The House

The dirt and gravel path meandered like an ancient riverbed from its humble beginning at the lip of the cracked asphalt highway. The acrid aroma of dried motor oil and tar wedded with the wispy fragrance of wild flowers and dandelions poking their colorful heads in the springtime fields. Lazy white cotton clouds floated listlessly in the azure sky as if the day offered no better place for them to go.

It was a beautiful day, a day made for oil paintings, for wicker picnic baskets on checkered red and white blankets spread under the solemn oaks that dotted the pencil-sharp horizon. It was a day better suited for young lovers then the drama that was about to unfold.

Cole Sinclair stood at the edge of the road, staring at the old wooden gate. The rusted metal hinges and fragile lock looked as if they would shatter with only the slightest provocation. It didn't look like the last checkpoint before hell, but that was exactly what it was.

He looked once more at his '71 Ford Pinto Runabout, sitting forlornly at the shoulder of the road. In spite of its reputation as a deathtrap, the Pinto had served Cole well. He had picked it up at an impound lot sale for five hundred bucks. Through the years it had puttered along, taking him from one sad resting place to another. He had slept in it many a night when the money was low and the fever of the road called him to move on again.

"You can still leave, you know," it seemed to be telling him. "Just jump back in and move on down the road. No one willed you back here. No magic spell commanded you to drive three hundred miles to this God-awful place. There's no need to prove anything to anyone, not me, not yourself."

But he knew deep in his heart this wasn't true. He knew that every action of his life for the last twenty years had led to this desperate moment: a last ditch attempt to erase the guilt that burned his soul with such brightness it felt as if he were going mad.

Cole took a deep breath and willed his foot to cross the barrier between the hardpan and the snake-like trail that led to the object of his obsession. He couldn't see the old house from here, of course. The low knot of a feeble hill kept it hidden from the highway, and unless you had grown up in this rolling farm country east of the San Francisco Bay, you wouldn't even know it was there. And that made the first step harder, and caused the tightness in his chest.

The gravel crunching under his feet was louder because of the quiet of the day. The only other sounds carried on the hint of a breeze flying over the tall green winter-fed grass was the private hiss of insects, and the rhythmic pounding of his heart. Cole reminded himself that there was nothing to fear. Not yet.

Though the late morning sun should have warmed him, Cole felt a chill. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and bowed his head against the jumble of emotions that rumbled in his mind. With each step up the road, he felt himself being propelled into the past, and that summer day twenty-seven years before....

The knoll loomed before him as the path cut through the green hills. Cole remembered them as they were on that fateful day, that day of betrayal; burnt brown in the scalding August sun, looking as if they might spontaneously burst into flames.

There was hope, Cole reflected. The house might have been torn down. Perhaps all he would find when his restless feet ended their journey was a crumbling foundation. But deep down Cole knew it wouldn't be so easy. The house was there, all right. Somehow it had stubbornly survived the years, mocking him for his cowardice, awaiting his return to its grasp.

The house revealed itself like a lover slowly removing her clothes. First he saw the widow's walk. Cole expected it to be missing or at least listing like a doomed schooner swept against the rocks, but it was as tall and straight as a soldier on parade. A proud weathervane rooster rotated lazily in the breeze. The rest of the house revealed itself not as a twisted, wretched memorial, but a vibrant restored celebration of wood, color and glass.

Cole gawked. The house was a crisp white with blue trim. New sturdy windows. The rotting front porch had been rebuilt, wide and elegant. A pretty sofa swing hung proudly from its beams on sparkling chrome chains. Even the air around the house celebrated its rebirth, smelling as fresh as newly laundered sheets drying in the warm springtime sun. His nightmare house was now someone's home.

Then Cole saw her. A straw sun-hat sat coyly on her head as she bent to tend a garden of rainbow-hued flowers. A trowel held with delicate confidence in her right hand was digging precise rows in the freshly turned soil.

She sensed him behind her and rose to look. Long, slender legs delightfully fell from denim shorts. Green, sparkling eyes appraised him. She bore a confident smile that reflected the rebirth of house itself. A smile that never considered that there was a cruel world, a raping world out there--a world that would love to hurt someone with green eyes and long legs.

"Hello," she said. "You startled me."

"Sorry," Cole managed to reply. He stopped a safe distance away. Safe for her; safe for him.

"No one comes that way, hardly," she said, pointing at the gravel trail. "At least not since I built the drive." She pointed to a fresh path of asphalt, as new and black as a virgin freeway. It has been cut around the knoll, moving in an arch to the front of the house.

"Didn't know it was there," Cole said shyly. "I used to come up here when I was a kid. That was the only way in. Sorry again for startling you," he quickly added.

"Well you did, but I suppose it's okay," she replied. "Anyone who manages to even find this forgotten place deserves the benefit of the doubt."

She extended her hand. "I'm Sherri," she said. "Sherri Palmer."

Cole stepped forward and took her hand. It was cool, self-assured, without a hint of nervousness. "Cole Sinclair," he returned.

There was an awkward silence. Cole supposed he should announce his intentions, but what could he say? The truth might invite disaster.

"I grew up in Bird's Landing, but I've been living away for a long time," he said carefully. "This old place has a special meaning for me. Thought that since I was in the neighborhood, I'd come by and--"

"See if the memories are still there," Sherri completed.

Cole smiled winningly. It was the same smile that melted the hearts of the few women he had allowed brief access to his heart. "Yeah, I guess so," he said.

"Come, Mr. Sinclair," she said, offering her version of the smile. "I've been working in the garden all morning. I think I deserve a break. Come sit on the porch and have some lemonade with me, and let's see if the memories show themselves."

She quickly disappeared into the house, the new screen door banging. It was a comforting sound, a sound that echoed of family and lazy summer afternoons. But Cole made no move toward the porch. He eyed the house once again, suspicions swirling about him. It was smaller than he remembered it. He recalled it as huge, looming, alien. It was known as the Rebero place, after the Portuguese family that built it a century before. The Reberos and their progeny were long gone. Only the house remained--with its memories, with its secrets.

The door opened, and Sherri Palmer emerged with a bright red tray she placed on a small table behind the porch railing. She poured a glass from a ceramic pitcher and handed it to Cole.

"Come. Sit," she said, pointing toward the sofa swing. "I don't bite."

Cole ignored the swing and sat warily on the top step feeling the house might reach out and grab him. He tried to focus on his glass. Refreshing ice tinkled within its green-yellow depths. He drank deeply, letting the sweet nectar wash down his throat.

"Good," he said between gulps.

"Guess so," Sherri replied with amusement. "Drink up, Mr. Sinclair. There's plenty more."

"Didn't realize I was so thirsty," he said, holding out his glass. Sherrie filled it again. It was halfway gone before he lowered it, feeling a bit embarrassed for his gluttony.

"So, I suspect there's a story behind your visit here," Sherri said. "Tell me now, what is it?"

Cole regarded the lovely woman before him. He had no intention of telling his tale to anyone. The embarrassment, the humiliation was just too much, but the lemonade had satisfied more than his thirst. His shame was suddenly broken, and he found himself speaking of that day for the first time in years. The words were hard at first barely sputtering the story of two boys, ten years old, out on a day's lark....

-2-

Reed Moreno and Cole Sinclair were more than best friends; they were like brothers. They lived across the street from each other, and from the time they learned to walk they were nearly inseparable. Together they shared a mutual love of the outdoors and spent their spare time exploring the wind-blown hills and rambling streams that surrounded their town.

It was in the summer of 1969 that they turned their curiosities to the Rebero place. Two miles from their home, it was a place of childhood legend; stories handed down from one generation to another. With each retelling the stories grew wilder. The old house was haunted, it was said. A place of murder, death, of unspeakable madness.

"It's just a bunch of bullshit, Cole," his father told him when he asked about it. Jim Sinclair was working on their old Fordson tractor, a dirty wrench in his hand, his overalls stained with grease. "The Rebero's just went bust, plain and simple. Get that nonsense out of your head."

But his boyish temptation to believe in the unknown could not be refused, so he and Reed made a pact to go there, to discover for themselves if the stories of the Rebero house were true.

On a bright day in August they finally wheeled their bikes down the pot-holed road that led to the isolated ranch. They told no one of their plans--fearful a parent would interfere, certain that the spell of adventure they had woven between them would be broken if anyone else tagged along. This was something they would do together, a tale to brag about for years to come.

The dirt and gravel path looked very much the same as it would years later when Cole Sinclair would take his solitary steps into the unknown. The two boys stopped at the gate and looked toward the burnt brown hills with anticipation.

Cole felt a twitch in his stomach, an intoxicating blend of fear and excitement. "It's up there," he said, pointing nervously past the road.

Reed didn't reply. He straddled his bike, the toes of his worn sneakers touching the ground. His jaw was tight, his face set. "Let's go," he said, pushing himself off.

Cole followed, pumping hard up the steady incline. Before long the top of the house became visible behind the hill that protected it from the Delta winds. The widow's walk was bent and crooked. The lonely spike of a missing weather vane pierced the sky like a lightening rod. When the boys finally rounded the last corner and the house came into view, they stopped.

The whitewash had long faded and the neglected porch sagged with age. Most of the windows were cracked or broken, victims of vandal's rocks and stray gusts of wind. A torn screen door banged forlornly in the breeze.

