaye George [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Signs of Halloween,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“The Darkness and the Light,” by William Dylan Powell [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Only One of Its Kind,” by James Holding [short story]
No Other Tiger, by A.E.W. Mason [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Falling Leaves” by Adrian Cole [short story]
“The Fat Vampire”by Norman Spinrad [short story]
“Mark Elf,” by Cordwainer Smith [short story]
“The Long Question,” by David Mason [short story]
“The Burning World,” by Algis Budrys [novelet]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE VOICES I WILL NEVER HEAR AGAIN, by Kaye George

SIGNS OF HALLOWEEN, by Hal Charles

THE DARKNESS AND THE LIGHT, by William Dylan Powell

THE ONLY ONE OF ITS KIND, by James Holding

NO OTHER TIGER, by A. E. W. Mason

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

THE FALLING LEAVES by Adrian Cole

THE FAT VAMPIRE, by Norman Spinrad

MARK ELF, by Cordwainer Smith

THE LONG QUESTION, by David Mason

THE BURNING WORLD, by Algis Budrys

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

“The Voices I Will Never Hear Again” is copyright © 2023 by Kaye George and appears here for the first time.

“Signs of Halloween” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“The Darkness and the Light” is copyright © 2017 by William Dylan Powell. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, November/December 2017.

“The Only One of Its Kind” is copyright © 1981 by James Holding. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, February 1981. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

No Other Tiger, by A.E.W. Mason, was originally published in 1927.

“The Falling Leaves” is copyright © 2023 by Adrian Cole and appears here for the first time.

“The Fat Vampire” is copyright © 1994 by Norman Spinrad. Originally published in Vamps as “Le Vampire d’Hollywood.” Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Mark Elf,” by Cordwainer Smith, was originally published in Saturn, May 1957, under the title Mark XI.

“The Long Question,” by David Mason, was originally published in Infinity, November 1957.

“The Burning World,” by Algis Budrys, was originally published in Infinity, July 1957.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This issue features a pair of original tales: a mystery from Kaye George (thanks to acquiring editor Michael Bracken) and a fantasy from Adrian Cole (written especially for this Halloween issue).

On the mystery front, we have a pair of great modern tales by William Dylan Powell (thanks to acquiring editor Barb Goffman) and James Holding, plus a classic novel by British master A.E.W. Mason, who is best known for his tale of courage and cowardice in wartime, The Four Feathers. Notably, Mason created Inspector Hanaud, a French detective who was an early template for Agatha Christie's famous Hercule Poirot. We even have a special Halloween solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles!

On the fantastic side of things, we have a seasonally-appropriate SF tale by Norman Spinrad, plus Golden Age reprints from Algis Budrys, Cordwainer Smith, and David Mason. Mason is one of my favorite sword & sorcery authors for his novels Kavin’s World and The Return of Kavin. Had Mason not died tragically young in a boating accident, I have no doubt he would have become a major novelist in the field. After reading all of his books one after the other, I suspect he was creating a vast common universe for his fantasy and science fiction stories. Check them out if you get a chance. They are in print from Wildside Press.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Voices I Will Never Hear Again,” by Kaye George [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Signs of Halloween,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“The Darkness and the Light,” by William Dylan Powell [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“The Only One of Its Kind,” by James Holding [short story]

No Other Tiger, by A.E.W. Mason [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Falling Leaves” by Adrian Cole [short story]

“The Fat Vampire”by Norman Spinrad [short story]

“The Burning World,” by Algis Budrys [novelet]

“Mark Elf,” by Cordwainer Smith [short story]

“The Long Question,” by David Mason [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

THE VOICES I WILL NEVER HEAR AGAIN,by Kaye George

There are more than there should be. My grandparents, of course. I will never hear them again. But, since I haven’t been a child for many years, they could not have possibly lived this long. They would be well over 100 years old.

My parents? I would like to hear the voice of my mother, but she would also be close to 100 years old by now, if she were still here. After all, both my parents died when they were younger than I am now. I realize that I am approaching eight decades on this planet. That wouldn’t be fair to any of them to keep them around that long. I imagine her voice as soft and soothing, but I really can’t hear it in my head. I might not even recognize it if I heard it again.

I tried to count up those voices when I started to write this. I have often wanted to call my mom, even after all these years, and one day realized I would never hear her voice again. The voice mail message I used to dial, just to listen to the outgoing message, is gone now. Her number got reassigned. They do that a certain number of years after you die, I guess.

Then there was the classmate in third grade. The one with the family who had a head-on collision on summer vacation between third and fourth grade. Although, to tell you the truth, even though I remember his first name (but not his last), I don’t remember what his voice sounded like. Okay, take him off the list.

Do pets count? I would dearly like to hear some purring and some yipping from bygone pets, whose lives are always too short. That parakeet was mean, though, and pecked me. I don’t need to hear him again. Don’t even know if it was a him or a her. It flew away one day. Oh well.

Some of my teachers had voices that were nice to listen to. Some didn’t. Some made all of us cringe.

Funny how the first thing I judge a person on is primarily and foremost what they sound like. Women should have light, lilting voices with some spark of kindness behind the words. Men’s voices should be deep, should rumble, but should not be loud or abrasive. I know I’m particular, but I know what I like.

All my siblings are still alive, but I don’t care if I never hear some of them again. That’s the advantage of a big family. You can like only some of them. Or none, sometimes. Anyway, I think we all sound pretty much alike. My sisters sound like me and I can’t tell which brother is calling until he says his name. I don’t think any of us, including me, have voices anyone wants to listen to a lot.

Then there was that guy I worked with in one of my first jobs, years and years ago. He had a gorgeous British accent. I wish I could save that in a jar and keep it forever. It was glorious. I don’t know if he’s still alive or not. I’m definitely counting his for one that I miss and will probably never hear again.

I don’t know exactly why I started to make this list.

Then there was Robbie’s voice. Sure, I liked it, the tone, the sonorous pitch, and even most of what he said. At first. And for quite a while into our relationship. But that didn’t last. When the harsh barking started, it didn’t last very long. I took care of him. I’m getting ahead of my story. That came later.

