Nice 1^st anniversary. Dinner out, back at home, fireplace going, cocktails, no awkward moments in the bedroom. Now he was sleeping. There was probably a smile on his face.

     She nudged him; he heard the dogs. "Did you leave them out?" she said, half-asleep. He could picture her face without even looking—just simply beautiful, long blond hair, high cheekbones, eyes shaped perfect, as if they were always discovering mischief in the world.

     "Nope," he said, grinning. "But if you want to go another round, pay the price, I’ll let them in."

     She laughed. "Forget it. I’m worn out." She shook off the blanket and went to the French doors. From there you could go out on the small balcony and see the entire back yard. "You be quiet!" she shussed at the dogs. "Get inside!"

     The dogs continued to bark. "Idiots," she said. The older dog was blind, and wasn’t going to live much longer. The puppy was Ripley’s companion, an afterthought…but too frisky for it, and trying its best already to be the Alpha dog. Then Sandy stepped back suddenly and bumped against the edge of the open door.

     "You OK?" Paul asked. He had turned to stare at her. God, she looked good.

     Sandy shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "It was nothing."

     "What?" Paul said. He had figured out a long time ago that Sandy needed coaxing to admit any worries. She was strong—hear her roar.

     The dogs kept barking. Paul went to the doors, leaning against her to look outside. Lucky, the puppy, was running the perimeter in ragged circles. Ripley was throwing herself against the dog-eared fenced that covered nearly an acre. She was at the back gate, where the property adjoined a marsh.

     "I thought I saw a light," Sandy said quietly. "Like a flashlight, moving around out there."

     "I don’t see anything," Paul said. He leaned over and kissed her neck. He was headed towards to the bed when she gasped. Paul hurried back, looking out. The dogs were cowering on the rear deck of the house, away from the trees that lined the edges of the expansive yard and the cluster of oaks in the middle.

     "It was a shadow," said Sandy. "It floated across the yard, like a giant bat."

     Paul looked up. He had to lean far out. It was 2am, the moon in the west. "Maybe some tree branches moving in the wind," he said. "I’ll go let the dogs in."

     The dogs came in eagerly, Ripley the Elder always unsteady, Lucky going straight for her blanket. Paul went out on to the deck. From this angle the yard stretched forever, the bare branches of the trees seeming to scratch against low, marching clouds. Sandy wasn’t one to imagine things--maybe some kids had snuck out to check the ramshackle forts they built near the marsh. That would explain the flashlight. As for this ‘bat’ shadow, well, Sandy had enjoyed her wine at dinner, and the cocktails after…

     He got the flashlight from the kitchen—Sandy was already asleep, just a whisper of a snore—and Paul wondered if he should bring the dogs. He couldn’t find the leashes, didn’t want to wake his wife, and so Paul went out alone into the yard in his robe and slippers.

     There was enough moonlight coming through the trees for him to follow the main path. Another dead branch, a large one, had fallen recently, and he moved it aside. He heard a small noise beyond the gate, somewhere out on the slopes that led to the marsh, just a hint…maybe an animal, maybe the wind. He couldn’t see a damn thing and wished he had turned the deck lights on. He started to flick on the flashlight and thought better of it. Kids! Catch ‘em and scare them half to death, that’ll teach them…

     He eased the gate open and started through the underbrush. The land here was no-man’s land, owned by a retired couple in Florida who hadn’t been back in decades. The moonlight dissolved in the canopy of branches as Paul went deeper, and he slowed down to find his way through the thick brambles and rotting logs. He was actually thinking how nimble and agile he was, despite the darkness, when he stumbled over something.

     He went down hard on his hip and shoulder, the wind knocked out of him, and a hand came out from the brush and clamped across his mouth. Putrid whiskey-breath seeped into his lungs through the hand as he gasped for air. "Not a word…" whispered a hoarse voice. More rustling as the voice came closer. The stench was overpowering, and Paul gagged as he tried to pull the hand away. "Don’t fight me!" said the stranger.

     A trace of moonlight reflected on the hard barrel of a long flashlight as it came down and was held against his throat. Paul’s flashlight was pulled from his hand and tossed aside. Paul could breath now, but it was ragged, and his muscles felt weak and unresponsive…he had never felt this helpless in his life. The stranger’s face came close; Paul could make out the sunken eyes, the face etched like a canyon, the broken stumps of teeth. The man was wearing thick clothing that reeked of swamp water and something dead.

