Winter Moon

marked the wood where the openings in the handles met it. He hammered

two standard nails into those marks and hung the colander on them. The

crow, still struggling weakly, was visible through the wire mesh,

trapped against the door. But the colander could be too easily lifted

off the nails. Using two U-shaped nails on each side, he fixed both

handles securely to the solid oak door. The hammering carried up the

long slope of the yard and echoed back to him from the pine walls of

the western forest.

To remove the colander and get at the crow, the traveler or its

surrogate would have to pry loose the U-shaped nails to free at least

one of the handles. The only alternative was to cut the mesh with

heavy shears and pull out the feathered prize. Either way, the dead

bird could not be snatched up quickly or silently. Eduardo would have

plenty of warning that something was after the contents of the

colander--especially as he intended to spend the entire night in the

kitchen if necessary.

He could not be sure the traveler would covet the dead crow. Perhaps

he was wrong, and it had no interest in the failed surrogate. However,

the bird had lasted longer than the squirrels, which had lasted longer

than the raccoons, and the puppetmaster might find it instructive to

examine the carcass to help it discover why. It wouldn't be working

through a squirrel this time. Or even a clever raccoon. Greater

strength and dexterity were required for the task as Eduardo had

arranged it. He prayed that the traveler itself would rise to the

challenge and put in its first appearance.

Come on.

However, if it sent the other thing, the unspeakable thing, the lost

Lenore, that terror could be faced. Amazing, what a human being could

endure. Amazing, the strength of a man even in the shadow of

oppressive terror, even in the grip of horror, even filled with

bleakest despair.

The crow was motionless once more. Silent. Stone dead. Eduardo

turned to look at the high woods. Come on. Come on, you bastard.

Show me your face, show me your stinking ugly face. Come on, crawl out

where I can see you. Don't be so gutless, you fucking freak.

Eduardo went inside. He shut the door but didn't lock it. After

closing the blinds at the windows, so nothing could look in at him

without his knowledge, he sat at the kitchen table to bring his diary

up-to-date. Filling three more pages with his neat script, he

concluded what he supposed might be his final entry.

In case something happened to him, he wanted the yellow tablet to be

found-- but not too easily. He inserted it in a large Ziplock plastic

bag, sealed it against moisture, and put it in the freezer half of the

refrigerator, among packages of frozen foods.

Twilight had arrived. The time of truth was fast approaching. He had

not expected the entity in the woods to put in an appearance in

daylight. He sensed it was a creature of nocturnal habits and

preferences, spawned in darkness. He got a beer from the

refrigerator.

What the hell. It was his first in several hours. Although he wanted

to be sober for the confrontation to come, he didn't want to be

entirely clearheaded. Some things could be faced and dealt with better

by a man whose sensibilities had been mildly numbed.

Nightfall had barely settled all the way into the west, and he had not

finished that first beer, when he heard movement on the back porch. A

soft thud and a scrape and a thud again. Definitely not the crow

stirring. Heavier noises than that. It was a clumsy sound made by

something awkwardly but determinedly climbing the three wooden steps

from the lawn.

Eduardo got to his feet and picked up the shotgun. His palms were

slick with sweat, but he could still handle the weapon. Another thud

and a gritty scraping.

His heart was beating bird-fast, faster than the crow's had ever beaten

when it had been alive. The visitor--whatever its world of origin,

whatever its name, whether dead or alive--reached the top of the steps

and moved across the porch toward the door. No thudding any longer.

All dragging and shuffling, sliding and scraping.

Because of the type of reading he had been doing these past few months,

in but an instant Eduardo conjured image after image of different

unearthly creatures that might produce such a sound instead of ordinary

footsteps, each more malevolent in appearance than the one before it,

until his mind swam with monsters.

One monster among them was not unearthly, belonged more to Poe than to

Heinlein or Sturgeon or Bradbury, gothic rather than futuristic, not

only from Earth but from the earth. It drew nearer the door, nearer

still, and finally it was at the door. The unlocked door. Silence.

Eduardo had only to take three steps, grab the doorknob, pull inward,

and he would stand face-to-face with the visitor.

He could not move. He was as rooted to the floor as any tree was

rooted to the hills that rose behind the house.

Though he had devised the plan that had precipitated the confrontation,

though he had not run when he'd had the chance, though he had convinced