To tell the truth, I never ever did have much long-term luck with men. Maybe because of some of my male relatives. You could say that I didn’t have good models. Or something. Maybe good examples would be more exact. Of course, I didn’t have good female models, examples, or whatever, either. My family wrote the book on toxic relationships. If I never hear the voice of another relative, it won’t bother me that much. I don’t really need to hear any of my siblings again. I think I already told you that.

Still, when I went away to college, after I barely made it in by studying madly and testing well, I thought maybe I could learn how people should act toward each other, even without family role models. I studied people who seemed to be getting along well. My first roommate, freshman year, was from Minnesota. That was a cute accent and I liked to listen to her. She could go on and on, too. In fact, she was majoring in theater and doing some theater things, so she would rehearse them in our room. In that cute accent. It was hard to do my own homework, but I liked to listen to her.

She soon acquired a local boyfriend, her being small and cute. He went to a different school, but still in Chicago. According to her, he was the perfect gentleman, kind and considerate, and at least an adequate lover. Although she admitted to me, in a moment of rare confidentiality, over a shared bottle of wine one night, that she didn’t have much to compare him with. The earth didn’t shake, or stop, but it was fun. That’s what she said.

He had a Chicago accent, not nearly as pretty as hers, more harsh, but it was interesting to hear them talking together.

Her: “Don’t you knoooow?”

Him: “Yeah, thaaat’s the way it goes.” Those annoying As.

She would give me a warning, and I would leave when they wanted the room to themselves. No big deal. I was happy studying or reading most anywhere.

One day, in the late morning, he came up on the El to get her for an early date, but she wasn’t there. Maybe she didn’t know he was coming or had forgotten. I was pretty sure she was studying in the library, the new one. Northwestern was on a quarter system and our midterms and finals were on a completely different schedule than University of Chicago, where he went.

“Hey, that’s okay. You wanna come out for coffee?” He hovered in the doorway to our dorm room.

Me? He wanted to take me out? That was strange. We weren’t dating. But maybe he wanted to pump me for information about her or something. Not that I had any. We didn’t exchange many confidences besides the few things about him. Just slept in the same room, basically. I wasn’t about to tell him what she thought of the sex.

“Give me a minute. Meet you out front.” I changed into something…well, not alluring, but something that made me look attractive. A blue top to bring out the color of my eyes.

We walked over to the little sandwich shop, Beer and Subs, just off campus. Winter was waning and spring had started up a bit. Northwestern had planted bunches of early spring bulbs, crocuses and stuff. Or the hired workers had done it.

It wasn’t very warm yet, though. My thin top was ineffectual beneath my puffy coat on the walk there.

When we got inside the small, steamy place, I was chilled and kept my coat on. We sat at a two-top and he went to the bar to order. I heard him order beer for both of us. The place wasn’t that big, or that crowded, so his twangy Chicago voice carried.

“What happened to coffee?” I said when he came back.

“It’s okay. I’m not driving.”

“Okay for you. But I don’t really like beer.” I flagged the counter server and changed my order to a cup of decaf. I didn’t miss the slight frown that Mike quickly hid.

I turned to him when we both had our drinks. “Mike, what’s this about?”

“Just wanna talk. Get to know you.” There was something more than a Chicago accent in his tone.

“Why? I’m not very interesting.”

That smile was almost a leer. Oh oh. I knew that smile, from being related to a lot of men who weren’t nice. Voices are first, but facial expressions are a close second, for me.

“And I’m not putting out.”

The leer turned to a sneer.

I decided to just leave, not hurt him, like I had sometimes done to others like him. After all, he was the responsibility of my roommate. Should I tell her? I debated that on my walk back to the dorm. As I walked into our room, having made up my mind to say something to her, my way was blocked. By her. Standing just inside our door, legs planted a foot apart, arms folded, and a hostile look on her face.

“Where have you been?”

“I need to tell you about that.”

“You sure do. I heard from Allison, down the hall, that you were at Beer and Subs with Mike. She just saw you there.”

I finally shrugged off my coat and threw it on my bed. “Yes, I went there with him and now I need to warn you.”

“You need to warn me about yourself?”

She was steaming mad. I’d better talk fast, I thought. “About Mike. He asked me out and came on to me.”

“Ha. I don’t believe it.” Was she getting a Chicago accent?

I hadn’t foreseen that she wouldn’t believe me. “Why not? You think I made it up?”

She was visibly wavering. A shallow line showed up on her forehead, right above her nose. Maybe she expected me to immediately crumple under her attack.

I continued. “I wondered why he wanted to go out for coffee. I thought maybe he wanted to get an angle on you. From me. Like, what would be the best way to propose to you. Something like that.” I made my way past her and sat on my bed. “He started off ordering beer, not coffee. Does he always drink beer in the middle of the day?” It wasn’t even noon yet.

That got a complete frown out of her. “He…doesn’t usually drink beer.” That she knew of. Her tone was softening.

“It went downhill from there. I got out of there, believe me. I didn’t want any trouble.”

I had enough saved-up male-oriented hostility that my next encounter wasn’t nearly as smooth.

Oh, and she asked to change roommates. The bitch. I never heard either of their voices again, but just because I was able to avoid both of them. I did see them around campus holding hands. She was a stupid bitch, for sure. I wondered how many women he was screwing.

It was about that time that Robbie entered my life. I hadn’t done so hot with my grades, maybe because I hadn’t had a good place to study, and I had to take a class over in summer school to try to get them up. Robbie was in my English class. He walked out with me after the third class. It was a warm June day. A fresh breeze was coming in from the lake.

“Hey, how you liking the class?” His voice was full and low. The kind I liked.

“How am I supposed to like it? I flunked English, so I have to take this one. Remedial English.”

He laughed. Another good sound. “Right? Okay, stupid question. Here’s a better one. What are you doing for dinner?”