     "Go ahead, think what you want," the man said, his tone different. For a moment, Paul thought he was listening to a cultured voice, but that was not possible, not from what he saw. The flashlight against his throat eased up a bit.

     "Sandy is your wife now, right?" asked the stranger. It was a statement. His lips peeled back. "Just your luck, I guess. And I could really give a damn, except no man should have to go through what I did, or the others."

     Paul managed to swallow, get his throat working. He had to fight hard to keep his voice steady. "You stay away from my wife or I’ll kill you! I’ve got attack dogs, and guns!"

     This time the stranger actually laughed. "Yeah, attack dogs, all right. I saw them. What is that one, blind?" The flashlight came away, flicked on, and shone on Paul’s face, blinding him. "Guns won’t help you either, Mr. Franklin. When the shadows come, dogs or guns don’t matter."

     "I’ll have your ass arrested!" yelled Paul, coughing. The flashlight wavered as the stranger got to his feet.

     "Go ahead. Been there, done that. Jail, psych-ward, name it. But you won’t find me, anyway. And you don’t want to, not yet." The stranger got to his feet with an aching weariness. He was tall, but even the layers of clothing couldn’t hide the gauntness.

     "What the hell are you talking about? Who are you?" snapped Paul. "What shadows?" He tried to get up and felt sick. He stood there hunched over.

     "You wouldn’t believe me right now," said the stranger. The flashlight was off, the stranger easing away through the brush. The slight noises stopped. The stranger’s voice came from deep in the woods, normal at first, then a snarl:

     "She still got her scrapbooks? Bet so. Check it out, man…check it out. Especially the pictures…

     "She always keeps the pictures…"

                            …………………

     Paul brushed what he could from his robe and found his way back to the house. It took a while; when he got inside, the dogs sniffed at him, growled, and went back to their corners. He started to wash his hands and ankles, then just took a shower. He checked his throat in the mirror. He had the start of a bruise, which he figured he could blame on his accidental fall…vines, tree roots, all sorts of wild things out there in the netherland.

     He walked to the bedroom and stopped dead. Sandy was at the French doors, staring out. "I thought I heard noises," she said, turning around. God, she looked beautiful. "Was somebody out there?"

     "Nothing," said Paul. "I tripped and fell. Maybe that’s what you heard."

     "And you didn’t see anybody?"

     "I didn’t see a thing," Paul said. "Swear to God."

     They made love, they met neighbors and played cards. Paul finally cleared out the abandoned junk from the ancient garage; everything went to Goodwill, tax-deductible. Sandy joined a garden club; she laughed about it because it was the dead of winter, but the girls had to plan ahead, always over wine. A week went by, the dogs were quiet, no mysterious shadows, and then Paul searched for the scrapbooks and the pictures.

     A year may seem like a long time to not know things, but she had swept him off his feet, as the saying goes; they had dated barely five months before the marriage. There were still mountains of boxes from both apartments to unpack even now. Paul had to admit to himself that what he knew about Sandy’s past came from her brief conversations over cocktails: both parents dead in a tragic car accident in Alaska, no siblings (her only sister had died young from congestive heart failure), and that was that. So at a Bistro in Janesville, not a bad place, cozy and intimate, he brought up the subject of boyfriends, perhaps husbands.

     "Sure, I had boyfriends," she said shyly. "You know, just friends…"

     "You were 25 years old when I met you, and you said you were a virgin. That’s rare nowadays. So what about these guys?"

     "I beat them off with a stick," laughed Sandy. She was getting that mischievous look in her eyes again.

     "Literally?" Paul said, grinning back at her. "That’s a new one."

     Sandy tried to do her Bill Clinton imitation, rapping her knuckles down on the table: "I did not have sex with those men!" She laughed briefly at her poor imitation, then her eyes narrowed. "Do you believe me or not?"

     "I believe you," said Paul. He managed a pretty-good imitation himself—a smile. "So I guess that eliminates any husbands, eh?"

     "Oh, most definitely," answered Sandy. She finished her wine.

           .........................                            

     Sandy spent the next afternoon with her gardening club; Paul spent the next afternoon coughing and sneezing down in the basement. The boxes were blocked by paint cans and tools and everything else that goes with remodeling an old house, but that was a good pretense—Paul moved a few things around as if he were sorting it out, then went to work on the boxes.