"Really think it's haunted?" Cole asked.

He looked to Reed to bolster his flagging nerve, but Reed ignored him. He was closely examining the dreary remainders of a family's failed dream.

"Probably not," Reed replied with a distracted smile. "But even if it's not, we won't tell that to the others. Let them come see for themselves"

Cole nodded. He knew that just the act of coming here, of entering this place of legends was an accomplishment. Whether there were ghosts or not really didn't matter. The older kids would respect their daring and the younger ones would look at them slack-jawed, awed by their bravery.

"We got to bring something back," Reed said. "Proof we've been here."

"What kind of proof?" Cole asked.

"Billy Cutshaw told me that old man Rebero hung himself in the attic."

Cole looked at a broken window near the roof. "Even if he did, the body's long gone."

"Billy told me that his cousin went up there once. He said the rope was still there. Had blood on it."

"That's a bunch of bull," Cole replied. Or at least he hoped it was a bunch of bull. The thought of a bloodstained rope was something he didn't even want to think about. Deep in the summer heat a chill spread through him, and his knees turned weak.

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't" Reed replied, still staring at the house. "Let's go see."

Cole wanted to say no, to insist it really was a bunch of bull. The cops would have taken a rope as evidence any dummy would know that! Maybe they'd better return to town and play catch or maybe watch a little T.V. But his words of reason refused to come. They froze in his throat like ice cubes in a glittering aluminum tray.

Reed parked his bike, and Cole found himself following along stiffly, his logic forgotten. They stood before the four broken stairs that led to the dilapidated porch with anticipation.

"Here's the plan," Reed said, turning toward Cole. "We go in, take a quick look around and head for the attic."

"Do we gotta go up there?" Cole asked nervously. "There ain't no rope."

"We gotta make sure," Reed replied, his voice confident. "It's one thing to come up here to this haunted ol' place, but if we came back with the bloody rope, well, that would be something!"

Cole knew his friend was right. The rope would assure them a place in Bird's Landing history; hollowed names to be passed down as long as boys roamed its dusty streets with dreams of adventure. But at what price? They hadn't even entered the house, and Cole felt like he was going to piss in his pants.

Cole sighed. There was no way in hell he was going to turn yellow on Reed. He'd go all right, even though he'd probably have nightmares for weeks to come. "Go ahead," Cole he weakly. "I'll be right behind you."

The sagging front steps sang a ragged chorus as they climbed the stairs. The screen door was barely attached. It was just a matter of time before a gust of delta wind sent it sailing into the seedy front yard. Reed opened it carefully and pushed on the cracked wooden door behind it. It swung open in classic haunted house fashion: a loud, ominous creak.

"Ready?" Reed asked his friend with an excited grin. If he noticed Cole's panic, he chose to ignore it.

Cole nodded grimly.

The house had the musty smell of moldy wood and dried urine. Peeling wallpaper hung mournfully from warped, cobwebbed walls. The floor, once beautiful stained oak, was littered with debris. Reed produced a flashlight from his rear pocket, but in spite of its steady beam, the house remained veiled in a shadow. The two boys explored the downstairs. Cole walked on careful, quiet feet, his stomach a thick knot of tension. Every turn presented new danger, every dark corner held a potential spasm of horror.

Reed took no such precautions. He casually picked up and examined any piece of trash that grabbed his interest. One Old Crow bottle was still half-full. Reed unscrewed the cap and put it up to his nose.

"Yech!" he said, tossing the bottle to the floor. He looked at Cole sheepishly. "Nothing good down here. Let's see what's upstairs."

Cole gulped hard. "You really think we should?" he said breathlessly.

Reed smiled as if noticing his friend's fright for the first time. "It's just an old house, Cole. You don't really believe that stuff about ghosts, do ya?"

"Well, yes," Cole admitted.

Reed chuckled. "Even if there are ghosts, everyone knows they only come out at night."

Cole wasn't so sure about that, but it did make him feel better. He looked around, trying to imagine the house at night. The very thought made his legs buckle. "Okay, he said with resignation. "Let's do it and get out of here."

They climbed the stairs, Reed chattering all the way. "Gosh I hope that rope's up there," he said. "Wouldn't that be something? Can't you just see everyone's faces if we brought it back to town?"

Cole didn't reply. Words would only eat up his dwindling reserve of bravery.

The steps ended in a landing at the edge of a hall. At the end of the hall, highlighted by the light of a cracked window, the boys could see the final short stairway that led to the attic. Again Cole followed Reed. They passed an open doorway. The room beyond was empty except for wind-blown leaves and a dirty, worn mattress thrown on the littered floor. The walls were filled with drawings scribbled in thick black ink, hasty outlines of tigers, wolves and creatures unknown.

They reached the base of the final stairway. Looking up, they saw a closed door. One look and Cole knew. He'd had enough. "No, Reed," he said weakly. "Let's not go up there."

Reed ignored him, climbing fixedly up the steps. He reached the door and pushed it with his hand. It slid open in eerie silence.

Reed stared into the attic. "Shit," Cole heard him swear.

Cole swallowed his fear and clambered up to stand beside his friend. He peered over Reed's shoulder and sighed with relief. Pallid sunlight, filtered through broken rafter vents, revealed a musty, pyramid-shaped room. An empty room.

"Shit," Reed repeated.

"Gee, too bad, let's go," Cole said without a hint of embarrassment.

Once again Reed ignored him. He stepped into the attic and looked around. "Some asshole got here before us," he said bitterly. "Some stinking asshole stole our rope!"

"Forget it, Reed," Cole pleaded. "This place gives me the creeps. Let's get the heck out of here!"

"Just hang on a sec--" Reed began, waving Cole off. He tilted his head as if listening to some far off conversation. "Do you feel it?" he asked.

Cole frowned. "Feel what?"

"It's like--electricity."

"There ain't no electricity in this old house," Cole began, but he stopped. He could feel something. Cole tilted his head, too. Soon he felt a warm, tingling wave, passing through his body. It seemed to be coming from the center of the attic. And it was getting stronger.

Cole stuck out his trembling hand. It felt as if it was immersed in electrically charged water. The more he stretched his arm, the more the sensation increased, getting stronger until the tips of his fingers actually began to feel uncomfortably hot. Cole blinked and remembered his friend. He looked over at his friend, whose eyes were wild with fear. "Reed," he managed to mumble. "Oh, God, Reed....

-3-

"Mr. Sinclair?"

Cole looked up at Sherri Palmer feeling as if he had been sucked back through a time tunnel. Her face was a blur. That was when he realized his eyes were filled with tears.

"I tried to save him," Cole said, his voice choked with emotion. "The house--it wouldn't let me!"

"What happened?" Sherri asked.

Cole bowed his head. "They found me lying on the ground out here," he said, pointing out at the yard. "There was a nasty bruise on my head. Thank God Reed's older brother had put two and two together. When we didn't show up for dinner, he came looking for us."

"And Reed, what happened to him?"

"He was gone, just gone," Cole replied. "They never found him. Not a trace. It was like the house swallowed him up whole."

To Cole's surprise, Sherri laughed. "Surely not my house," she said.

Cole's dark eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me, do you? I suppose I can't blame you. No one else did. At first they thought Reed had just run off, and I was covering for him. But when he never came back, they started to suspect me. Thought I did something to him. I tried to explain, but they didn't believe me. They never believed me."

Sherri lowered her eyes to her lap as if ashamed of her laughter. "It's not that I don't believe you," she said. "Something did happen here, of course. It's just that this house has been such a comfort to me. My sanctuary. I have never felt or seen anything out of the ordinary in the three years I've lived here. Ever since my husband died....”

Cole regarded her carefully. So, he wasn't the only one haunted by sorrow, he reflected.

"Maybe what got Reed was satisfied somehow," he said. "Maybe it left, moved on to ruin someone else's life."

"Maybe," Sherri echoed.

There was a long silence between them. A soft breeze swirled chattering leaves around the driveway. A wind chime at the far end of the porch tinkled a random song. Cole could smell spring around him, almost hear the new life pushing through the soil of the fertile, rolling hills.

"So, Mr. Sinclair," Sherri said. "Would you like to see inside?"

The thought of entering the house, no matter how beautiful, how safe it seemed, gave Cole the sudden urge to urinate. The porch was far enough for him, thank you. "But you've gone this far," a voice within him urged. "End it, Cole. End it once and for all."

"I do need to use the rest room," he said reluctantly. "I don't know about the rest of the house, but I suppose I could go that far."

Sherri stood and held out her hand. "Rest room it is, Cole Sinclair. And after that, well, we'll see."

Cole stared at her outstretched hand. It looked warm, inviting. He took the hand and stood.

Sherri smiled reassuringly. She was about his age, he guessed, a beautiful woman with a shadow of sorrow hiding behind her green eyes. His fear melted, and he found himself following her into the place of nightmares.

She chattered all the way, pointing out the antiques she had culled from antique shops and yard sales, the rarity of the embossed wallpaper. She told him of the complexity of adapting modern plumbing to a house that once had an out-house planted in the backyard.

Cole listened politely, trying to ignore the beads of sweat that gathered on his furrowed brow. His bladder complained sharply, and he hoped he would reach the bathroom in time.

