We continued to watch the book until it was nothing more than a small pile of smoldering ashes. And with the light rain, it soon turned into a wet pile of ashes.

  No cops came by. No neighbors came out to see what we were up to. No one cared that two brothers had just rid the world of one evil book.

  “It is done,” my brother intoned.

  “Oh, give it a rest,” I said.

  H.T. pulled back his hood. “Kind of anti-climatic,” he said. “I was expecting something, anything. Even a moan or two would have been nice.”

  I was about to tell him to be careful what you wish for when I saw the creature standing directly behind him. It was taller than my brother by at least two feet, and it was more shadow than anything. There were no details to its face other than two bright red eyes, which seemed to stare into my soul. I opened my mouth to speak, to scream, to do something, but before I could react, or force myself to react, the creature dissipated into swirling black smoke. And in that moment, the wind picked up and the wispy black tendrils were gone in a blink.

  “What’s wrong?” asked my brother. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  But I couldn’t speak. Not even close.

  My brother shrugged and kicked the ashes. “I imagine the rain and wind will scatter the rest of this, don’t you think?”

  But I still couldn’t speak; hell, I couldn’t even think.

  “Cat got your tongue?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  “Never mind,” said H.T. “Let’s get something to eat. Nothing like a little book burning to give a guy an appetite!”

  I eventually found my voice but I never did speak about the shadow. Maybe I hadn’t really seen it. Maybe it was all in my imagination.

  After all, it was just a book, right?

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  The Silo

  It was the middle of a long, four-year drought when a city-slicker and his too-thin wife moved to Wheatopia, NE.

  They were the first such people to do so in eight years, and when these city-slickers arrived from New York City and moved into the Smith’s abandoned farmhouse, well, it caused quite a stir in the small town and the gossip began immediately, especially in Earl’s Cantina which sat on the edge of town.

  “He’s on the run from the law,” said Al Thorton.

  “They’re a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde,” said Willis McGee.

  “Hey, I always liked Bonnie and Clyde,” said Earl the owner.

  “They were killers, Earl,” said Willis. “Killers. We don’t want that sort of riffraff here.”

  “Hell, no!”

  One by one, each of Wheatopia’s thirty-eight residents visited the young couple with gifts of fruits and baked goods and casseroles. The city-slicker’s too-thin wife didn’t seem to know what to do with all of the food. In fact, she even admitted to not knowing what a casserole was.

  The town inhaled a collective gasp.

  And each night of that first week, the town folk gathered at Earl’s Cantina to share what they had discovered that day. So far, this is what they had learned: the city-slicker’s name was Joseph Harper and he was some sort of real estate magnate. No, Earl, no magnet. Magnate! The young man apparently made lotsa money. No kids. They had lived in Manhattan. He was a graduate of Brown University. She was an attorney. There was no obvious reason for the drastic move to Wheatopia, although Mr. Harper had stated to Al, somewhat lamely and unconvincingly (everyone agreed), that he wanted some “fresh air and peaceful streets.”

  The town’s general assessment: something was fishy.

  Suspicion escalated a few weeks later when Eddie the mailman discovered that Mr. Harper was spending all of his time fixing up the grain silo on his farm. That night in Earl’s, Max Belfry, a retired commercial pilot, remarked: “I think we can all agree that the Smith place needs lots of repair, true, but I’d think the silo could wait. After all, what’s he need it for? He’s not a farmer. He has no grain to store.”

  No one had any good answers, of course. Or, rather, no one tried to find any good answers. The town’s suspicion deepened.

  Then Joseph Harper did something strange, really strange. This was reported by Biff, the town’s retired handyman:

  “You know that point on top of all silos that give ’em dignity and makes ’em true to the land...well, Mr. Harper hired us to cut through that pointy tip. Saw it right off! But that ain’t the worst of it, nosiree! He had us use chicken wire and plaster to turn that dignified point into a...a dome of some sort.” The others gasped. Biff continued: “Sure, he paid us good, ’cause it was somewhat risky way up there, but it was a dern travesty to go a-ruinin’ that monument of grain storage.”