     Everyone snoops, but this felt a lot different from rummaging around in somebody’s medicine cabinet. Like all women, Sandy kept everything—Christmas ornaments, ribbons, postcards, letters, a collection of stuffed animals (all rabbits), a melted candle, a pair of frayed panties with a suggestive quote (now, that made him wonder), a copy of The Kama Sutra (that too!), everything. He started with the postcards, thumbing through them. No address or postmark stood out. Most were from vacations her parents had taken, scenic views of charter ships and glaciers. Some were from Sandy’s own vacations: Aruba, Florida, all college-age locations. Paul wiped a cobweb from his forehead and pulled out a packet of letters. He held it as if it was Pandora’s box itself.

     He undid the ribbon that bound them, looked carefully at the top envelope, then all of them. The first was from her parents, as were most of them. There were probably 20 letters. The last six were from men.

     He stood there, sweating even in the coolness of the ancient basement, his body throbbing with a strange pulse. He felt dust and broken cobwebs in his eyes, felt it in his mouth. He couldn’t swallow. He sorted the envelopes by names and dates—there were two each from three different men. He hurried through the first of each, the mustiness of the pages floating up, not wanting to read secrets, unable to stop.

     It sickened him to read the pages, made him want to burn them in a fire that would engulf the entire house they were building together.

     Paul stopped crying. He rubbed the grit off his face and peeled the flaps back from the second set of envelopes. He spread the letters out, absent-mindedly swatting a tiny white spider that had dropped on his neck. He read the last page of each.

     And there it was:

     You evil bitch! I gave you everything, and this is what I get?

…………………….

     This time he chose the last scrapbook. Pieces of newspaper slid out from under the back cover. One was aged enough to have yellowed at the edges. It was the obituary page of The Chicago Tribune, the date missing from the top right corner. The page was folded into quarters, and Paul opened it carefully. There were perhaps 30 obits, all text, no photographs. He started to check ages, but in every case, the date of death had been obliterated…a tear in the crease, or a deliberate puncture, as a pen or pencil might make when it was thrust through the paper. Paul gently turned the page over—the reverse side held ads for Funeral Parlors…’Sike’s Since 1945’, ‘Hennessy’s--A Family Tradition Since 1961’, and four paid obits with photos, all elderly folks. One of them, purely by accident, had her eyes poked out from the other side, the face of Anne Smittie, age 87, staring out at her remaining relatives with hollow sockets.

     Paul threw it down; he grabbed the next newspaper article, another obituary sheet, this time from the Sun-Times, newer, crisper. The date had been snipped off clean and sharp; spaces where faces and dates once stood where now ragged holes. He flipped the sheet over…there could be tell-tale dates…something.

     Footsteps sounded overhead. The basement door opened wider. The top step creaked and settled. "Honey, what are you doing down there?" asked Sandy.

     "Trying to get this crap organized!" Paul said, yelling more than he should have. He began stuffing the newspaper sheets back into the scrapbook. "I wanted to finish the trim for the bedroom, and I can’t even get to it."

     Sandy took another step. The boards shifted under her. "You’d better stay there," Paul said. "Those stairs are a million years old." He could see her shoes and started to hurry. Then he relaxed. She hated the basement…she had come down once, only to have a spider dangle in front of her. That was it for her—he had carried every box and paint can downstairs himself. He wanted to check the obituaries again, especially the last one he hadn’t gotten to. There would be time.

     "I’ll be right up, Dear," he said. He took his time putting the scrapbook back in order.

     When he came upstairs, he helped her carry in ferns from the car. These would be planted in the spring, she told him, laughing at his confused look. He was an idiot about plants. "How about dinner?" he said. He held out a fern. "Salad, I guess."

     She laughed again, giving him the smile. "No, you’ll get a steak." She brushed at his hair. "Ugh!" she said, wiping her hand on her pants. "You got cobwebs!"

     Paul swiped at the dust on his hair and made a face. "I need a shower, huh?"

     "Definitely," Sandy said.

……………………………

     Paul was a claims-adjuster for a large insurance company. He worked from home 4 days a week, but was expected in the office for meetings on Monday. He still had vacation-time coming, so he blew off a half-day and came home at 1. He was curious, to say the least.

     The recycling truck was just pulling away. Sandy was in her gray Nike sweats with the black stripe. Paul shook his head and locked the car. "Fooling around with the garbage man, are you?"

     Sandy laughed. "I forgot some junk," she said. "I called down, and the guy came back."

     "Oh," said Paul. "What?"

     "Just things I wanted to get rid of," she said. "C’mon, I’ll make you lunch." She smiled at him, and that made him forget his foolish fears.