At last they were there. The bathroom, like the rest of the house, had been meticulously remodeled. The doorknob was made of cut crystal that sparkled in the diffused light of the opaque outside window. The floor was a mosaic of white, black and pink tile that highlighted pretty flowered wallpaper. An enormous, claw-legged bathtub sat majestically along the far wall. The toilet was an antique, with a gravity-fed tank and pull-chain mounted on the wall.

Sherri left him. Cole closed the door and locked it. He stood over the sparkling clean toilet bowl and unzipped his faded Levis. The flow began. He sighed with relief and allowed himself the luxury of thinking more closely about Sherri Palmer. She was cute, he reminded himself. Cute and a widow.

Cole chuckled. "What are you thinking about?" he chastised himself. "You come here to face your worst nightmare, and now you're thinking about getting laid?"

His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. "Mr. Sinclair?" Sherri asked softly.

"Y-yes," Cole said, embarrassed that she could hear him doing his business.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but there is something I must tell you."

"Ah, can you wait a sec? I'm almost done."

"No, it can't wait," she said sternly.

Cole was taken aback by the harshness of her voice. Had he done something wrong? "What is it?" he asked.

"I know the truth," she said.

"The truth?" Cole repeated, perplexed. "I don't understand. He suddenly wished he wasn't standing there with his dick in his hand.

"I know what happened here that day," Sherri replied. "I know what happened to your friend, Reed. I know the truth. I know it all....”

Cole stopped urinating, and at that moment he wondered if he would ever piss again. What could she know? he asked himself. A panic began to rise within him, a panic that had carefully guarded a secret. A vile, dirty, secret.

Cole gulped hard. It was a joke, of course, he told himself. A sick, stupid joke.

"It's not a joke," Sherri said from behind the closed door.

Cole felt a chill ripple through him. Sherri Palmer had read his mind.

"None of this is a joke, Mr. Cole Sinclair," she continued. "Not then, not now. The house gets hungry, and when it's hungry, it must be fed. Nothing can stop it from this imperative. Over the years it's enjoyed many meals. First it was the fools who built this house on tainted ground. Those who thought they could break this land like a wild mustang. They paid the price in madness and death.

"Over the years there have been others: vagabonds, migrant workers, society's castoffs searching for free shelter. Later there were teenagers from the city looking for a secluded place to drink and have sex. Then it was me.

"We've been waiting for you, Cole. All of us. Especially your good friend, Reed. Just one, big happy family waiting for you to come home. Waiting for you to own-up."

"No," Cole whispered.

As the word left his lips, the room darkened. The inviting spring light defused by the beaded bathroom window turned a sickly gray. Cole jarred himself from his misery and frantically zipped up his pants. His trembling hand fumbled for the wall switch, but he couldn't find it. The wall switch was gone, and with it, so was the pretty flowered wallpaper. The wall had stripped down to rotted wood slates that gaped at him like jagged teeth.

Somewhere above him a moaning wind swept through the house. The pain of a hundred migraines bolted like lightening through Cole Sinclair's mind. He shut his eyes and was propelled back in time, back into the horror once again....


"Do you feel it, Cole?" Reed gasped, his eyes the size of saucers. He was standing in the middle of the empty attic. Sunlight filtered through uneven cracks in the roof and ceiling creating a cascade of light across his frightened face.

"Yes," Cole said woodenly from the doorway. He definitely felt it: the power, the hate.

A moan rattled through the attic, a deep clenching sigh as if a sleeping monster deep within the bowels of the house had awakened from a hungry sleep. The roof shuddered and the walls bulged with its breath. Reed's face, so full of the wonder just moments before, was now etched by a dawning terror.

"Cole!" he whispered.

Cole stayed at the doorway, unwilling to enter the room. "Come on, Reed!" he said, waiving him at him. "Let's get the hell out of here!"

"I, I can't move," Reed replied frantically. "Something's holding my legs."

"It's just fear!" Cole said. "Try, Reed. Try. We've go to get out of here before it's too late!"

Reed looked at Cole across the abyss of the attic, tears streaming down his face. "I can't!" he said. "I can't!"

Reed's panic unnerved Cole even more than the haunting itself. Reed had always been the rock of their relationship, his practical, brave nature an inspiration to the more excitable Cole. Reed's unrestrained fear was sending him a message: they were both in deep peril.

Reed held out his hand. "Help me, Cole! Come here and help me."

Cole wanted to help, desperately wanted to help, but found he couldn't. Terror had seized his heart. Goose flesh rippled through his trembling body. He could only stare at his friend, his pale face waving back in forth in a dismayed "no".

"This is its center, Cole!" Reed raved. "Its rotten soul. It wants us. It means to have us. It will have us! Help me, Cole. Help us. Together we can beat it!"

Reed's arms were wildly flailing about, as if they had become unhinged from his shoulders. Cole couldn't help himself. He turned and ran. As he flew down the stairs, he heard Reed speak his last words. "We were friends!" he wailed. "God damn it, Cole! We were friends! Friends....”

-4-

Cole Sinclair looked desolately at the doorknob. Its once inviting sparkle was gone, replaced by a black so deep it made him dizzy to gaze into it. It was a metaphor of his life, Cole reflected: dark, empty, and alone.

"I'm fucked," he mumbled. And what's more, he deserved it. Deserved it in spades. For Sherri Palmer had spoken the truth through the bathroom door. He had betrayed his friend. He had lived while Reed Moreno died, and for that he had to atone. Atone with his life, now, while he still had the nerve and the dignity to do what was right.

"We were friends," Reed said to him that day. The words screamed across the years, burned into his soul.

Cole forced himself to grab the knob. It felt warm and clammy as if it might melt in his hand, but it turned, and as it did a sort of eerie calm descended upon him. The decision had been made, and for the first time in years, he felt an uneasy peace.

Cole gulped hard and stepped into the hall. Sherri Palmer's yuppie remodeling job had vanished. The Rebero house had reverted to its former decayed glory.

Its killing glory.


The heavy smell of rain, mixed with the rot of termite infested wood filled Cole's nostrils. A bitter winter breeze swept past his unsure legs. It was as if he had been in the bathroom for months instead of minutes. Far above him loose shingles flapped crazily in a howling wind. The old house creaked on its sagging foundation like a dying elephant ready to fall.

Cole walked uncertainly down the darkened hall. His sense of direction betrayed him. He felt lost, confused. He could feel the house's hunger, its greed pressing on him like a weight. "Come and get me, motherfucker," he taunted. "If that's what you mean to do, come and get me now."

Cole listened as the wind echoed through the tortured hallways, and the rain beat on the time-weakened walls. And there was something else, something distant, something terrible. Somewhere within the walls that imprisoned him he could hear the desperate, muffled cries of those who been captured here. Then, just as he accepted his certain doom, he heard a familiar voice drifting among the others, a voice that had haunted Cole's dreams for an eternity. It was the young, sweet voice of Reed Moreno.

"Cole," Reed said. "You have come at last."

Cole turned and blinked hard. Reed was standing less than ten feet away, a golden highlight against the blackness.

"You're an angel," Cole said, his voice breaking. A voice flush with sorrow, repentance. "Oh, dear God you're a sweet angel."

Reed smiled. "I'm not an angel, Cole," he said. "Not yet, at least."

"Reed," Cole sobbed. "I wish I could take back what I did that day. You have a right to hate me. I was a coward. I've always been a coward."

Reed stepped forward as the house held its breath in greedy anticipation.

"There is no need for guilt, Cole," Reed said. "What happened was meant to be, that's all."

"But I ran, Reed," Cole said through his tears. "I could have helped you, but I ran....”

"You ran because it was your fate to run. The house chose me, Cole, not you."

The house rumbled as if disturbed by Reed's words of comfort. Boards ripped from the ceiling and plummeted to the floor like a toy thrown by a child in a tantrum. A last, solitary window shattered, sending shards of glass tinkling like demented bells.

Cole grimaced. "What is this place, Reed?" he asked with a shudder.

"It's a rift in the fabric between heaven and hell," Reed said. "It's like a volcano that ejects misery and death instead of rocks and lava.

"Cole, if you want repentance, the time has come. We've been waiting for you, Cole, all of us trapped here. I told them that someday you would come again and release us so that we might have our rightful peace."

"Release you?" Cole asked incredulously. "What can I possibly do?"

"Fulfill your destiny, Cole," Reed replied.

"But how?"

Reed smiled. "Something simple, something hard. Its name is fire. Destroy the house, burn its evil core once and for all. Set us free."

The house revolted. Behind Cole, the door to Sherri Palmer's bathroom exploded from its hinges, blasted against the outer hall, and splintered into pieces. Razor-sharp projectiles boomed outward like missiles. One grazed Cole's face as he fell sprawling to the floor, escaping decapitation by inches. Blood oozed from a gash across his cheek. Plaster flew from jagged craters left in the walls.

Cole waited then scrambled to his knees, his heart pounding, ready for the next assault. He turned frantically, his eyes searching for Reed, but to his dismay his friend had once again disappeared. Cole's heart sank, for not only was he now very alone, he discovered he was no longer in the hallway. He had been transported to the very heart of his nightmare, the attic.

Above him the storm howled, slapping the roof shingles up and down in a manic applause. The attic was filled with a spectral light that was nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.