We not only did dinner, we saw a movie. Another night he took me on an adventure. We started at the old library, not the new one on the landfill. It houses art and music collections and some other things. All the books are at the new one. But the old study rooms are still there.

Here’s why he took me there. It’s pretty cool.

Northwestern uses an underground system of steam tunnels to carry heat to some of the main buildings. I had no idea it existed until he showed me. We squeezed through an air vent and there we were. In a hot, steamy, crowded tunnel. Big huge white pipes running along one wall, spider web of wires along the opposite one.

“And why are we down here?” I asked. My hair was wilting. My clothes were drenched.

“It’s just cool.”

It wasn’t cool. Steamy. Broiling hot.

“Don’t you like it?”

“I love it. Let’s leave now.”

After we climbed out, I had to sit at one of the old long wooden tables for a few minutes and mop my sweat with all the tissues I had in my purse. Looking up from my project, I saw a familiar figure peeking into the room, then disappearing down the hallway. I had thought the whole floor was empty.

For two weeks, everything went okay. We went on much nicer dates than the steam tunnel. Then, after a movie, after he walked me to the door, we kissed. We were taking it very slow, my choice. It wasn’t the first time we kissed, though. I don’t mind very much. I mean, I don’t enjoy it. I think I’m asexual, or something. I mean, I enjoy being around men, and I even enjoy sex sometimes, for what it is. A physical release. But I’ve never gotten attached to the source of that release. The guy is just someone useful. For a while.

With Robbie, full name Robbie Lee Jones (which made me chuckle—he looked nothing like the similarly-named actor), the best part of sex was afterward, when we finally got around to that. With laying my head on his chest and feeling the sonorous sounds of him talking softly. Such a thrill!

After some enjoyable dates, we were walking to my place on campus after class, as we’d been doing, and I had a feeling someone was following us. It was another guy from English class. Everyone called him Jeep. After I turned and spotted him, he fell back, then left.

But I did notice him following us a few more times after that.

My favorite part, as I’ve said, was his voice. Robbie’s voice was honey, poured over a slightly bumpy path of dark chocolate. I’ll bet I’m not the only one to get off on the way a person sounds.

Anyway, his sweet nothings in bed were enjoyable. But that night, right after we entered the room, he kissed me harder than usual. I don’t know why.

“Bunky, do something. React.” He grabbed my shoulders and slammed me into the door, then kissed me hard. We were barely inside the door.

After I shoved him off, I asked him what he was talking about. “React? I kissed you back. What do you want?”

“I guess I want to know you enjoy it. It feels like you put up with me. Like you tolerate me.”

“So I can get you into bed?”

That made him think. “Maybe.”

“Isn’t that what you do? Isn’t that what guys do? Get women into bed?” I had no idea he was starting to feel this way. Used, I guess.

His smile was reluctant, sheepish. “Well, yeah. But you’re supposed to enjoy it.”

I pulled him closer and gave him a soft, tender kiss. “I do enjoy it. The bed part. Let’s do that.”

It went okay. I decided I would look around for someone else after that.

I turned down three dates with him and started walking to my dorm after class with that other guy, Jeep. He was the one who had followed us a few times.

Glimpses of Rob’s face as we strolled past told me he was mad. Smoldering, seething. Once I heard him grind his teeth as Jeep and I walked out of the classroom while he stood in the aisle.

Soon after that, Rob quit showing up to class. Dropping out of a makeup class wasn’t going to help his grade average, that was for sure. Oh well.

To be honest, I wasn’t much enjoying my time with Jeep, full name Jefferson Davis Wilson. And not because of that awful name. And probably an awful family. No, it was because his voice was nasal. Very unpleasant. Not a voice I would miss or would ever want to hear again.

I predicted I would break it off soon. A predictable thing for me, breaking up with guys.

What came next in my life was unpredictable, though.

For summer school, I had a first-floor dorm room with a large window on the side of the building facing away from the quad, facing the side street. For this short session, they had given me a single. Never for one moment had I worried about the security of the place. I guess I should have.

The slight rattling woke me up after I’d been asleep for a couple of hours. When I got out of bed to see where it was coming from, I guessed it was from the window. Maybe it was raining hard? Hailing?

As soon as I got over to the window, the man finished prying it open.

I tried to act quickly. My pocketknife was on the bed stand, but I was two steps too far away. Robbie, of all people, jumped into the room and threw me onto the hard floor. I didn’t even have a bedside throw rug to soften the blow. My head hit the floor hard.

Before I could shake the groggy out of my head, he had my nightgown over my face and was pumping away. This was not the kind of sex I enjoyed.

However, I let him finish, then sat up. “Enjoying yourself?” I tried for maximum biting sarcasm.

I also stood up, snatched the knife, flipped it open, and punctured one of his still-bare testicles. He’d been sitting there with post-coitus satisfaction. It was post-rape, this time, actually.

He jumped up. I moved to the door. Since his pants were still at his ankles, he tripped, fell on his face, tried to scramble up, but blood was gushing down his leg and it made the floor slippery. After I left the room, he didn’t follow me. I came back after sitting in the hallway for a good bit. He was gone. The window latch was broken. The floor was bloody.

I cleaned up the floor, got the university maintenance to fix the window, and wasn’t bothered by Robbie again. In fact, he never showed up at all for the last few weeks of class.

Jeep and I continued growing our relationship and soon he was coming in for copulation after dark.

I don’t know what made me look out the window that night. We’d been having sex for about a week but had skipped that day since I wasn’t in the mood. It was time to tell him goodbye.

I guess I was feeling a little restless. It was probably about midnight. A bright streetlamp across the street always illuminated my room enough that I didn’t have to use a light to walk around my room in the night. A huddled figure stood under the lamppost, lit from above to show that he wore a hoodie, even though it was a warm night. His face wasn’t visible. Until he turned to walk away. In profile, I could tell. It was Jeep.

What? Was there a sign outside my window that said: Climb right in! Get your sex here! I would have to change that.

The next two times Jeep offered to walk me back from class, I told him I couldn’t. I had to do something else. But, the third time, he followed me. The hell with him. I walked straight back to the dorm to show him I was lying to him.