     Until she brushed the cobwebs from her long golden hair.

………………………..

     The dogs began to bark that night. Paul quieted them down, let them in. Sandy was sleeping. Paul slid out of their bed and took the new flashlight. He followed the path to the rear gate. There was a brief noise in the brush, a thin sound that came from the marsh to the gate.

     "No need to turn the light on," said the gaunt man. "Did you bring any food?"

     Paul held out a jar of peanut butter and a half-loaf of rye bread. He pulled them back as the man reached out. "Is your name Stephen?"

     The man showed a glimpse of his blackened gums. "Could be. So you found something, then?"

     Paul gave him the food. "All I could get right now," he said.

     "That’ll do," said the man. He opened the jar and began eating from it with his fingers, but tidily, as if he were a cat. He paused. "Did you see her scrapbooks?"

     "She came home. Then they were, ah…destroyed, I think."

     The man licked his fingers. "There are other sources, I guess." He took out a slice of bread, stared at it, ate it crushed in a ball. A sound like a lost cry of anguish came in from east of them. The thin waters of the marsh were filled at the edges with ice, but now the water roiled back to the shores, fish and frogs swept up in a fount of waterspray that danced to the shore, then stopped, a geyser in mid-motion.

     "We don’t have much time," said the gaunt man, searching for another piece of rye. "The shadows are coming."

     The man with the broken teeth and the hollow eyes smacked his lips. "You looked scared," he said. "You should be." He stared, and Paul saw vision behind the eyes.

     "Let me tell you how it all started," said the man…

     The thin man came closer. Paul could smell the animal stench on him. The stranger put his hands on his knees and grimaced as he struggled to his feet. The man clutched at his back and Paul heard bones snap. "You and I are very much alike," he said. "We have…a history."

     Paul was an average man—he was 5’10", medium build with brown eyes, needed to lose about 10 pounds, had most of his hair. He thought he was in pretty-good shape. He was 35. The stranger stood eye-to-eye with him now. Paul resisted the urge to gag at the smell. "I want you to take a good look," hissed the stranger. "A really good look."

     His eyes bored out from the sunken hollows. Moonlight streaked the grotesque face. Paul brought the flashlight up; the beam flickered and died. He dropped the flashlight; stared back as the stranger had demanded. In the shifting moonlight, the stranger’s gaunt, hard face seemed to soften and fill out.

     For one moment, in the span of time it takes to blink slowly, the eyes of the stranger were no longer sunken and black—they were a soft gray with a trace of mischief. The hollows in the face were gone, and the wisps of matted hair became a careless but short shock of deep brown. The face had a casual, reckless look. For that one moment, the stranger was self-assured, impish, cocky, and all those features made him handsome in a strange mixture…

     And Paul felt the tendrils of shock crawl in and grab at his brain.

     The stranger could be Paul as he shaved and smirked at the mirror in the morning, or at night when he made love to Sandy. It was a trick of the moonlight, he knew it was, but it was right there staring him in the face, believable beyond doubt.

     The stranger suddenly collapsed to the ground, gasping. He was as he had been, an apparent derelict. He laid on the leaves and dirt and shook with small convulsions, twisted fingers searching for something solid to hold on to. He found some air and rolled over onto his hands and knees. Spit hanging from his chin, he cocked his head up. "She wants us to look the same, you know. Not exactly, but close enough. She does have her preferences, that’s for sure."

     The stranger stopped, finally caught his breath. "I looked like you once," he said. "I proved it to you, didn’t I, even if it almost killed me." He leaned against a tree. Even in the dead of winter there were animals…a squirrel darted past, and the stranger instinctively tried to fling a hand out. The squirrel leaped to a nearby tree and chattered from a high branch. The man wiped his chin and rolled his head down to his shoulder. "That’s what I eat now…damn squirrels and rats."

     Paul looked over at the marsh. The wind had died down. There was a rim of ice on the lake. No shadows were in sight.

     Paul asked the question. "Is your name Stephen?"

     The gaunt man looked up. The creases on his face deepened. "Yes," he said softly.

     Paul watched as his hand came out with a will of its own, grasping at the man’s throat. The flesh on the man’s throat felt like cold cereal, as if he could dig right in and tear skin and bones away with no effort at all. "Keep that up and you’ll never hear a thing," said the man, and Paul released his hold, shaken by what he had done. He had never as much as even slapped anyone in his entire life.