Cole heard a creaking noise and looked up. Old man Robero's hangman's noose was dangling from the center rafter. Blood was caked onto it as if it had torn into the flesh of its last victim. The rope swayed hypnotically from side to side.

"Don't be afraid, Cole," Reed's voice whispered in his ear. "The house plays tricks. Don't believe it. Don't give in. Your fate is with life, not death. Your time has come, Cole! Stand and be true!"

The tingling sensation began just as it had so many years before as the house tried to lull him into submission. Reed's words filled him with renewed hope, but Cole knew that this was not the time to be standing still. If he had any chance of succeeding, he would first have to escape the house's grasp.

Cole tore his fearful eyes from the rope and bolted before the soothing current could turn lethal. He reached the attic door wondering if fate would help him once again. Ignoring the darkness, he hurled down the stairs, almost sprawling on the narrow landing. He lurched to his feet and stumbled down the hallway toward the main stairway.

As he swept past the doorway on his right, he saw a sight that would fuel his nightmares for months. It was only a glimpse, little more than a snapshot of two horned demons coupling on the filthy floor. One looked up as he passed. A thick, viscous string of saliva fell from its snout. It looked at Cole and smiled.

The stairs were undulating like a snake chasing down its prey. Cole didn't think; thinking would have only paralyzed him. He started down, gripping the twisting railing for support. The stairway growled under his weight. The boards of the steps ripped loose. Rusted nails snapped at his feet like fangs. Several dug into the tender flesh of his right foot making him howl with pain. Cole tap-danced his way down the stairs, thinking crazily about tetanus shots.

Somehow he made it to the ground floor, but he was still far from safety. Sherri had led him only a short way to the bathroom, but the downstairs he remembered had disappeared. He appeared to be trapped in the very bowels of the house, and there seemed no hope of escape.

Cole despaired, his mind twitched. Had he come all this way just to lose now? Would he be trapped in this nothingness between life and death forever? But though he feared the worst, he realized that the spectral gloom that surrounded him wasn't total. There was something, something dim and elusive, glowing on the tormented floor. He wiped the blood from his face and dared to look. There, on the floor, appeared to be the delicate scarlet footprints of a small child. Each tiny toe looked as if it had been dipped in shimmering blood, trailing off into the darkness.

Cole's eyes widened with hope even as his soul filled with sorrow. Whose precious, lost child made these prints? And what awful tragedy happened here? Cole shook away his morbid thoughts, and he began to follow this unlikely trail. Help for this forgotten soul depended on his freedom. The faint pleas of conflicting voices continued in his ears. Some called out his name and urged him on his desperate mission. Others screamed out in the fear, demanding he yield to the will of the house.

Outside, the storm raged. Water, or at least Cole hoped it was water, seeped from above him. Heavy, sticky droplets fell on his hair and face. Cole brushed them aside and continued on, wondering how much more of this he could take before his sanity left him forever.

The house upped the ante. On his right the outlines of glowing faces appeared, pressing out from the tattered walls like demented cookie molds. All were etched in bitter agony. Cole tried to ignore the faces, reminding himself they were nothing more than another trick sent by the house to kill his resolve. He bowed his head and concentrated on the footsteps leading him ever onward through the twisting labyrinth.

Eventually, the blackness lightened. The trail appeared to be giving way to an evil dawn. With each step Cole felt closer to freedom. The house, too, sensed he might escape its grasp. Behind him there was a bloody roar. Cole stopped, momentarily unable to move. Then he saw it. Charging up the twisted hall came a howling apparition, hurtling from the arterial depths of the house to halt his desperate flight.

The shape was roughly human, a demon swathed in robes of bloody scarlet and cobalt blue. A large hood hid all features except cold yellow-rimmed, nictitating eyes that glowed like satanic beacons. Its arms were extended, its gnarled fingers twitched sending coronas of arcing gold-blue sparks from the end of its long, splintered fingernails. It was lunging for him.

Cole screamed and scrambled forward. The smell of spent electricity mixed with the sweet fragrance of the hills. One more turn! One more turn and he would be free! But as his eyes began to fill with the blessed sight of freedom, he felt a solid tackle grip his legs. He had been caught.

Cole fell to the floor, hitting his head with a thud. Stars spun in his eyes. He felt numb as if he had been jabbed by a stun gun. He managed to turn and look. Bright laser eyes mocked him, long fangs sprang from a bulging mouth, hot sulfur breath enveloped him.

The apparition inched greedily up his body. Cole pumped his legs frantically, trying desperately to escape. Just when he thought all was lost, his injured right foot miraculously yanked free, leaving his blood-soaked running shoe in the creature's grip. Oblivious to the pain, Cole cocked his foot and with all his strength smashed it into the creature's face.

The phantom roared, not out of pain but of outrage. No one, no one, had resisted before. Once within its grasp no one had the will to do anything except piss in their pants and submit. And to make it worse, the phantom's roar had betrayed it, loosening its vice-like grip just enough for Cole to wrench himself free.

Cole took to his feet, careened off one wall, turned to his left and saw the front door looming ahead like a celestial gate. He literally flew through the tattered screen door and fell sprawling on the splintered wooden deck. Blood gushed from his torn cheek, his foot throbbed, but Cole got up again and staggered down the steps to the safety of the front yard. He collapsed to his knees feeling weak and beyond care. Would the creature follow? No, he thought not. It was as much a prisoner of the house as its victims.

Cole looked around, amazed by what he saw. Sherri Palmer's invitation to use her remodeled bathroom had occurred only minutes before on a cloudless spring morning. Now it was night and cold rain was pelting his face. How could it be?

Now was not the time to ponder. Reed had given him a mission, and he knew that if he were to live the rest of his life in peace, he had to complete it. Fire. How does one burn down a haunted house in the middle of a rainstorm? Cole had a cigarette lighter stuffed from in his dirty front pocket, but how could he use it?

He struggled to his feet, wiping his muddy hands on his pants. He stumbled around in a daze searching for anything that could be used as a fuel. Rain fell in an unrelenting stream. Everything was soaked. There was nothing to burn. He ventured timidly onto the porch keeping well clear of the front door and the terror that lay within. The porch was empty except for a few wind-scattered leaves.

From the inside, he decided. If he had a chance, the house would have to be burned from its dry inside. But how could he do it? How could he go back there without going mad?

Cole's eyes filled with tears, his shoulders sagged. He felt panic welling within him. He couldn't do it! He wasn't strong enough. He didn't have the nerve. God damn it, he wasn't man enough! He stumbled down the creaking front stairs, turned and faced the house. A bolt of lightening lit its crumbling whitewashed facade. Cold broken windows stared at him, mocking his cowardice.

"Sorry I'm such a loser, Reed!" he cried. "I'm sorry I can't help you!"

He stopped, his eyes suddenly wide as a wild, crazy thought burned into his mind. Could it work, he wondered. Cole Sinclair turned and ran into the night....

-5-

Innocent rain fell on the rolling California hills, unaware of the evil that lurked there. The house stood silently, disturbed only by an occasional clap of thunder, its cache of souls held firmly within. It had stood there like a festering sore for a hundred years and might well stand for a hundred more. No one dared tear it down.
Once, a young, aggressive builder by the name of John Palmer took an option on the land and planned a track of luxury homes for Bay Area yuppies on the move. One Saturday he brought his young wife, Sherri, to see his project. On the rise above the little valley he held his wife's hand and told her how they would level the old house to construct the road that would wind its way into the hills.

"But it's a beautiful old place," Sherri said.

John nodded. "It's had its day, Sherri and it's in the way."

Sherri dropped his hand and gaily ran ahead of him. She turned and looked at her husband, her summer dress blowing tantalizingly in the breeze, a wink of youthful lust in her eye. "Let's look inside," Sherri said coyly. "You never know what might happen."

No one ever saw them again...

...and the house still stood like a wooden Venus fly trap, and the wind still howled around it, and the victims still entered its poisonous folds never to return to the light of day. Until Cole Sinclair.


Off in the distance there was a crash as Pinto tore through the old wooden gate. Cole ran to the edge of road not knowing if the faded yellow car would still be there. He had lost all track of time and suspected time had lost track of him. Months could have passed as easily as hours since that fine spring morning that marked the beginning of this nightmare. His faithful Pinto might very well be gone, towed away to a wrecking yard, now nothing more than a tight ball of rusted metal. But to his relief the car was still there, waiting patiently to take Cole on its final ride.

The Pinto bucked up the gravel road, its nearly bald tires spinning crazily in the soft, rain-soaked ground. Cole gripped the steering wheel grimly knowing that success or failure was now in the hands of God and the Ford Motor Company.

He rounded the last curve. The house was just ahead glowing in the darkness. He swirled the Pinto through the mud so its rear end faced the porch. Cole rolled down both windows, pushed the car into reverse, gulped hard and gunned the ancient engine to a scream.

Cole looked into the cracked rear view mirror. The porch was directly behind him, beckoning like a gaping tongue. He popped the clutch, and the old car lurched back. When it encountered the first step, it paused only slightly before bouncing up the four steps to the porch.

The house's front door disintegrated as the Pinto plowed through it. Splinters of half-rotted wood flew off like an exploding Super Nova. Yellow paint scraped in long, claw-like scratches from the car's rear fenders. The Pinto slowed, but Cole knew he wouldn't have to go very far; just enough for the Pinto to reveal the fatal engineering flaw that had banned it from the highways of America.