That night, he made easy work of the repaired latch on my window. He came in with a knife and left me bloody on the floor. I hadn’t had any chance to defend myself.

What should I do? Call the cops? Call the campus police? I really didn’t have a friend I could call. Loners don’t have those.

Patching myself up, cleaning up the room, and squaring my shoulders, I made a plan. A drastic one.

I had silenced voices before. I had punched men in the throat, and some had ended up with permanent vocal injuries. I had sliced some balls and found that’s a good way to keep the creeps away. But those were for creeps who treated me rough.

Jeep had done more than accost me. More than rape me. He had cut me. And two of the cuts were deep. One on my arm, one in my shoulder.

This called for something else. Something to silence that whiny, adenoidal voice. Really and truly silence it. And, while I was at it, something to keep him from ever doing this to anyone else.

He had seemed like such a harmless creep all this time. Now I knew different. It took a couple of days to form my plan. Luckily, he had attacked me on a Friday night. That left the weekend before I had to go to class, where he would be. The hardest part of this would be the role I had to play.

I sat near the front so I could be among the first to leave the lecture hall. The exits were on either side at the bottom of the well of seats, flanking the stage. Watching the others meander by as they left, I lolled against the exterior stone wall, which was warmed by a direct hit from the afternoon sun.

When he showed, he saw me and stopped. “Hey.”

“Hey. Are you okay?” Pretty funny, me asking him if he was okay.

He replied as I thought he would. “Well, yeah. Are you?”

“I guess so. After I thought about it, that was kind of exciting. I haven’t ever done anything like that before.”

He had the good grace to look at the ground. In shame, I was imagining, but I may have been wrong. “So, no hard feelings? You’re not gonna…call anyone?”

“Oh hell no. I don’t wanna get you in trouble. You seem like a nice guy.”

“I am!” Now he looked up, actually looked me in the face, all eager and earnest-looking. Yeah, looked me right in the face and told me he was a nice guy. A nice guy who cut women.

“You wanna try again? But no knives this time?” Would he buy this? That I wanted to do this?

He nodded. “Yeah, I like you.”

“I don’t know if I like you or not yet. Meet me in the old library tonight?”

We settled on a time. He didn’t seem to know that the time I gave him was fifteen minutes before the library closed.

I got there quite a bit before that. By the time he showed up, a little late, but before the doors were locked, I was sitting at a sturdy table near the wall, with my textbook and notebook open, pretending to study. And I had the other stuff there, too, in my backpack.

There would be no knives. I didn’t want to make a mess in the library. Someone might ask questions. I had studied the walls and ceilings as carefully as I could and didn’t detect that there were any cameras. I really hoped there weren’t.

“Do you want something to drink?” I held a water bottle out to him.

He looked around. No one was in the room. “We’re not supposed to drink in here, are we?”

“Nobody’s here. Just don’t ruin any of this music or art.” I swept my arm around at the exhibits.

He grabbed the bottle and grinned. “I won’t.”

I wondered if he was contemplating ruining something else. Me.

He gulped half the bottle down in one go. This would be easy from now on.

We sat next to each other for a bit, about ten minutes, kissing and groping. I could feel him relaxing with the Rohypnol I’d put in his drink. I used to take it for a sleeping aid occasionally with a prescription for my doctor and I always kept it around. Just in case.

He should start losing coordination soon, though, in fifteen minutes or so. I had to get going with my plan.

“There’s something really cool under here. Do you know about it?”

“The tunnels? Yeah, I know about them.” He gave me an enigmatic look.

“Wanna go down? I love being there.”

He frowned. “You do? What do you like about it?”

“It’s just…forbidden. Exciting. We’re not supposed to be there. It’s a thrill.”

“Okay. I guess. But let’s not stay down very long.”

“Are you claustrophobic?”

“No, I just don’t want to stay down there long.”

“Sure. Let’s just go down and come back. Then we can screw in here, on the table.”

“Or the floor.”

“Either one.” I headed for the air vent. I had to get him in there while he could still walk. I grabbed his water bottle and beckoned him.

He followed me to the wall like a little lamb. I motioned for him to go first. He had some trouble getting through the narrow vent, but he made it. Good. Most of my battle was won. I followed him through the narrow space and down the ladder.

“Jesus, it’s hot down here.” He stuck out his lower lip and blew on his face. “I forgot how hot it was.” He swayed just a bit.

“Here. I brought you the rest of your water.”

He took it and swigged most of the rest. Then held it out to me. “You want some?”

“Nah, I’m okay. Let’s go this way.” I led him away from the vent. I didn’t want his body to be smelled from the library. After I had gone about twenty yards or so, I made sure he was following.

“Hey, I don’t want to stay here very…very…very long. Right?”

“I know, just a little farther. There’s something I want you to see.”

“There’s nothing…to…see…down…here.”

“It’s just ahead.”

He drank the rest of the date-rape drug, then started stumbling. Had we gone far enough? When he sank to the concrete, I took out the rest of my equipment, a handy garrote. I had put it together from an old belt with a bunch of duct tape wound around the ends for gripping. I looped the ends around my hands until it was the right length. All I had to do was roll him over and go at it from behind.

I was surprised how fast it worked. It was only a couple of minutes until he was completely limp and had no pulse.

But I wanted him to be farther away from that vent, so I took his legs and dragged him to the next entry place, where I knew there was a manhole cover, from looking at the map I had found online. There were lights here and there on the walls, but some places were quite dark.

Nearing my destination, my foot ran into something soft.

I dropped Jeep’s feet and turned on my phone light to get a good look.

It was Robbie. Robbie’s body. He’d been dead for some time, judging from the smell and the insects. They clustered around the cuts and stab wounds all over his skin.

Someone had killed Robbie and dumped him here! Probably through the manhole just above. It had to have been someone who could lift the heavy cover. Someone like Jeep.

I ran back through the tunnels to the library access as fast as I possibly could, vowing never to return to those tunnels. After I scrambled up the ladder and squeezed through the vent, I piled everything into my backpack from the table and hurried to the front doors.