  And so for the next few days the town folk somehow found their way past the Smith’s old farmhouse to catch sight of the rarest of all things: a domed silo. Or, as Gerrod Blake (the Harper’s closest and only neighbor in that desolate section of Wheatopia) put it: “The eyesore!”

  During the weeks that followed, Mr. Harper continued to baffle and agitate these good retired people who really preferred to mind their own business. Again he hired Biff the retired handyman, but this time it was to unload a huge vat—a vat capable of storing hundreds of gallons of liquid. “And guess where he has me unload this vat? You guessed it. Inside the silo.”

  “He’s making drugs,” proclaimed Lucille the retired school teacher. Back in ’77, she once caught a student smoking marijuana behind a backstop, and has been convinced there was a town drug problem ever since. “He’s going to poison our streets with drugs and hooliganism.”

  “There’s no one left on the streets to poison,” said Grandma Haymaker.

  “Still,” sniffed a slightly put-off Lucille, “I don’t want to live next to a drug lord.”

  But it was what happened the next day—which marked precisely the fifth week since the city-slicker’s sudden appearance—that the town finally cried “Enough!”

  So what had Mr. Harper the city-slicker done that so outraged the town? Simple. The damn Yankee had marched into Fred’s Dairy and proceeded to buy-up all the milk in Wheatopia.

  “Yes, all the milk,” reported Fred the milkman. “Fifty-four gallons in all. And I’ve ordered a lot more for him, too. No, didn’t tell me the why of it.”

  “What am I going to eat my oatmeal with?” moaned Al.

  “Or my grits?” groaned Lucille.

  Enough was enough. Just what in tarnation did this Yankee need all that milk for anyway? No one knew, but they elected Gerrod Blake to find out, on the merits that he was the closest neighbor and therefore the most likely to covertly gather information through friendly and neighborly means. Gerrod wasn’t so sure. Lately, he had been pretty damn distracted with the fire woman—and doing his best to conceal his newly awakened erections by wearing his flannel shirts untucked.

  Perhaps an explanation is in order here: during that same five-week period—the exact period that the city-slicker and his too-thin wife had moved to Wheatopia—Gerrod Blake had begun to experience the most erotic dreams of his life, and that was saying something since he was nearly eighty years old and had always had a penchant for erotic dreams.

  Gerrod assumed the dreams were the result of living in such close proximity to the city slicker’s too-thin (but quite pretty) wife. After all, Gerrod hadn’t seen the likes of such a woman in quite a long time.

  With that said, Gerrod knew in his heart that the woman in his dreams was most certainly not the city-slicker’s too-thin wife. In fact, the woman in his dreams was on fire. Literally. She was just a burning, fiery image that somehow caused a burning in his own groin, as well, a burning that sometimes lasted clear throughout the next day. Gerrod, an old man who hadn’t experienced much burning of any kind, was at a loss for his sudden erotic dreams, and he was most certainly at a loss for the appearance of the fire woman.

  But one thing was certain. Oh, yes. Gerrod liked the dreams. So much so that he went to bed earlier and earlier, just to be with the fire woman, even if it was in his dreams. Of course, Gerrod felt a little guilty about his dreamland trysts. He was, after all, a happily married man. But since he had no control over his dreams, well, that was hardly cheating. Right?

  And so, later during that fifth week, Gerrod and his quiet Latino wife, Isabel, knocked dutifully on the city-slicker’s front door. A worn-out looking Mrs. Harper answered it immediately, and even Gerrod, a man who had ignored his own emotions all his life, let alone those of others, was quite certain that something was morbidly wrong. Mrs. Harper, his pretty, albeit too-thin, new neighbor, looked downright upset and sad and maybe even a little depressed.

  Mrs. Blake noticed it, too. And with her heavy Spanish accent, she asked Mrs. Harper if there was anything the matter. But the young gal just shook her head, and Gerrod noted that there were tears in her eyes. Gerrod felt uncomfortable seeing such emotion, and so he immediately asked if he could speak to her husband. The too-thin wife simply gestured toward the silo. Of course. The silo.