The wheels spun madly, inching the little car farther into the entryway. Its flimsy rear bumper collapsed under the impact. The large rear glass window shattered. Underneath, its flimsy gas tank buckled until it finally burst.

Gasoline spilled from a four-inch break, filling the entryway with its pungent odor. At the same time there was a loud ping as the Pinto's engine hurled shards of metal through its insides. The car sputtered once then died.

Cole looked around fearfully. The aroma of gas was stronger now. He had to get out of the car. Once the vapors hit the hot undercarriage, there would be an explosion. He had rolled down the front windows to insure his escape, but he hadn't anticipated that the Pinto would come to rest smack in the middle of the doorway's oak jam. The massive pieces of wood, fashioned in a time when solidity was a virtue, mocked him like the iron bars of a jail.

"Shit," Cole said. He was trapped.

From behind him came a voice, "Cole?" it called.

Cole recognized the voice. It was Sherri Palmer. But when he looked into the mirror, it was not the pretty, inviting Sherri he remembered. It was her rotted corpse.

"Join us, Cole," she said as she approached the rear of the car. "Come and live with us--forever."

Though shaking with fear, Cole told himself not to panic. He leaned into the rear seat. The car was as messy as his life. Heaps of discarded Big Mac wrappers and old beer cans were strewn across the seat and floor. He fumbled around, searching for something that kept him company when he spent cold nights sleeping in the car. As he searched, Sherri drifted closer, her decayed skull smiling as if unaware of its condition.

Cole found it. Cold and black in his hand, the tire iron was like a gift from God. He turned, cocked his arm, and rammed the windshield, thankful for the long horizontal crack that already wandered across its surface. On the forth blow, the glass shattered. He braced himself against the seat, lifted his legs and kicked out the window.

Cole scrambled across the dashboard and onto the cold, yellow hood. The smell of gas made his head swim, but miraculously there had been no ignition. Cole rolled off the hood and onto the porch. He stood and faced the car. Fumbling into his pocket, he found the lighter. "Come on," he said, cupping it in his hand. He desperately flipped the ignition wheel. "Come on you son-of-a-bitch!" The lighter wouldn't work, not even a spark.

On the other side of the car, Sherri Palmer howled and began to climb over the wreckage toward him. "It won't work, Cole," she screamed. "The house is hungry once more. And it will feed."

Cole fought with the lighter striking it again and again, but still there was nothing.

Then Reed Moreno spoke to him one last time, whispering into his ear. "Run, Cole," he said. "Run now. The rest is up to God."

Cole dropped the lighter and ran. The gasoline was seeping across the porch, falling through the cracks, but a single long ribbon of fuel trickled across the splintered front steps, soaking into the dirt even as Cole stumbled off the porch. He ran a few more feet and collapsed to the ground, his mind and body spent.

For so many years the house had protected itself, even healing itself like some demented cancer. Nothing could touch it; nothing could deliver it serious harm--not age, not man. But when the first trickle of gas seeped into the heart of the Montezuma hills, another power took over. A power that had waited patiently for a chance to correct a grievous wrong.

Lightning does not fall from the sky. It leaps from the ground, arcing its charge of molten electricity to the heavens. That was what Cole saw when he turned his head to look. And as the spark made its celestial trip, it ignited the small puddle of gas.

Blue frame leapt up the steps like a tidal wave rushing toward the Pinto. It arrived just as Sherri Palmer stood on its dented hood. The explosion blew the corpse apart, sending chunks of spoiled flesh and bone in an arc across the porch. Cole scrambled back from the heat, holding up his hand to protect his eyes from the brilliance of the flame.

The house burned; burned fast. It was totally engulfed within minutes. Cole could hear sirens in the distance, fireman to the rescue, but he was glad in his heart for there would be no rescue of the Rebero house and the horror within it. It was gone for good.

Cole managed to stand. He staggered around the side of the house, the flames glowing in his eyes. He stopped outside what was once the house's room. His eyes widened. They were all in there, those who died. Oblivious to the holocaust that surrounded them, they were sitting around a long table, untouched by the flames, eating a grand, last feast. Sherri was there sitting next to her husband, a small child playing joyfully on her lap. Next to her at the head of the table was Reed Moreno: young, strong, ready to take life's final journey into the unknown.

For the first time since it all began, Cole felt at peace. Tears filled his eyes; tears of both sorrow and joy. Cole couldn't roll back the clock, but God had finally granted him a chance at life. And as he looked with awe and relief at Reed and his friends, they all turned in unison. They looked at him with joy on their faces and raised then glasses in a hearty toast.

It was over.

The Demonstration Ride

It all started when I decided to buy a new car, one of those hot, new, Japanese
imports, the Yakamura Extra-Van. Sure, I would have preferred a Volvo, anyone would, but they're just too damn expensive for a research chemist's salary. Hell, the way things turned out, I could have bought the Volvo, the top of the line wagon with all the safety extras--if it weren't for that damned salesman.

I've never told anyone this story, especially the guys at the lab. To tell you the truth, I don't even like thinking about him. But ever since I saw his picture in the newspaper it's been eating away at me. Salesman of the year! I can't believe it! I'd sure like to tell someone my story, so, if you don't mind, I guess I'll tell you.

Hell, I don't even know where to start. I guess the beginning is as good a place as any.... Say, you won't tell anyone, will you? It'll just be between us friends, right? Okay, I'll do it then. Just take another tug on that bottle of pale-ale and listen to what a screwed up place this country has become.

When the old odometer starts to slip past a hundred thousand miles, I start to think about buying a new car. The process of finding a replacement usually takes a year, sometimes more. There's plenty of research to be done, issues to address. It's almost like taking on a part-time job.

I'd babied my old Volvo wagon for almost eight years. I'd gone through two "No Nukes" bumper stickers, and was halfway through my third set of Michelins. Trish had just given birth to our third child, Jenny, and was bugging me about getting one of those mini-vans. At first I said no; everyone knows mini-vans aren't safe. They don't have to meet the same safety standards as a passenger car.

"No car rolls over like a Volvo, Trish," I informed her. "You could roll down the side of a hill and still be able to drive it to the shop."

"You've never rolled the Volvo over, Wendell," she reminded me. "You never drive over fifty, even on the interstate."

"If everyone drove like me do you realize how much oil we could save in just one year? Don't you know this country is sucking the poor planet dry?"

"Yes, Wendell, you've told me. At least a thousand times."

"We have a responsibility, Trish. Those rednecks out there don't give a damn that the planet's being ruined by their pick-ups and RV's."

"What's this got to do with getting a mini-van?" she interrupted. "Jim and Donna have one of those new Dodges. It's real convenient, especially with a baby in a car-seat."

"A Dodge?" I asked, my face starting to turn red. "An American car? You want me buy an American-made piece of crap?"

"I knew you'd say that, and I looked into it. It's got a Japanese engine, Wendell."

"Yeah? Well what about the rest of it? Lousy American quality, built by drunks and dope addicts!"

She didn't speak to me for three days, and I knew that if I was ever going to have any peace, I'd have to relent. "But I'm going to do it the right way, Trish. An automobile is a major investment, and if you expect me to put out good money, it's got to be smart money!"

I began my research by doing a background check into all the major automobile manufacturers. There were important issues to consider. Were they politically correct? What's their country's policy on climate change? Do any of the materials used in their vehicles come from the rain forest?

In the end, I had to compromise on my political priorities a little. Everyone knows about the Japanese and the slaughter of whales, but I couldn't find a mini-van made anywhere else that would come close to being acceptable.

It didn't take me long to zero in on the new Extra-Van. Yakamura Heavy Industries was a big Japanese firm. They'd been around for years. Built troop transports during the Second World War. It was their stand on nuclear arms that first drew my attention. They sponsored the nuclear weapons freeze petition that was presented to the U.N. last spring. Paid the expenses of activists that came from all over the world.

A damn fine company!

Of course, the fact that I respected them didn't mean I trusted the company completely. It is my opinion that all major corporations are inherently evil. They are driven by profits, and in my book, profits mean they'll rip-off anyone if given the opportunity. So I continued my research. I studied all the latest data from the non-profit consumer magazines. I even sent off for copies of the Federal government's crash tests and looked the data over myself. Because of my wife, I had to work quickly. After two intensive months, I had made my decision. There was no doubt about it; the Yakamura Extra-Van was at the top of its class.

Now all I had to do was buy one.

You know, if I were the head of this country, I'd socialize the automobile industry. It's obscene that car dealers make a profit from automobiles. Why is that? I'll tell you why. I went to school for six years to become a chemist, and it galls me that any idiot right out of high school can become a salesman and make more money than I do. There's no justice in it. I mean, what do they do? Do they create anything? No. Are they concerned about the damage we're doing to this world? Are they concerned about the homeless? I think not! Sure, I'll calm down. It's just that it's got me thinking about how unfair things are!

Well, let me tell you, there hadn't been an automobile salesman born that is going to make a big commission off of me, not Wendell Stewart. I'm more intelligent than them, I'm better educated than them, and I'm determined to beat them at their own game.

