William Royden

As the rear car I was in rolled slowly past her, I saw that she had long, straight black hair.

I jerked my head away from the window before she could see me.

I spent the rest of that trip trying to bind my wounds with the sleeves I ripped from my shirt.

I've tried several times to write down what I think I saw in that cellar, but the words always fail me.

The tapes I shot that day have stayed in a bottom drawer, unwatched.

Once I dialed Cording's phone number, but it had been disconnected.

And I have not contacted my grandfather, not at all.

I've begun to subscribe to Robin Song's local newspaper.

Every night before I go to bed, I scan it briefly to take note of the missing persons cases that spring up.

And every other unusual occurrence that is written off as vandalism, weather damage, freak behavior from someone passing through from out of town, or isolated and forgettable incidents of violence.

Last week, the front page carried a story that riveted Robinson for several days.

An independent film producer named Trent, who had not so long ago supervised the shooting of a horror movie in Robinson, and then moved into town with his family, stabbed his wife to death as she slept.

The police found him sleeping naked in the woods.

No motive for the killing could be gleaned.