  But before he went off, Gerrod found himself analyzing the pretty face of the too-thin wife. Was she the fire woman of his dreams? It was hard for Gerrod to say since, technically, the fire woman didn’t have a face. Just a body. A beautiful, luscious, burning body. Gerrod grew hard all over again.

  Lord, what had gotten into him?

  Despite himself, he said, “Well, you’d better lie your pretty little head down, ma’am. You might be coming down with something, and we couldn’t have that.”

  Gerrod, to say the least, was feeling a bit frisky these days.

  Isabel cast her husband of fifty-two years a sidelong glance. What has gotten into him of late? she wondered. She didn’t know, but it was all she could do to keep him off her. Just this morning he had woken up as stiff as a board, and to her shock and horror he had proceeded to poke her with it! The nerve! He hadn’t poked her with that thing in decades! Well, he wasn’t going to start now, at least not like that. He wasn’t going to just roll her over and treat her like some back alley whore. Nosiree, Bob. If he wanted to poke her with that thing, well, he was just going to have to do it the right way. An evening out in the big city, maybe a play, dinner, wine and romance. Yes, indeed, that’s the kind of woman Isabel was. A true lady. Not some loose floozy!

  Additionally, another source of Isabel’s irritation was that she was certain she knew why her husband was suddenly as randy as a schoolboy. It’s the too-thin wife, she thought. After all, Isabel had just witnessed how the old doofus was looking at the girl, ogling her like a piece of meat. Gerrod should be ashamed! Well, she was going to give him the what-for tonight!

  Gerrod, however, was grinning from ear to ear, pleased with himself and his first attempt at flirtation in nearly ten years. He stepped off the creaking porch and led Isabel to the silo. And as he went there was a familiar throbbing in his loins. Familiar of late, that is. The throbbing felt good. Damn good.

  At the silo, Gerrod and his silently fuming Latino wife found a very focused Joseph Harper hunched over the now infamous vat. The Yankee was stirring something with slow, even strokes. Upon close inspection, the bespectacled Joseph was a small man with small hands. Gerrod suspected the Yankee might be of Jewish decent, but Gerrod didn’t know much about Jews. An overpowering stench emitted from the vat. Overpowering and overwhelming.

  When the smell hit him, Gerrod nearly gagged. Willing his food down, the horny old man cleared his throat. Harper, startled, nearly fell into the vat.

  Gerrod said, “I’m sorry to bother you Mr. Harper, but, um, we just wanted to know if your stay in Wheatopia’s been a pleasant one.”

  Harper frowned and pushed his glasses up. His face was glistening with sweat, which dripped steadily from his pointed nose. “Very pleasant indeed. Thank you.”

  But the young man wasn’t looking as if his stay in Wheatopia was pleasant; indeed, the young man looked harried and confused and agitated. Gerrod also noted that the young man also looked almighty exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept much during the past few days, or weeks. Which didn’t surprise Gerrod, since he had watched the young man working tirelessly on the silo. Gerrod didn’t much care what the Yankee did with the silo. Gerrod, you see, was much too busy daydreaming about his fire woman to give a rat’s ass about anyone or anything.

  So, willing himself to give a damn, Gerrod asked half-heartedly, “So, um, whaddya stirring in there?”

  Harper shrugged. “Milk, fish parts, oysters, chum, parsley, oregano, pennies and barley.”

  Gerrod wrinkled his nose. “Did you say pennies?”

  “Yes, that’s what she wants.”

  “She?”

  “Really, Mr. Blake, you wouldn’t understand.”

  Gerrod was sure he wouldn’t. He just wanted to get the hell out of there and away from the stench. He also wanted to curl up in bed and daydream some more about his fire woman.

  “Mr. Harper, is your wife ill?” asked Isabel suddenly.

  The city-slicker shook his head. “She’s just homesick. I keep telling her we won’t be here long, but she doesn’t know what to think anymore. Hell, I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  Despite himself, Gerrod’s interest was piqued. Resisting an urge to cover his mouth and nose, he said, “And what, exactly, are you doing here, Mr. Harper?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “It’s her. She’s making me.”