     "That’s OK," said the man. "I’ll give you one time. If the others had been alive, I’d’ve done the same…worse. But if you do it again, it won’t be me that gets revenge. The shadows will do it for me." He coughed and spit a bloody, congealed mass on the forest floor. To Paul, the gummy puddle appeared to slither under the leaves towards the marsh even as he watched.

     The man tried a grin. Paul wanted to turn away from the broken mouth, couldn’t. "A part of you is starting to believe that I knew your wife, that perhaps Sandra and I were, ah…intimate. But you look at what I am now and you are horrified." The man turned to stare out at the marsh. "It’s a bit easier to take if the other guy is handsome, or rich, isn’t it? You can always blame it on that…"

     The stranger shifted, came back to Paul’s gaze. For a moment, as the branches swayed and shadows covered them, they could have almost been two normal men discussing anything. Except Paul wanted to kill him.

     The stranger read his mind. "You can’t blame me for being in Sandra’s past," he said sternly. "You didn’t exist then, not as far as she knew. I was handsome then, had money, had a condo on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago."

     "You’re a liar," snapped Paul, forcing himself to keep his hands still.

     "Oh, not at all," said the stranger, "not at all. I was 25, owned a seat on the Commodities Exchange. Cost me $250,000 back when I bought it, age 21. Had it all paid off and owned the condo too by the time I met Sandra. Yeah, I was doing just fine."

     He started coughing again, phlegm pulled up from deep in his lungs. "Cancer," he said. "Got every damn disease known to man, I guess." He cleared his throat, stood upright as well as he could. "My name is Stephen A. Carney. I owned the brokerage seat from 1972 until ’78. Check it out. That’s something even she can’t change."

     "That’s almost 25 years ago," said Paul. There was relief in his tone. "Sandy wasn’t even alive."

     "Oh, yes she was," said Stephen A. Carney. "Don’t I know it. Said she was a virgin, too." He managed a wink. "You fall for that too?"

     Stephen A. Carney began to sneeze. Blood ran from his nose. He wiped it away in a smear on his shirtsleeve. "I know you want to kill me, but you can’t, not now." The man winced as a final deep cough shook him. "I’m the only one who can save you. Like I said, we have a history, and history repeats itself, right?" Carney glanced at the peanut butter jar. Bugs were already crawling in it. "I’m going to need some more food," he said, quite reasonably.

     "You’re not getting crap until you answer my questions," Paul said. He found himself searching for a stick, a rock, anything. The flashlight was at his feet. He stopped himself. "Eat your damn rats, then."

     He could see his house from here, a dim pattern of light coming from the bedroom. A shadow walked past the patio curtains, paused. "I’m going home," Paul said. "I’m calling the cops in the morning. If you’re still here, I’ll have you arrested."

     "They won’t find me," Stephen A. Carney said softly. "Not even the shadows can find me if I’m careful."

     From the distance of the yard Paul heard the patio door open. The shadow became Sandy, the slight wind plucking at her nightgown. "Paul?" she called out. "You there? I’m afraid…I’m going to let the dogs out."

     "Tell her no!" growled Carney. "Or you’ll never know…"

     Paul picked up the flashlight. It flickered, died again. Carney stood there like a carnival freak, hair matted and covered with dirt and slime, his clothes and entire body reeking, a repugnant wretched troll crawled out from under a desolate bridge. And he grinned again. "Gotcha’, don’t I?"

     Sandy called from the patio. "Paul? Don’t scare me…"

     He had to know. No matter what, he had to know.

     "It’s OK, Honey," he called out. "Be right there. Keep the dogs in, OK?"

     He stared at the freak. "This better be good," he said. "You’ve got five minutes."

     Carney smacked his thin lips. "Steak, I think. One of those things you just can't get on the run." He leaned closer, the smell oozing out. "And wine? I haven’t had a good wine in 25 years. At least not in a glass."

     "You’d better start talking," said Paul.

     "I was young, handsome, and rich," said Stephen A. Carney. "I had it all. Then I met Sandra." He wiped a dirty hand across his face. "God, she was beautiful. I was on my way home; her car had broken down." He spoke to the ground at his feet. "She had a beat-up Saab then." He looked up. "What was she driving when you met her, Paul?"

     It was an ancient BMW, the right fender caved in. The radiator had overheated. "Just tell your tale," said Paul.

     Carney shrugged. "She wasn’t wearing any underwear; noticed that right away when she got back into the car after I gave it a jump. She got in that way: ass first, lifted her legs. What guy wouldn’t want that, right?