I was counting on being able to get out after the doors were locked.

I was not counting on the cops being outside after I pushed through those doors.

I was also not counting on being arrested, accused, and convicted of killing both of them.

Where I am now, I’ve lost track of how many voices I would never like to hear. There are none in this place that I ever want to hear again.

There were cameras in the library, after all. And in the tunnels.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kaye George, award-winning novelist and short-story writer, writes cozy and traditional mysteries and a prehistory series, which are both traditionally and self-published: two cozy series, Fat Cat and Vintage Sweets; two traditionals featuring Cressa Carraway and Imogene Duckworthy; and the People of the Wind prehistory Neanderthal mysteries. More than 50 short stories have also appeared, mostly in anthologies and magazines. She has done reviews for Suspense Magazine, writes a column for Mysterical-E, and lives in Knoxville TN.

SIGNS OF HALLOWEEN,by Hal Charles

Lettie Truffles was engrossed in her Scout manual when her mother burst into her room. “Come,” said her mother. “I’ve been chosen to judge the front-porch Halloween decoration contest in the next subdivision over.”

“Mom, I’ve got to study for my Signs, Signals, and Code merit badge,” Lettie protested.

“Look, if I’m being forced to do something I don’t want to, you can join me in something you don’t want to.”

“You know that makes no sense, Mom,” said Lettie, dutifully following her mother out the door.

As they walked down the darkened street to the Forest Hills Subdivision, Lettie said, “How did you get roped into this one?”

“Every year our subdivision exchanges judges with Forest Hills, and unfortunately my number came up.”

“O.K.,” said Lettie. “Let’s make the most of this. Ooh, I like that display. Isn’t that Edgar Allan Poe at his writing table with the huge inflatable black cat and large ape behind him?”

“Makes no sense to me. Now that giant witch on her broom stick next door would make all the sense in the world if that house belonged to Fanny Hector, who lives around here somewhere. That witch tries to dominate every civic organization in town.”

“Nope,” said Lettie, checking the mailbox. “This witch belongs to the Bishops. What do you think of that ginormous casket next door?”

“I like it. Oh, look. The top pops open and out flies Dracula.”

“I bet that one cost a fortune,” said Lettie. “Why do people spend so much on a once-a-year holiday?”

“Always trying to one-up the Joneses,” said her mother. “Take a gander at that house. Talk about cheap. All its porch has is three pumpkins apparently carved by someone in love with sci-fi, which I am definitely not.”

Lettie glanced the porch that had brought out her mother’s irritation. Sitting on the far-left of the brick porch was a pumpkin with a toothed mouth below three round eyes like flashlights. In the middle squatted another pumpkin with a toothed mouth, but with three rectangular slots over the open maw. On the far-right of the porch rested a pumpkin that was a duplicate of the one on the far-left.

“I like its simplicity,” said Lettie. “Oh, and look at the name on the mailbox, HECTOR. This house must belong to the woman you said you despise.”

“Moving on,” said her mother, “is my kind of display.”

Lettie took in the well-lighted panorama. “It’s a hodge-podge of goblins, ghouls, ghosts, and whatever else was on clearance. Is that supposed to be a graveyard in their side yard?”

“Who cares?” said her mom. “It’s my favorite so far. Anyone who spends that much on outdoor paraphernalia revels in the spirit of Halloween. How many more to go?”

“What?” said a distracted Lettie. Something in the back of her mind was trying to talk to her.

“Well, lookie there!” Her mother was pointing at a porch. “Isn’t that the lab of that doctor who created the monster?”

“Frankenstein,” said Lettie.

“I know the monster’s name, honey.”

“That was the doctor’s name.”

“I knew that, too,” said her mom. “Well, this next house is easy as they chose not to participate.”

“I think that’s a FOR SALE sign next to the garage door,” said Lettie.

“And this last house is nothing special. Just a big witches’ cauldron. Well, I’ve made up my mind. You?”

What she had been reading earlier churned over in Lettie’s mind with what she had observed. Something was definitely wrong.

“I’m voting for what you called the hodge-podge house. You agree? Disagree?”

Standing under a single streetlight, Lettie said, “If it were my call, I’d call the police. Something is definitely wrong at the Hectors’.”

SOLUTION

When shanghaied by her mother, Lettie was engrossed in studying about signs, signals, and codes. To Lettie, the simple three pumpkins were a variation on three things being a universal sign of trouble. That sign was confirmed by the specific pumpkin carvings—three circles + three rectangles + three circles, Morse code of three dots-three dashes-three dots for SOS. It turned out another scout, Cary Hector, had put out those pumpkins he carved because he believed his mother had made his bed-ridden father sick and was keeping him that way. After confirming Cary’s suspicions, the police arrested Fanny Hector.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

THE DARKNESS AND THE LIGHT,by William Dylan Powell

Bubba Gantry’s shoulders slumped in relief when the phone rang. Almost twenty pages into Wild Swans and there was hardly talk of any swans whatsoever. He’d half a mind to walk it back over to the library and swap it for that mystery with the chalk body outline on the cover Margie talked him out of.

“Kilgore Police Department. Oh, hey, Eddie. What’s the haps?”

Bubba knew what the haps were with Eddie. Same haps as when he called yesterday. Same haps as when he’d call tomorrow.

“Eddie, we done been over this more times than the pope changes hats. There’s not any more can be done. Y’all just need to work it out.”

Holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, Bubba looked down at Wild Swans; toyed with the dregs in his foam coffee cup. Then he let out a sigh of resignation. Eddie just wasn’t letting it go. Looked up at the clock—5:45 p.m. Supposed to get off soon.

“All right, we’ll come down there but let me tell you I better see something pretty amazing.”

Bubba hung up and strapped on his gun belt as he stuck his head into the conference room where Tim Spegley was sound asleep.

“T-Bone!”

Tim’s spindly limbs sprung to life as he shot out of the two office chairs he’d thrown together for a bed.

“I’m going out to see Eddie Valentine. You want to come?”