Why didn't I go to an auto broker? Are you crazy? That's for suckers, my friend! All the auto broker does is buy the car from the dealer and sell it to you. That means two idiots are making a profit on the car. No, if you're smart enough, you can do it yourself and cut out the middleman.

The first thing you have to do is find out what the dealer pays for a car. Hell, I've even tried to find out what it costs to manufacturer the car, but those fascists keep that secret locked up tighter than the formula for the H-Bomb. But finding out what the dealer invoice is is simple really. My insurance company will provide a computer print out on any model for ten bucks a pop. Then, just to make sure that the insurance company isn't in cahoots with the automobile manufacture, you can buy books at any large magazine store that will tell you what the dealer pays for the car.

Of course, knowing the invoice is of only marginal value. You really can't believe them. Some manufacturers place incentives on the slow moving models to help the dealer sell them. I tell you, the ways they can rip you off is mind-boggling!

Eventually the time had come to see the mini-van in person. Unfortunately, that means going to a dealership, something I really hate to do. I decided to make my initial inspection late at night after they were closed. That way I could inspect the vehicle's fit and finish unmolested.

I went to Livingston Yakamura, at the new auto mall out by the interstate. I called up and found out they closed at 8:00. I got there at 10:00. The place was real quiet but well lit. There was an entire row of Extra-Vans to examine. Of course, they were locked up, so I couldn't inspect their interiors, but for now I was content with just looking at the outside and comparing the sticker prices with those generated by the computer. I also brought a flashlight and a tape measure to make sure the gaps between the body panels were uniform.

I had just leaned over to see what brand of tires they were using on the vans when I heard something behind me.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" a voice said from behind.

My heart skipped a beat. I bounced up quickly, sure that a mugger had slipped up behind me. But I was wrong. It was a man about fifty, slight build, with graying hair. He was wearing a pair of Levi Dockers and a cardigan sweater. He wore a white shirt, a dark tie, and a huge smile. He reminded me a little of Mr. Rogers from T.V.

"You know," the man said, "after some guys retire they take with them a mental picture of their former jobs. They carry that memory with them forever. For me, it will always be the lot late at night, after everyone has gone when things are peaceful and still. When I look at all the cars, lined up neatly in their rows, it's almost like nature. Its like a quiet forest before a summer rain."

I was speechless. I could only stare at the smiling man. Just another nut case, workaholic, automobile salesman with nothing better to do after work except wait for a late-night straggler like me.

He held out his hand. "My name is John Montanaro. What's yours?"

I shook the hand, it was warm and dry, the hand of a salesman, the hand of a man who hadn't done an honest day's work in his entire life. I reminded myself that the battle for a good deal starts with the handshake. I couldn't let this guy get the upper hand! "Wendell Stewart," I replied, griping his hand firmly.

"Mr. Stewart, may I call you Wendell?"

"Sure," I replied. Here it comes, I thought. The sales pitch!

"Wendell, I see you are interested in one of our new Extra-Vans. You know, I think people make the decision to buy an automobile much too quickly. They go on a lot, see a color that they like, and buy on impulse. Never buy on impulse, Wendell, that's my advice. Take your time. Cars aren't like an endangered species. They're not going to disappear from the earth. They're not flesh and bone. They're only iron with paint on them, only as good as man made them, and destined to wear out in only a few short years. The decision to buy is not something taken lightly. It should be planned and considered carefully.

"Now if you don't mind, I'm going to open up my office and get you a full-color brochure on the Extra-Van, but I'll only do it on one condition."

"What's that?" I asked. Here it comes!

"That you read it, cover to cover, small print and all. I want you to know as much about the vehicle as I do. Then, when you've completed your homework, we can talk again. I will listen to your questions, and answer them if I can, and together you and I will find the perfect vehicle for you and your family, and the perfect deal to go along with it."

Without waiting for a reply, he was off. I watched suspiciously as he opened the showroom, and turn on the light to a storage room. Within minutes he was back with a brochure and a business card. He was the smoothest salesman I had ever met, but there was one thing I was certain about: he wasn't going to get my telephone number!

"Here," he said, handing me the brochure. "Take this with you, now. Show it to the wife. Call me if you have any questions. The number's right there on the card."

He placed his hands behind his back, and smiled at me sincerely, making no attempt to ask me for any information that would help the idiot harass me. For an awkward moment we stood staring at each other, he with that grin, me feeling a strange mix of comfort and unease. Was this guy for real? Had I met the "Mr. Rogers" of automobile salesman, the only man in his profession with a shred of ethics?

"Well, I guess I'll be getting home," I said. "Got to get up early and go to work."

He nodded his head and said, "Fine, Wendell, fine. It's been most pleasurable speaking to a person like you. In this business it's rare you find someone who likes to do things the proper way."

I backed off a few feet, nodding my head in agreement. "See ya'!" I said and hurried back to the Volvo.

On my drive home, I gave the man considerable thought. Was he for real? He certainly seemed to be. Maybe, just maybe I had lucked into finding the one salesman in a thousand who wasn't brain-dead! Of course, that didn't mean I would cut the guy any slack. He won't be getting rich on me, not Wendell Stewart!

Back home, I went to my den and opened the brochure across my desk. Automobile brochures are of limited value. Sure they're filled with full-color, glossy photographs, and a listing of standard features and options, but they tell you little about what's beneath the surface. A less intelligent person could easily be suckered into buying without a full investigation into the merits of the vehicle and the company that made it. But at least I had something to show Trish and get her off my back!


The next day I left for work early. I drive the old Nissan Sentra Trish's father gave us second-hand after our middle child, Tom, was born. There's not much left of it, but it's enough to go back and forth to the lab. I work staggered hours, thereby avoiding the nasty, air polluting, morning commute. That allows me to leave work at 3:00 in the afternoon, and be home in exactly twenty-two minutes. If I work just an hour longer, the return commute lengthens to almost an hour!

I called Trish during my lunch hour. The telephone rang a dozen times, but there was no answer. I found that odd. I knew she had gone grocery shopping that morning, but she should have been home by then. I tried again a half-hour later, but there was still no answer. I started to get worried. Where the hell was she?

At 2:15 she called. "Where have you been?" I asked.

"You wouldn't believe the day I've had, Wendell!" she answered. "The Volvo died in Purity's parking lot!"

"What do you mean, died?"

"It wouldn't start! I called the auto club and they towed it to Hank's."

"What did he say?"

"I haven't had a chance to talk to him! I had groceries to get home! Thank God that nice man from the Yakamura dealership happened by!"

"What man?" I asked, my heart turning cold. The image of the smiling John Montanaro came to my mind.

"I was waiting for the tow truck when he drove into Purity's parking lot. He gave me a ride home."

"The salesman gave you a ride home?"

"Salesman? Who said anything about a salesman? It was their service shuttle. The driver told me he had just dropped off a customer at the store. He saw my predicament, and offered to help. Thank God he was there!"

My blood pressure lowered a little, but I was still suspicious. "What was this man's name? What did he look like?"

"Why are you asking all these questions, Wendell?"

"Trish, just answer me, will you?"

"His name was Tim, a young man about twenty or so. Would you mind telling me what's on that suspicious mind of yours, Wendell?"

I sighed with relief. For a brief moment I thought that salesman was up to something. I guess I was being a little too paranoid! Now that I thought about it, I remembered reading something about Yakamura. Doing things like helping people with car trouble was their policy, good public relations, and good for attracting potential customers.

"It's nothing, Trish. Just my imagination getting away from me, I guess."

"That new Yakamura Extra-Van is just wonderful!" she said. "It swallowed up two weeks of groceries and Jenny's car seat like it was nothing. You really should test-drive one, Wendell."

"I guess I might have to, won't I? Damn it! I hoped the Volvo would last a few more months. I haven't completed my research!"

"You're buying a car, Wendell, not trying to find a cure for cancer. Is it necessary to know every nut and bolt to buy one?"

"Don't start that again, Trish! I do things my way--the right way. I'll call Hank and find out what's wrong with the Volvo. Maybe it's nothing big. Maybe I can buy a little more time."


Well, I called Hank, and the news wasn't good. The entire electrical system had shorted out! "How does a thing like that happen, Hank? It's a Volvo, for Christ's sake!"

"It's an old Volvo, Mr. Stewart, and I recommend you treat it like a good ol' dog that's doing nothing but peeing on the carpet. It's time to put it down."

So that was it. I had three kids, and only one working car. I had to make a decision. That night I sat down with the Extra-Van brochure and reluctantly chose the model and options. The color I left to Trish. Then, I made a list of all the Yakamura dealers in the tri-county area. There were only three, but I knew exactly what to do. The next day was Saturday, and I would take the weekend and visit each one. I would use my computer printouts to play each salesman against the other. I would end with John Montanaro, a salesman so weak he didn't even have the nerve to ask for my phone number. Getting the best deal out of him would be like taking candy from a baby!

As far as I was concerned this was war. I started early. I left Trish, the kids and my barking dog at home. I had a good breakfast, drank plenty of coffee, and eased the old Sentra out on the interstate and headed twenty-seven miles east to the first Yakamura dealer on my list.

I visited two dealers that day. At the first, I did my visual inspection of the mini-van's interior, making sure it had dual air bags, anti-locking brakes and the other safety items I deemed critical.