     "So I get her phone number, we start dating. Listen, Paul—if she was a virgin then, she sure read a lot of books. Don’t get me wrong…we never had sex, as far as the ‘Clinton’ standards go. We…well, me at least…fell in love. Then the strange things started."

     The branches moved slightly, the moonlight filtered down. There were tears on the man’s face, tears that ran down the gouges on his cheekbones. "She was a virgin, she claimed, and how was I to know different? We planned our wedding." Carney swiped at his tears, looking shamed. "Then she got a lawyer."

     Carney was lost in thought for a moment. The golden flecks in his eyes seem to dance out from the black hollows like fireflies. "Did I mention steak?" he asked gleefully. "Medium-rare, right?" As if any remaining energy had been sapped, he settled back into his former self, eyes hidden. "It was all over then," he said mournfully.

     "I signed the papers, and I was a dead man. You ever been so delirious with joy that you don’t really give a damn? Well, that’s how I was. I gave her everything…in the event I should die." Carney shook his head. "And that’s what I did, I guess."

     Sandy’s voice came from the deck. "Paul, I’m letting the dogs out…can you hear me?"

     "Yes, Dear," Paul yelled back. "Hurry up, Carney."

     "Yes, there’s not a lot of time," he answered. He tried to stand tall again, couldn’t. He punctuated his sentences with sharp coughs. "I was on my way to the wedding. Getting married to my virgin. I forgot something, had to go back to my condo. Sandra was living in a cheap apartment, but she had moved some things in. There were boxes in my storage. I opened one while I was looking for a gift I wanted to give her—a dried flower from her prom. She showed it to me once, said it was one of her favorite memories." He sucked in some air. "I found the scrapbooks.

     "I imagine she’s changed them by now." He glanced quickly at Paul, saw Paul’s expression. "What’d she do—cut the faces out?"

     Paul glared at him, said nothing. "Well, back then the faces were there. Dates, too. I thought nothing of it, except it was strange to be putting pages of obituaries in scrapbooks. Then something brought me back, made me look again."

     Carney did his evil little grin. "Bet you got it figured out by now, right? Yep, every one of them looked like me. Oh, a bit different here and there, but pretty much how I bet I looked to you a few minutes ago.

     "It was if she knew. Somehow, she knew! She had that mean, slit-your-throat look in her eyes. You ever see that look?"

     This time Paul responded. "No, not ever," he said emphatically.

     Carney shrugged. "You will."

     The dogs were racing towards the gate, the blind Ripley in the lead. "I was devastated, I couldn’t even think," said Carney. "I wanted to confront her, but the ceremony had to be done. And that’s what I did. It was very beautiful.

     "We danced, drank champagne, drove to our honeymoon suite. It was on Michigan Avenue. It was on our way there that the shadows first appeared."

     The puppy was overtaking the older dog. They were halfway there. "Close the gate now," murmured Carney, "or it’s over. I am starving, and I will eat that dog."

     Paul fumbled towards the gate. He closed it as Lucky charged at it, jumping up to throw her weight against it. Paul had to brace himself. Ripley came up next, both dogs barking at the enclosure.

     "And because I want my next meal, I will finish quickly," said Carney. He smacked his lips at the dogs. "The shadows came from Lake Michigan, I think. The engine stalled, I looked up. Things were happening on Lake Michigan, let me tell you.

     "Sandra ran from my Cadillac. I distinctly heard her laughing. The shadows came in, covered the Caddy. No one else seemed to notice, but there it was, a black cloud that covered everything.

     "The shadows thought they got me, but here’s another case of misinformation, yes indeed. See, I got out in time. The guys before me, they are dead. Me, I’m just trapped here, eating rats and squirrels." He bared his rotten teeth. "And you’d better pay attention."

     Paul leaned over the gate to pet his dogs. They jerked back, snarling. "They know the shadows touched me," said Carney. "The shadows swiped at me." He hung his head down, fitting it neatly in the cavern of his chest. He spoke from down there. "You are doomed if it catches you. It drains you. It sucks you dry." He forced his face up to stare at Paul. "It is everything bad you have ever worried about. It only touched me, and look at me now."

     Paul forced himself to keep repeating it: This is nonsense! This is nonsense! But the worry was there, worming its way in deeper. He caught himself, spoke boldly to the stranger who called himself Stephen A. Carney: "You’re just a drunken old bum hiding out behind my yard. Go away."