“Again with the witch?” Tim rubbed his eyes.

* * * *

Bubba and Tim didn’t say much on the ride over the Eddie’s. The radio played Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s “Fishin’ in the Dark,” as what passed for rush hour stacked the city’s core like a used truck lot. Kilgore, Texas, wasn’t exactly Mayberry, but it wasn’t exactly Dallas or Houston either. Around forty KPD officers kept order among 13,000 folks within twenty square miles or so. It was only dangerous once in a while, and most of the good restaurants in town comped their meals. So, on the whole, it was a good job far as Bubba was concerned.

They drove down N. Kilgore Street and through town past the Diary Queen, past the Tractor Supply where old men gossiped over coffee in the morning, and past “the world’s richest acre,” where replicas of steel derricks commemorated the 1940s oil boom. The derricks loomed over the town, a constant reminder of the value of real estate, the importance of timing, the fragility of a good thing.

“I know what this is about,” said Tim as they turned off the main road.

Bubba adjusted the volume of his shoulder dispatch radio. Kept his eyes on the road.

“I think you’re sweet on her,” said Tim. “That’s why we answer all of these nutball’s kooky complaints.”

Bubba didn’t respond. Just looked over at Tim with eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses, then turned his attention back to the road as he wound the cruiser across the hot, glassy tar of a Texas summer.

At Christmastime, the city decorated the oil derricks with lights, but in the summer they reminded Bubba of the skeletons of strange giant creatures. There’s a museum dedicated to the old days nearby. But the real money left long ago, to the skyscrapers of Houston, the suburbs of Dallas, or the shale wells of South Texas to let it all ride on black. Oilmen still made a living there, but Kilgore’s rags-to-riches past gives more and more the impression of an aging and penniless heiress in a dilapidated mansion than a hotspot of contemporary opportunity.

Bubba and Tim found Eddie Valentine in his sizeable backyard, reclining in a cheap chaise lounge made from yellow and white woven plastic. The chair and a red Igloo ice chest were the only things out back; the rest of the yard was sunbaked and dry with wide dusty fissures connecting strands of dead brown grass.

In the Antietam Hills neighborhood, none of the houses backing up to one another had privacy fences, so if you stepped out your back door and kept walking, you’d eventually hit your neighbor’s back porch. But the lots were big enough that it didn’t seem weird, and of the seventy-four homes in the neighborhood none seemed to ever have a problem but this one.

Eddie drank sweet tea from a mason jar and shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked into the dark shaded backyard of the home behind his. Eddie’s old basset hound, Root Beer, curled up under Eddie’s chair—one eye open, tail slowly slapping the dusty earth as the officers approached.

Though he made his living as an air-conditioner repairman, Eddie Valentine had the hair and dress of a rockabilly star. Would’ve made a good Elvis impersonator except for the blond hair and the fact that he would have to be the older heavier Elvis.

Eddie got up from his recliner when he saw Bubba and T-Bone, then dropped his cigarette into the dust and smashed it with his pointy-toed cowboy boot. “Fellas, this is the worst one yet.”

Bubba and Tim looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

“She was in the backyard last night walking her cat. Her black cat. On a leash! Who walks a freakin’ cat on a leash?”

Tim shrugged. “Uncommon but not illegal, Eddie.”

“No, no. Wait for the good part. She’s wearing a black robe that ties in the front. So she’s out there in her backyard. It’s dark on account of the all those trees, but I could still see it plain as day!”

Bubba crossed his arms, pulling his hat down in front of his eyes to cut down on the glare of the late sun.

“She takes the cat leash and ropes it around the tree. Then, she turns and looks right at me. Right at me! She had her porch light on, and I could see her just like I’m seein’ you now.”

“Where were you, again?” asked Bubba.

“In my kitchen looking out the window with a pair of binoculars.”

“So…you just happened to be sitting there in your kitchen staring at her house at night with binoculars?”

“Stay focused, Officer. This is the good part. She turns right to me and I swear looks into my eyes with this evil, squinty smile. Then, just like that, she opens up her robe!”

“Are you saying she exposed herself?” said Tim.

“Well, uh, no. She had on a swimsuit underneath, but here’s the good part—painted all across her belly in bright red blood was the mark of the devil! I’m telling you fellas, if she isn’t a witch I’m a whitetail deer!”

“So she had ‘666’ painted on her stomach?” said Tim.

“No, damn it, the devil sign. The star with the things in the circle. Lookie here.” Eddie reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tiny East Texas Air Repair notepad. Made a quick sketch with a chewed-up No. 2 pencil. Flipped it around.

“That’s the Star of David,” said Tim, his face hardening. “What are you trying to say?”

“Dang it. Wait, I didn’t do that right,” he said. “Hang on.” His tongue stuck out like a little boy painting with watercolor as he used the sad pencil nubbin to redraw what was then a pentagram.

“Ah,” said Bubba. “Gotcha.” Bubba adjusted his cowboy hat again and squinted down into Ivy Weisner’s backyard. Ivy worked an office job at the power company. Came from Tyler originally, or so the rumor went. Inherited the house from her aunt. The sun blazed across Eddie’s brown patch of lawn, but Ivy’s yard was covered with huge majestic oak trees—front and back—old as Texas itself. The contrast made the shade in Ivy’s yard impenetrable, and if you stared at it long enough, your eyes played tricks on you.

“I swear on a stack of Bibles!” Eddie says. “She’s a witch. A witch who is up to somethin’ unholy and weird. Ever’ night I look over there I see something more bizarre and strange. Gettin’ to where I’d rather sleep up at the shop, truth be told.”

“All right there, Eddie,” said Tim. “Why don’t you go on in and cool off. We’ll talk with her.” But Eddie didn’t move. Instead, he just stood there and lit another cigarette. Leaned up against the house, sweat stains soaking through his silk western shirt and gold chains sparkling in the late sun.