"All twenty-three safety items are outlined in the brochure," an exasperated salesman named Ali assured me. I never believe what a company puts in their brochures. I checked each item myself except for the interior door-beams. No one was willing to tear open a door panel for me to examine them.

At the second dealer I concentrated on price. I spared with a salesman for a hour, and his boss for another. According to my printouts they were trying to make a $500 profit on me! That's entirely too much money in my book! Can you believe they even had the audacity to ask me to leave?

By the time I got home that afternoon I was confident Sunday would be my day. I would visit the Yakamura dealership right here in Livingston, armed with enough information to go in for the kill, and John Montanaro would be my man.
I called John and made an appointment for late in the day on Sunday. The time of day is strategic, because it's best to deal with a salesman when he is tired and about to go home.

"5:00 will be perfect for me, Wendell," John said easily. "I'll mark you down for then. And again, I would like to thank you for considering me and Livingston Yakamura. I'm sure this will be the beginning of a fruitful relationship."

"Just be prepared to sharpen your pencil, John," I warned.

He laughed. "You don't have to worry about that, Wendell. I will earn your business, I promise!"


The trap was set. I arrived at the dealership thirty minutes early, parking my car a full block away. I selected a spot to enter that would buy me a few extra minutes to inspect the mini-vans without John Montanaro hanging all over me. I had everything I needed; a calculator to double-check his figures, a clipboard with my computerized price list, and my own computer generated list of options.

I eased myself out of the car and walked stealthfully toward the side entrance near the parts department. I slipped through the gate and walked around the back of the service department toward the storage lot in the rear. From there I made my way down two rows of trucks until I was at the far end of the line of Extra-Vans. There were about thirty of them, all lined up, bright and shiny.

To my surprise no one approached me, even though I was certain a group of salesmen drinking coffee by the showroom door had spotted me within minutes of my arrival. I used the time to my advantage, looking over the equipment on each mini-van carefully. Eventually, I found one that would be acceptable.

I looked at my watch. I had been there, alone, a full twenty minutes, yet no one had made the slightest move to help me. This was very odd, and even a bit annoying. I mean I wanted my space, but....

"Find the one you like?" a voice asked from behind me.

My heart jumped into my throat. I turned quickly to see John Montanaro beaming at me.

"Gee, there I went and startled you again, Wendell," he said, holding out his hand. "Please forgive me! Believe me, I don't make a habit of that!"

"That's, that's okay," I said, trying to regain my composure. I laughed nervously.

"I saw you out here, but I wanted to give you enough time to look things over without me breathing down your neck," John explained. "It's important that you make the right choice, a choice that you and your family will be happy with for years to come."

"Yes, of course," I replied. There was something odd about this man, something I was having a hard time pinning down. I had never met someone who seemed so determined to make me happy. It bordered on eerie.

John looked lovingly over the line of mini-vans. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" he said. "State-of-the-art Japanese technology. Did you know that the life expectancy of these vehicles is twenty years? Why that's long enough to see your family grow up. Heck, long enough for a grandchild or two!”

"I don't believe that twelve years number for a moment," I replied. This guy wasn't going to bullshit me! "That's a number made up by an advertising agency. It's not provable."

John nodded. "Maybe you're right, Wendell. I won't argue the point. To tell you the truth, I don't like the idea of selling you a new car only once every twenty years!"

The balance of power was shifting. I felt like I was taking control. "Okay, John, here's the thing. I will give you $100 over invoice for this mini-van. Take it or leave it. I have another dealer that has already agreed to my price, but I'd rather buy it from you. You seem like a nice guy."

"$100 over invoice," he repeated, stroking his chin. "I'll have to think that one over, Wendell, but I'm sure we can come to terms. Have you driven the Extra-Van yet?"

"I've done my research. I got on the Internet. I’ve read all the reports. I know all I need to know. I don't need to drive it."

“Tell me, Wendell, what size shoe do you wear?"

"What does that have to do with buying a mini-van?"

"Everything," John said with a sigh. "Let's say you wear a size 10. If you bought a pair, even if the salesman showed you it was the right size, would you try them on?"

"Of course I would!"

"Why?"

"Because you have to make sure they fit. If you wear them out of the store, you can't return them."

"That's exactly my point, Wendell. You are standing beside a Pacific Blue, 2011 Yakamura mini-van. It's one of thirty I have in stock. I'm sure it will provide you and your family with many years of enjoyment. But what if, Wendell, what if this is the one mini-van out of a thousand that has something wrong with it? Would you want to buy it?"

"No way!" I replied. "If it's not perfect, I don't want it!"

John Montanaro reached into his pocket and produced a key. "Then let's just make sure, shall we? Because like that pair of size 10's, once you drive it off the lot, you can't bring it back."

He had me there. Even though I didn't want to admit it, he was right. It would be stupid not to put the van through its paces. It was a logical extension of my research! "Okay," I conceded. "You win. Let's go for a drive."

John climbed into the van and expertly pulled it from its narrow parking spot. He popped the power door lock and gestured for me to get in. "Let me drive first," he said. "I want to make sure everything's okay!"

I sat next to him. I breathed in that new car smell, and I'll admit I got excited, though I was careful not to show it. Driving the Yakamura was going to be a pleasure, and at that moment I was feeling very happy. It was the right mini-van, the right equipment, and the right salesman. I had done well.

"Wendell, if you don't mind, I have a special course I'd like to take you on. It will take twenty minutes or so. I feel it will really show you all the things you need to know about how a Yakamura feels and drives. And it will also give me a chance to explain the Yakamura buying experience, a way of selling cars that's unique to the industry."

I glanced over at him. Yakamura buying experience? What the hell did that mean? It didn't sound like a hundred bucks over invoice! But I kept my mouth shut. Let the idiot have his way, let him think that he's got me over a barrel, and then I'll come in for the kill.

John drove about five or six blocks, droning on about the Extra-Van's suspension and steering. I knew more about the Van than he did, but I let the fool think he was selling me.

He was driving along the eastern side of Stoneham Park over by the interstate. I figured he'd pull over in front of some nice scenery that would make the mini-van look extra-good and let me drive, but instead of pulling over, he headed up the on-ramp and took the interstate north. I looked out the window, watching the town below, only half-listening to the sales-pitch. I told myself to be patient. The man was like a washing machine that had to go through all its cycles.

We'd been on the interstate for about five minutes when I noticed that he had stopped talking. I pulled myself from the window to see John Montanaro staring straight ahead at the early evening traffic. That was when I had my first inkling that something was wrong.

The man's expression had completely changed. His animated, foolish face, filled with the same eagerness as a dog wanting to please its master, was gone. In its place was a look that chilled me. His eyes had gone blank, his face slack. It carried absolutely no expression.

What could the man be thinking? Maybe he was realizing that he was about to make a sale but not any money! I couldn't help myself. I started to laugh. John didn't respond. He just continued to drive, drive past the city limits, drive until we had long passed the twenty minutes allotted for his 'special demonstration'.

The sun was starting to set, and I was regretting my laughter. I looked around at the thinning traffic, wondering what was going on. "I thought you wanted me to drive?" I asked, using my most confident voice.

For the first time in five miles he looked over at me, his eyes boring into mine. "Oh, you'll drive, Wendell. The Extra-Van will provide many years of enjoyment."

"I didn't realize I had bought it yet," I said firmly.

"You will, Wendell. Believe me, you will."

I opened my mouth to speak but stopped. Maybe now wasn't the time to put the idiot in his place. Dealing with a salesman can be like dealing with a mad dog. Sometimes it's best to be diplomatic. "Do you think maybe we should be turning back, John? We've been gone a long time. It must be getting close to quitting time."

"It doesn't matter. I have my own keys. I can finish up the transaction myself after we have out little talk."

"Talk?"

"We're going to have a little sales meeting, just you and I," he replied. "As my father used to say, 'I'm going to tell you how the cow eats the cabbage'."

With that, he pulled off the interstate. We were now somewhere in the country near the county line. I had lost track of exactly where we were. John drove purposely. He seemed to know exactly where he was heading. Maybe I should have said something else, but I didn't. I could only look straight ahead, and wonder what the hell was going on, and hope that things hadn't gone too wrong.

It was almost dark when he eased the Extra-Van onto the gravel shoulder of the pot-holed country road. We were parked alongside a field. Long rows of some unknown crop disappeared into the darkness.

"What the hell is going on, John?" I asked. "Why are we stopped here?"

"Nothing to get your liberal ass stirred up about, Wendell. Don't worry, you'll be home in time, drinking a glass of chardonnay, shaking your self-satisfied head at the world news on National Public Radio and feeling oh, so good about yourself. Well, maybe I'll be putting a little dent in that. Perhaps put a permanent crack in your politically-correct personality."

"How dare you speak to me that way!" I cried.

"Well at least I have the balls to tell you what's on my mind, my friend. I can only guess what you've been thinking about me. Bet you thought you were going to screw another automobile salesman, didn't you? Bet you put a lot of time and thought into it, didn't you? Bet you had it figured right down to the last yuppie penny of yours how you were going to prevent me from making an honest living!" He paused for moment. "Am I wrong, Wendell? You don't even have to answer. I see it plastered all over your sorry face.

"I know you, Wendell. I've been dealing with people like you all my life. I know you've been doing your homework. Bet you call it research, don't you, like buying a car is as important as finding a cure for AIDS? Well, I've been doing my research too, Wendell. Now, what do you think of that?"

