Free Dark Hollow by Brian Keene Page A

you went to York or Maryland. None of the establishments in town had liquor licenses, not even the restaurants. If you wanted to drink on Friday night, you had to drive down to the state line and pony up to the bar at the Maryland Line Bar and Grill. There was also no gambling (except for the state lottery tickets sold at the local convenience stores), no smoking in public places, no unleashed pets, and no skateboarding. Skateboarders were seen as just a notch above Satanists.
    Maybe it was these attitudes and laws that contributed to our almost nonexistent crime rate (which was zero unless you counted Seth Ferguson and some of the other juvenile delinquents around town). Secretly I thought the real reason we had so few serious troubles might be because the town was in heat. We may have paid attention to the rest of the Ten Commandments, but it often seemed like everybody in town coveted his neighbor’s wife. At least once a week, when we got together in the backyard, Merle and Cliff would gossip about who was cheating on whom, which hubby had been spotted slow dancing down at the Maryland Line with somebody else’s wife, who was getting divorced or separated, or climbing in and out of each other’s bedroom window, who’d gotten whom knocked up, and what they planned to do about it. The townspeople liked the Lord, but they absolutely loved to fuck. Why should Shelly Carpenter be any different? She probably wasn’t the only person in this town who liked to get peed on by men in goat suits.
    I put it out of my mind and focused instead on the weather. It was another beautiful day. I let the dog linger where he wanted, sniffing around our trees and bushes and peeing on everything. I was in no rush to get back inside and start working. Instead I soaked up the sun, closed my eyes, and listened to the birds’ songs.
    We crossed through the field and skirted around the park. Big Steve stopped before we got to the woods, and that was okay with me, because I had no desire to reenter them. An unseasonably warm breeze ruffled my hair, making the trees sway and bow, almost as if they were beckoning us toward them.
    The dog lifted his leg and peed a few more drops, then turned around and started back toward the house.
    “You done?”
    He wagged his tail and began to pant, confirming that he was indeed finished, so I took him home. I got the impression Big Steve was pretending nothing had happened the day before, too.
    I made a pot of coffee, pulled some hamburgers out of the freezer, and let them sit out to thaw. I started a load of laundry, and then sat down at my desk. I went through the daily preparatory ritual, mouthing a prayer to the gods of writing that my muse would be there.
    It was. Forcing myself to forget about the events in the woods had worked. My writer’s block was gone, replaced with an overpowering urge to write. For an author that’s the best feeling in the world, and I took full advantage of it, sitting at the computer and pounding the keys until well past noon. I couldn’t not write. I was so entranced with my tale of two brothers, one fighting for the North and the other for the South, that I didn’t even get up to refill my coffee mug, which had grown cold. I paused only to light my cigarettes, and even that was done on automatic pilot.
    Big Steve gnawed his daily bone, and then fell asleep at my feet. Occasionally his paws would twitch or he’d growl softly, as he dreamed of chasing bunny rabbits.
    At least, that was what I told myself he was dreaming about.
    Around one that afternoon, I could no longer ignore the insistent urgings of my bladder. Happy with the progress I’d made, I saved my work and took a piss. Then, satisfied that I’d written enough for the day, I put the laundry in the dryer, walked down for my daily nicotine fix from Leslie, and then mowed the rest of the lawn, basking in more of the same unseasonably warm weather. The lawn mower felt good beneath my hands. The motor roared,