Tim and Bubba walked back to the cruiser. They’d left it running, and the air conditioner blew cold inside. Even though the two houses were back-to-back, somehow it seemed more official to drive around front from one house to the other. “You really want to go bother that poor woman again?” asked Tim. “Valentine is two tacos short of the combination platter and you know it.”

“Yeah,” Bubba said, “but the last three or four times he called we blew him off. I figure if he sees us go over there, it’ll buy us at least a week of peace and quiet.” Bubba thought about the copy of Wild Swans on his desk, thick as a bolt of silk and to him every bit as impenetrable.

“Whatever,” said Tim. “We both know you’re lookin’ forward to the visit.”

Bubba had to knock on Ivy Weisner’s door loud and repeatedly. Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” played through open windows, and a red Yankee candle glowed on a sill by the front door—blowing out into a string of smoke when Ivy finally answered the door.

“Oh no, it’s the police!” she said, smiling. She made a grimace and fled from the doorway, the music cutting to a trickle. Reappearing at the doorway, she said, “I’m sorry, did the neighbors complain about the music? I had it turned way up ’cause I was in the shower.” She was drying her hair with a white fluffy towel, and she wore a Dallas Cowboys football jersey with a pair of cutoff University of Texas sweatpants.

“Y’all want to come in?” she asked. “I have some cookies in the oven and just brewed some fresh tea.”

Tim and Bubba stepped inside, taking off their hats and wiping their feet on the doormat. Ivy scrambled to the oven and removed a cookie sheet, gingerly placing it on the stovetop. A few minutes later, they all sat at her tiny breakfast table drinking iced tea and nibbling on herbal cookies.

“I grow the peppermint and mustard greens myself,” she said. “In some big pots over on Mrs. Fontenot’s driveway. She doesn’t drive no more since her eyesight’s not that good.”

Tim cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we did have a complaint from one of your neighbors. But it wasn’t about the music.”

An awkward silence fell among them. Ivy’s face reddened.

“Oh, no. Valentine. Now, what? Did I double-park my broomstick or something?” Bubba and Tim smiled at the snarky comment, but Ivy wasn’t smiling. Ivy looked mad.

“Ma’am, I don’t know what to tell you,” said Bubba. “Obviously, he’s obsessed. On the one hand, when someone makes a complaint we’re required to follow up, but on the other hand, we understand that his behavior is unusual and a bit…well…I don’t know. He’s a hundred percent convinced you’re a witch.”

After a beat of silence, the three bust into laughter. When it passed, Ivy took a bite of cookie. “If I was a witch, I’d spend more time witchin’ and a lot less down at the power company.”

Bubba bit down into a cookie. It tasted like he’d just bit the tire on a boy’s bicycle. He glanced over to see Tim discretely spitting some into his napkin.

“Not too bad, huh?” said Ivy. “They’re mint, mustard, and licorice root. Excellent for your liver and digestive system.”

Bubba muscled through one, determined not to spit out food as a guest in a stranger’s home. He washed it down with a shot of tea, which he was relieved to find was tea-flavored. Used the moment of silence to study the room. Tidy. Bookshelves with titles like Neil Sperry’s Texas Gardening, Herbal Medicines Made Easy, and The Amateur’s Guide to Permaculture. A number of aging family photos and knicknacks lined a small curio.

“You sure know a lot about plants and stuff,” said Tim.

“I’ve had allergies since I was a little girl. Found that if I eat more natural, they don’t bother me as bad. So I’m trying to learn everything I can about healthy and natural eating.”

Bubba cleared his throat, trying to dislodge either a piece of, or just the memory of, her hideous cookies. “Ma’am, I know this seems silly, but I kind of have to ask. Do you have a cat, by chance?”

Ivy burst into laughter, taking everyone’s plate. “You mean a black one?”

Bubba shrugged.

“No, officer, I don’t have a cat. Black or otherwise. Allergies, you know. But I do have a broom. No pilot’s license just yet.”

Everyone chuckled. Bubba looked out into her backyard as they talked. A half-dozen thick oaks that looked to be one hundred years old kept her entire property nice and shady in the hot Texas summer. A hammock, a barbeque grill, and some floral-print patio furniture were clustered in the center. A squirrel ate from a corn feeder on one of the oak trees. It looked comfortable, and he wanted to walk back there and take a nap in the cool hammock.

As Bubba stared out at the yard, she talked about her aunt and how she’d inherited the house a few years ago. About her divorce back in Tyler. About her job at the power company, her many promotions over the years, and how stressful it all could be. And about how she’d never really gotten to know Eddie Valentine outside of his witch obsession. The cool of the air conditioning, the sound of her voice, and the radio—now on to Blue Oyster Cult—were putting Bubba to sleep. They’d seen enough, and Bubba drank the rest of his tea in one big gulp. Getting up from the table, he made his apologies and the two stepped out into the steamy Texas heat.

On the way back to the station, Tim and Bubba stopped at the Dairy Queen for a few burgers. Bubba plucked some fries out of the bag as they pulled away from the drive-through window.

“You know, that lady is smart,” said Bubba.

“Ivy Weisner?”

“Yeah, Ivy Weisner. Real smart. You can tell. It’s no wonder she’s done so well at her job.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah, well. No crime in that.”

“Did you get the feeling she was being less than forthcoming?”

Tim smiled. “Uh…no. What, you think she’s really a witch?”

Bubba laughed. Took a sip of his chocolate milkshake. “No, I’m just saying that I feel like… I don’t know…she’s playing with us somehow.”

“You wish.” Tim’s radio crackled as he slowed for a red light: “1A30… 1A30… Assistance requested at a 10-54 out at FM 2204. Old man Stevens’s bull got out again, and nobody can get it to move out of the road.”

Bubba closed up the Dairy Queen bag as Tim hit the lights and sirens. “Kilgore, Texas,” he said. “The city that never sheeps.” The tires on the big old Ford squealed as the stoplight turned green and Tim punched the gas.

* * * *

Eddie Valentine stared up at his bedroom ceiling, watching the fan turn slowly. Typically that was soothing, but somehow tonight it reminded him of a dusty, bedraggled turkey vulture circling over a piece of roadkill.