     The stranger shook his head back and forth. "I threw myself into Lake Michigan. They dragged some other body out of there two weeks later…Sandra claimed it was me. The body was putrefied; gases had split the stomach and the face, ruptured the skin. They never bothered with fingerprints. That was fine with me."

     The wind had picked up. The few withered leaves still remaining were sent spiraling through the air. The moon was slashed by branches whipping wildly; Paul heard his dogs cry and yelp. He tried to comfort them—they bared their fangs and barked crazily. To the east, the marsh churned and the wind became a wailing sound that vibrated against the trees.

     The stranger stood there, wind flailing at his meager clothing, arms outstretched. "I have searched all this time for her," he yelled, his words barely heard now above the turmoil of the marsh.

     "For what!" yelled Paul. "What the hell do you want?"

     "She is mine! I deserve that much…look at me!" The stranger whirled about wildly, stumbling back to point a gnarled finger at Paul. "Run, fool. And don’t look back!"

     But of course Paul didn’t. He couldn’t. He had to see.

     The marsh convulsed, no simple geyser this time. The shadows came from all shores, swirling together in a swarm that encircled and then shot towards him. It spread giant wings that cast the entire shoreline in even deeper darkness, no trace of moonlight visible on anything it covered, and it searched for them.

     "She’s my wife!" yelled Paul, and he shoved the stranger to the ground. He burst through the gate and slapped at the dogs. The blind one tried to bite him; he shoved her aside with a knee and raced for the house. And then he stopped.

     The puppy was trying to get through the half-closed gate, trying to attack whatever it sensed from the shadows. "Get over here!" he yelled to the dog. "Get inside the house!"

     It was fifty yards back to the gate. The shadows had invaded the forest…they seemed to float down like a net of death. Paul heard animals cry, heard them die.

     Sandy was at the patio door. "Hurry, Paul! I’m scared."

     Ripley had followed Paul, all the while barking at the forest. Now the blind dog paused to sniff at the air. It turned on arthritic legs, hobbled at first, picked up steam. It followed the familiar trail back to Lucky, snapping at the puppy, trying to nudge it away from the gate. The puppy lunged at the blind dog; Ripley bit down on the puppy’s neck, forcing her to the ground. Paul started running down the path to the gate.

     "Paul, I’m locking the damn doors if you don’t get back here!" Sandy was screaming the words. Paul stopped. The shadows had swooped down, hovering, testing. The dogs were thrashing about at the gate, locked in a fight to the death, the winner the Alpha dog, King of the day…

     Paul heard the patio door slam shut, heard the lock click. He saw Carney looming over the gate, intently watching the dogs trying to kill each other. Everything he had heard and seen in the past 30 minutes collided at once, trying to flood his mind, jamming it. All that made it through was the image of a BMW with a crushed fender, steam rising from under the hood, a beautiful girl beckoning him inside.

     He ran to the dogs.

       …………………

     Stephen A. Carney was positively drooling over the dogfight. He had a ringside seat, snot dripping out as he coughed and laughed at the same time. He looked hungry.

     That was when the blind Ripley released her hold on the slack puppy and leaped. Paul was 15 paces away when it happened. There was a look of complete and utter surprise on Stephen A. Carney’s crazed face when the big dog sunk claws into the gate for a foothold, jumped, and tore into his throat.

     Carney went down under the weight, hands trying to pull the dog away. Paul reached the gate just as the shadows sensed prey.

     The shadows descended, a thick, wet blanket with tendrils that prodded and poked. The entire area—trees, marsh, Carney and the dog—seemed to condense to a world of its own, while a darker, more dedicated cluster of the shadows, a mouth, searched for victims. Paul could swear it had wide-open fangs as it devoured Carney and Ripley.

     The shadows lingered; all sounds quieted but for one brief snarl that ended in pain. Like thunderclouds rolling backwards, the shadows returned to the marsh, the shores, to nothing. Without thinking about it, Paul kicked at the gate until it flattened, and he stepped into the forest beyond.

     Something crunched under his shoes. The moonlight was back again, making the bones of a small ribcage glisten. The meat had been picked clean. Paul heard a noise…he saw Carney drooping against a tree. Carney’s face was bloody, his throat ripped open. A thick red stream spurted out like clockwork. "Guess I got lucky again," he said. He put a hand up to his throat. It did nothing to stop the blood, merely made it a lawn sprinkler that splattered red droplets in a wide path.