I was afraid to ask, but I did anyway. "Wha-what research?"

John Montanaro reached into his back pocket and brought out a small spiral-bound notebook. "You've got a pretty wife, or so I've heard."

"When did you see my wife?" I almost shouted.

"Calm down, Wendell. I didn't see her. My son did. His name is Tim. He drives the courtesy van. He picked her up at the grocery store parking lot the other day after that unfortunate incident with your Volvo."

"Your son?" I mumbled. "What did he do to my car?"

John shook his head sadly. "There, there, Wendell. Do you think I would be a party to something like that? Do you think I have to resort to vandalism in order to sell such fine vehicles as this Pacific Blue, Yakamura Extra-Van?"

I was speechless. He looked at me hard, his eyes glowing with anger. He waited for me to answer, but I didn't reply. I didn't know what he and his son had done, and I was rapidly getting to the point where I didn't care. The only thing important now was getting out of this.... Alive? Did I really think that? Had something as trivial as a car sale been reduced to a matter of life or death? No, God! No!

"I see in your eyes you believe it, Wendell, not that it matters. It's in the past. Your 'No “Nukes' bumper sticker on the rusted fender of your precious Volvo will never be cruising the streets of our fair town again. But not to worry. There's plenty of room on the bumper of the Extra-Van!"

"You expect me to buy a car from you after speaking to me that way? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'm your salesman, Wendell. The last car salesman you will know in your life. You see, Wendell you are going to buy this mini-van, and as for a discount.... What did you say, $100 over invoice? Well, you can just forget that, my friend. You are going to pay list price, Wendell, full boat, dealer pack sticker and all, the whole enchilada. And you are going to finance it--with us. That spotless credit of yours will earn you the right to pay twenty-percent interest."

"Full list? Twenty-percent interest? Are you nuts?" I screamed.

John looked down at his notebook. "You have three lovely children, Wendell. Abbey, she's seventeen. Very pretty, I might say. Tim took a shine to her." He held up a photograph of her taken from a telephoto lens as she emerged from school. "You must be proud of her, straight "A" student, cheerleader. She'll miss the Volvo too. Until it finally broke down, she and her boyfriend, Chad I believe is his name, had been having sex in the back of it twice a week."

I was starting to turn red. Honestly, I don't ever remember having been so angry, so horrified.

"Your son, Tom, is eight. Nice kid, but he likes to cross streets without looking. You really should talk to him about that."

John grinned at me. "And that wife of yours, alone all day in that big house with the baby. It’s got to be boring. I bet she's about ready for a change of pace."

"You're threatening me? You're threatening my family?"

"Your family is safe, Wendell, if you're smart. It's simple, really. It's up to you. All you have to do is buy the car on my terms."

"And if I don't?"

John shook his head. "You don't want to even think about that, my friend. Believe me, it's not worth it."

"You're bluffing," I said.

John reached into his pocket and brought out a cell telephone. He quickly punched in a telephone number. Someone answered on the first ring. "Tim?" he asked. "Do you have it?" John smiled and looked at me. "You have a dog, Wendell, a cocker spaniel? I believe his name is Cookie?"

I started to feel very uneasy. "Yes," I replied carefully.

"Tim," John said into the telephone. "Kill him."

He handed the telephone to me. I took it reluctantly and held it up to my ear. On the other end I could hear barking and then the screams of a dog in pain, a dog being tortured. "No!" I yelled into the telephone. "You leave him alone!"

Before I was aware of what was happening, John snatched away the telephone. "It's too late, Wendell," he said. "You really should try and make your decisions more promptly."

I fell back on my seat, panting with fear. "My dog? You killed my dog you bastard?"

John shrugged. "Let's just say he's gone on to a better life." The man laughed, a slow, menacing laugh, a laugh that said he was enjoying this immensely. "I'm sure he'll be much happier without you," he added. "Now, what do you say, Wendell? Do we end this all right here, or will we have to get nasty? It's up to you."

"You go to hell!" I screamed.

"That's a distinct possibility," he said with a smile. "But that's a few years down the line, and I have cars to sell. Do you know where your daughter is tonight, Wendell?"

My eyes widened. "She's at home!"

John looked down at his notebook. "According to my son, she's at her high school. She's helping with the decorations for a dance, I believe. My son really likes your daughter, Wendell, but just between you and me, he wouldn't make a very good son-in-law. He has too many odd hobbies."

"What are you saying to me?"

"Chad was going to pick her up at 9:00, I believe, though I doubt he will regain consciousness by then. Don't worry, Tim and the courtesy shuttle will be there! Wendell, did you know you can fold these seats down into a bed?"

A primal part of me took over, and I lunged at him. The man was quick. Before I knew it, he slapped me hard across the face with the back of his hand; I flew back against the passenger-side window. My head hit hard, and for a moment I thought I was going to black out.

"That was fun, Wendell! Did you notice the quality of Yakamura's safety glass? Would you like another demonstration?"

I shook my head and looked over to see the barrel of a gun pointing at me.

"Perhaps, I was mistaken about you," he said slowly. "I had hoped for peaceful cooperation, but you have more balls than I thought. Perhaps I should kill you here, right now, and bury your body out in that field. I don't want to do that, Wendell. It's not my wish to hurt you or your family. I would lose a sale. I don't like losing sales, my friend. But then again, there is your wife.... She'll be getting the insurance money, and as they say, life must go on."

He had me. I knew that if I said one more thing, I would be pistol whipped until I was senseless--or maybe even worse. I told myself to do whatever the man asked. There would be evidence. I'd get my revenge one way or another.

"Okay, John, you win. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt me."

"I'm glad you've decided to be reasonable, Wendell. Believe me, I don't like getting nasty. To be truthful, it takes the fun out of the sale!"

He laughed loudly, pleased with his stupid joke. When he was finished he looked at me, an amused smile plastered on his stupid face. "Cheer up, Wendell! It's not all bad. I'll see to it that you get your money's worth. You will never have to worry about your investment. If anything goes wrong, anything, just call me. I'll take care of it, and I'll even provide a free loner when your car's in the shop."

"Somehow, John, I don't think I'll be in the mood to talk to you much after we've concluded our business here tonight."

"As you wish, Wendell, but if you'll take my advice; make the best of a bad situation. It's just like when I met you. I said to myself, "There goes one self-serving, selfish, son-of-a-bitchin' pipe smoker. The type of man who says 'rain forest' when he's talking about a God damned jungle. The type of man who thinks we should give this great land of ours back to the Indians. The type of man who has been taking advantage of car salesman since he learned how to drive. You know something, Wendell? We have a saying in this business: 'What goes around, comes around'. My friend, it's finally come around for you."


When we finally arrived back at the dealership it was closed. I gave no thought to running. The bulge of the gun in John's pocket precluded it. He opened the showroom, and we went to his office. There was no one around, no witness to tell my story to, no one that had even seen me leave with the man. John hummed happily as he typed up the paperwork. I felt numb, too afraid to do or say anything that might set the man off again.

So, I bought the mini-van and took it home. My son was the first one out the door, squealing with delight. My wife greeted me with an excited kiss. No, I didn't tell her what happened. Somehow, I thought she would laugh, just like the police did when I called them the next morning. Because, my friend, there was no evidence, nothing at all to prove the John Montanaro had coerced me into signing an inflated contract. Not a trace.

You see I saw two things that night I brought the Extra-Van home. Two things that both relieved me and made me angrier than I had ever been in my life. My daughter, Abbey, was lying on the sofa. A bad cold had kept her from going anywhere that night. She didn't care about the new mini-van. She was too busy talking to her boyfriend on the telephone. And next to her, sleeping like a baby was my dog, Cookie. It had all been a lie, a car salesman lie, the whopper of all times.

Three days later I received a thank you card from Livingston Yakamura hoping I enjoyed the 'Yakamura buying experience'. What a laugh! And there was something else in the envelope, a hand-written message from John Montanaro. It said:

Thank you, once again, for your
business. I'm sure the Extra-Van will
be a pleasure to own. I'll be talking
to you soon about replacing your old
Nissan with a new, reliable Yakamura
sedan. Hope your entire family remains
in good health!
Sincerely,

John Montanaro

Crimson Time

I awake in the darkness the same way each night. For a moment I do not know where I am, who I am, what I am. For that brief span of time--no longer than a single, sorrowful second--I am as I once was, normal, mortal. The faces of my once beloved flash across my eyes like the silver lightening on the plains of my homeland, left behind so long, long ago The faces dance like ghosts, splintered fragments of warmth gone cold. I wish, I do not wish, they could be with me now.

And then, just as my nostrils fill with the sweet smells of life, it is gone. It is crimson time, once again. My pale hand pushes up, filled with lingering anguish and throws back the black, lacquered wood. The lid slides open, and in the dim hiding place I smell the raw earth and hear the sounds of the others stirring from their graveyard sleep.

Crimson time. It fills my eyes with the vision of blood and washes away the last reminders of my forgotten humanity. It fills my senses with the hidden lust of the night, the lust for eternal life.

I now stand with the others, communicating without words, acknowledging the need that can never be satisfied and never stopped by the sweet offer of death. And as the last grip of protection the sun offers the world slowly fades away, into the night we fly....