The gentle breeze of the fan and the sound of the aquarium in his bedroom usually put him out like a light. He’d treated himself to a top-of-the-line Carrier Infinity Series air conditioner—finest on the market and with a reseller’s discount to boot. So the room was nice and comfy despite the sweltering summer. But all this, and even the Ambien, wasn’t helping. The clock read 11:45 p.m.

Finally, he threw off the covers and padded to the kitchen. Pulled a cold can of Lone Star, popped the top. Lit a cigarette and plopped down in front of his oversize big-screen TV. Wizard of Oz. Margaret Hamilton, stooped and green-skinned and menacing. A chill ran up Eddie’s spine. He turned it off again and flicked on the stereo. Southern Culture on the Skids with “Zombified.” Root Beer got up from his favorite spot on the cool tile floor and walked to the back door. Tail wagging slowly, the dog scratched to go outside.

“Aw, heck, dog, really? You gotta go do that now?”

Eddie took a draw off his Lone Star, then turned off the living room light so that he and the dog stood in total darkness with only the orange light from the stereo’s display glowing like a jack-o’-lantern. Eddie squinted out the back window toward Ivy Weisner’s house. For a moment he thought he saw a flicker of light in her living room window, but when he focused on it harder it was gone.

Root Beer growled; scratched on the door again.

Eddie reached over to the small table upon which sat both the family Bible and a respectably sized collection of plastic Simpsons figurines. Opened the drawer. Pulled out what he lovingly referred to as Little Elvis. He liked it because it looked like the snub-nose Danny Glover carried in Lethal Weapon, and he relished the thought of scaring the bejeezus out of would-be burglars. He might not be able to actually shoot someone with it, he thought, but he could sure pistol-whip a would-be intruder.

Taking a deep breath, Eddie tucked the weapon into the back of his jeans. Ram Jam now on the stereo with “Black Betty.” Opened the back door.

Root Beer crept out the back door slow as pinesap in February, no longer a puppy, limping and snuffling around Eddie’s backyard. He rooted and scratched and eyeballed the ground determining, with an esoteric criteria to which only dogs are privileged, the perfect place to do his business. For a dog old Root Beer’s age, this sort of affair took a while.

After a few moments, Eddie stepped out back and lit a cigarette. Looked up at the stars. Saw the usual suspects in the sky as well as Venus, which the Reader’s Digest said was a bad omen to the Mayans when it appeared in the morning. He looked at his Timex. Read 12:09 a.m. Technically morning, but really, practically, nighttime far as he was concerned. No omen there. Right? He took a swig of his beer and stepped back in the house, calling the dog, “Root! C’mon, boy!”

Root Beer was kicking up the grass where he’d done his thing. The dog looked at Eddie, looked away. Then looked back again.

Eddie whistled. “Root! C’mon! Stop being so dang stubborn, you old mongrel.”

And just like that Root Beer gave a little bark, made a 180-degree turn like an old barge being rotated on the Mississippi, and waddled away from the house straight into the blackness of Ivy Weisner’s backyard.

The color drained from Eddie’s face. From the darkness, he heard a faint jingling of Root Beer’s dog tags. Then he heard only the crickets in the hot Texas night.

Eddie swallowed hard. Felt sweat trickle down the back of his Lynyrd Skynyrd concert T-shirt, anointing the weapon tucked into his jeans at the small of his back. He finished his cigarette and put the butt in an empty bottle of Jack Daniels he kept on the back porch for just such a purpose and stepped onto the hard sharpness of his dead, dry lawn.

“Root!”

Silence.

“Root!” he said in that half yell, half whisper we’ve all used even though it doesn’t do much good at either getting folks’ attention or keeping quiet. He squinted into the shadows again and called the hound’s name over and over. But, still, he saw nothing. Heard nothing.

Pulling a flickering penlight from his jeans, he scanned the yard. Walked heel-to-toe, slow and steady—quiet-like, as his grandfather taught him to do when you didn’t want to be heard by deer or turkey or anything else. The dead grass felt like prickly pear cactus beneath his feet, but he kept quiet and walked on.

Soon he came to the edge of Ivy Weisner’s yard and the complete blackness therein. The penlight sputtered and fell dark.

“Root!” he called, shaking and tapping the penlight. Straining to hear, he got worse than silence: a wet, smacking noise from the shadows, like buzzards picking the bones off cattle in the West Texas desert. His body shuttered. Pulling the weapon from the back of his jeans, he tucked the dead penlight into his pocket and stepped into the darkness. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Even the moonlight didn’t make it through the impenetrable canopy of branches, and beneath his bare feet he felt only soft mud and mushrooms; no grass at all. Just a flickering line of light from the living room, shining through as a boxy outline around the closed curtains, illuminated the back porch.

The color drained from Eddie’s face. From the darkness, he heard a faint jingling of Root Beer’s dog tags. Then he heard only the crickets in the hot Texas night.

“Root!” Eddie whispered again. And got nothing for his troubles but that wet, smacking sound.

The picnic table. Some chairs scattered around the barbeque. A squirrel feeder gently rocking back and forth.

Suddenly, he saw Ivy Weisner’s yard for what it plainly was. Just a lady’s backyard, and an average one at that. No covens. No blood sacrifice. No Witches of Eastwick. He laughed to himself and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. Held the revolver up to his face and pulled the trigger.

A long thin yellow flame shot from the end of the weapon as Eddie lit his cigarette, then tucked the gun back into his jeans.

The slurping noise grew louder the closer he got to the house. From the thin light seeping around the curtains he could just make out a shape on the back porch that was roughly Root Beer-shaped.

“Root!” his said again, his voice louder this time. Somehow the need to remain silent seemed no longer seemed important. If he woke up Ms. Weisner, he could always just explain it in the morning and apologize. He felt silly and stupid and superstitious. He’d thought things through and decided, once and for all, that he’d just been imagining things all this time. That he’d been working pretty long hours at the shop. That there was nothing at all wrong with Ivy Weisner.

Then he heard the goat.