  “Who?” asked Isabel. “Your wife?”

  And that’s when the city-slicker lost it. “The fire woman! She’s constantly telling me what to do. Always giving me instructions! Where to move, what to buy, what to build. I don’t know anything anymore! I don’t understand anything! The only solace I can get from her is that it will be over soon.”

  Something froze deep within Gerrod. He hoped it wasn’t his heart.

  Isabel frowned at this sudden, nonsensical outburst. “Are you having a fit of some kind? Should I call Doctor Newton?”

  “No, please. No one can help me. I just need to fulfill her wishes and she will leave me be.”

  “Who is this woman, Mr. Harper? Your mistress? I will not live next door to an adulterer!”

  Sobbing, Mr. Harper answered, “No. She’s not my mistress. She comes to me in my dreams.”

  And the moment the city-slicker uttered those words, Gerrod was seized by an image of the fire woman. And this wasn’t just any old image. This was one hell of a hummer of a vision. Her image blazoned across his vision, across his mind, across everything. Blinded, he stumbled, falling forward into his wife. Isabel felt something hard slam into her trick hip. She pitched forward onto her knees, squealing.

  Blinded by the vision of the fire woman, as hard and erect as a pirate’s gangplank, Gerrod stumbled forward with his arms out-stretched, looking for all the world like Frankenstein’s horny patchwork brother.

  Isabel found herself on her hands and knees in the mud of the barn. What the hell had happened? And what had that old fool hit her with? It had felt like a club. And then she gasped. Oh, no, no, no! Not...that...thing!

  But it was that thing. And Gerrod’s thing was huge and throbbing and threatening to tear through his faded overalls.

  Harper saw it, too, and the city-slicker’s eyes just about slammed against his spectacles.

  But Gerrod was not really here, you see. All he could see was the fire woman, and as far as he could tell, he was alone with her. Everything else in the barn had disappeared. His groping hands reached for her, but she was always just beyond his grasp. He continued forward, chasing the girl of his dreams. Unfortunately, Isabel his wife was directly in his path.

  In a surprising bit of dexterity, his old Latino wife just barely managed to dodge his grasping fingers—and delivered an instinctive and devastating karate kick, a kick she learned long ago in a self-defense class, a kick that sent her old husband falling forward. Gerrod just managed to turn his body before landing penis-first. Instead he landed on his side and the fire woman disappeared in a puff of smoke, and Gerrod, not sure what he had done to warrant being kicked in the ass by his own wife, just lay on his side and whimpered. The throbbing in his pants subsided.

  Isabel and Harper stared down at the old man whimpering in the fetal position. Isabel was done dealing with men, especially men with penises, and so she left her husband there at the foot of the vat, turned on her heals, and stormed out of the silo.

  Gerrod slowly found his feet. “Um, sorry about that, partner. Not sure what’s gotten into me lately, truth be known.”

  “No worries,” said Harper, who was too distraught with his own problems to worry about an old man who sported spontaneous erections.

  “Look, Harper, this woman in your dreams, is she, um, is she made of fire by any chance?”

  The city-slicker’s eyes brightened considerably. In fact, relief boiled out of him. He turned on Gerrod. “You-You dream of her, too?”

  The retired farmer turned red. “Er, I believe so...yeah.”

  “Does she talk to you, too?”

  “Er, not exactly.”

  “What does she do in your dreams?” asked the city-slicker.

  Gerrod was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He hadn’t talked about sex of any type—especially with his wife—for an eternity. But his need to know about the fire woman pushed him onward. “Well, let’s see....she, ah, sort of teases me.”

  “Teases you? Teases you how?”

  “Sexually, you see. She makes me, ah, want her very badly, and then she disappears.”

  The city-slicker frowned and pushed up his wire rim glasses. “But she doesn’t tease me. Oh, no, no, no. She instructs me. She orders me around. She commands me to work on the silo, to get it just right.”

  “Just right for what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you find it odd,” said Gerrod, “that we are dreaming of the same woman?”

  “Very much so, yes.”

  Gerrod nodded, although he was still wondering if he was losing his old mind.