     "You brought it here," said Paul. He clenched his fists.

     "Nope," Carney said calmly. "She brought it." He reached down and pulled out a fistful of weeds and roots. He shoved it in the hole in his throat. It stopped the blood. He glanced at the bones. "Don’t forget the steaks," he said, turning to go. "Medium-rare."

     He went deep into the forest. He seemed to drop into the earth, nothing to mark his path. Something came from the east, from the marsh, a charcoal-line on an aerial map of the sky overhead. The thin strand zoomed in, then down. It searched. It seemed to Paul as if the thin shadow found a cave and delved in. It was gone.

                     ……………………….

     The puppy was waiting for him at the patio door. Paul didn’t have a key, Sandy wasn’t there, so he got a pry-bar from the garage and forced the door up at an angle and got it off the track. Lucky followed him in.

     Sandy was in the bedroom. She had changed into a black negligee. She looked especially beautiful tonight. "Thank God you’re safe!" she said, coming to him with open arms.

     Paul stepped back. "Why did you lock me out?"

     Sandy smiled shyly. "I’m sorry. I was scared. The dogs were going crazy."

     The puppy was behind him. It began to growl. "You be quiet!" said Sandy. "Be a good dog!"

  ..………………..

     Paul didn’t say a word; he slept on the couch. Sandy had plants to discover, so she was off to a wine-tasting party the next day. Paul went down to the basement.

     The scrapbooks were gone.

     He looked about. Things had been rearranged…boxes, tools, paint cans…all had been shifted to hide one missing box. He had one shoe on the stairs when he saw a pink piece of paper wedged in a crack on the riser. It was from a storage company located in Minnesota. It had last week’s date and a time of 30 days. She was moving north. Paul went upstairs and waited.

     Sandy came home at five, a bit tipsy. The sky was darkening. She was carrying a plastic cup half-filled with red wine. "I went down in the basement again today," Paul said nonchalantly.

     Wine spilled over the rim of the cup as Sandy set it down next to the sink. She stared out the window. "And?" she asked.

     "Nothing," said Paul. "It’s just that some things had been moved." The puppy was by the patio door. She began crying, begging to come inside. "No!" Sandy snapped. She rubbed her temples. "Excuse me for a minute," she said. "I need some aspirin." She went up to the bedroom.

     Paul looked about the kitchen. He had put the plank flooring down himself, had sanded and varnished it. There were copper pans and kettles arranged above the stove. Prisms and crystals decorated the window sills. There were birdfeeders Paul had hung from nearby branches, but he hadn’t noticed any birds lately. He went through the house and methodically checked the windows and doors, letting Lucky in as he went. The puppy trailed at his heels while he finished. He went back to the kitchen. He quieted the puppy.

     Sandy was back at the sink. She smiled. "Bad headache," she said. "They buy the cheapest wine for our gatherings, you know."

     "So why did you move the box of scrapbooks?" Paul asked.

     Sandy leaned over the sink, peered out the window. A vein was throbbing alongside her neck. "Old memories," she finally said. "I didn’t want them in the house."

     "You happen to know somebody named Stephen A. Carney?" Paul asked.

     Sandy shifted some dishes in the sink. She began washing cutlery. "Never heard of him," she said, her hands busy.

     "I think you’re lying," said Paul.

     She sighed. She turned around. She had a serrated carving knife in her right hand. "Thanks for the money," she said, grinning to one side.

     "I locked all the doors and windows," Paul said evenly. He reached down and petted the puppy.

     "And I opened the balcony door in the bedroom," Sandy said.

     Something woke him up. He slid from under the blankets and found his shoes and walked out onto the deck. He had a nice yard, open to the pond out back where the kids went ice-fishing this time of year. He came back an hour later.

     His wife stirred under the covers. "What?" she asked sleepily.

     "Nothing," Robert said. He brushed his brown hair back from his forehead. "Just some old bum with a scar on his face and a mongrel dog half-starved to death, thing can’t even hardly stand up."

     "What’d he want?" she asked, pulling the covers with her as she turned.

     God, she was beautiful, he thought, watching her smile out at the moonlight.

     "Steaks," he said. "One for him and one for the dog." He chewed at a fingernail. "Medium-rare, he wanted."

     It was very cold in Minnesota this time of year. "Give the poor man and his dog a steak, then," said Sandra, snuggling deeper under the blankets. "But leave the door open, would you, Honey? You know I need my fresh air."