Outside you’re surprised by the fact that there is hardly any wind. Not at all the calamity you were expecting after spending a considerable amount of time between shaking walls and hearing the howling of something very much resembling a Storm. You’re looking at the girl. She doesn’t look surprised, but is merely giving you her sweet expectant smile.
   Even the hood of your car is dry. You’re studying the ground, and realizing that there is no sign of rain. There is no sign that there has been raining the last few hours. The dust rise easily from the ground. It isn’t wet.
   - Nice weather, isn’t it? she’s showing her pearl white, flawless teeth.
   - I’ve seen worse. You’re giving her your best smile in return, in an attempt to mask your unease.
   The seat in the car is dry and pleasant, very pleasant. Even compared to the deep sofa and seats in your friend’s house. The steering - wheel is also almost awkwardly solid. The roar from the engine seemingly deafening. You drive through the gate, entering the main street. That’s when you’re noticing it...
   The moisture in the air. The cold breath from somewhere, making you freezing.
   - It’s the car, the fucking car. It’s been acting up for some time now. At least since...
   - Perhaps you should consider buying a new one.
   - It’s a rental, do you know a place where I may rent another in this town?
   She looks hurt. You want to apologize, but throat feels constricted and not a word is escaping the confines of your mind.
   The town is quite small, just a few blocks really, a typical village. But the drive seem to take some time anyway. The girl’s home is on the other side of town, a few hundred meters from the «tighter» cluster of houses, but still... You shake your head and drive it from your mind.
   It’s a nice little «town», a village hidden away on the countryside and in the woods. The trees are quite close to most of houses, like the houses are close to any road, as the trees, the forest itself seem to close in on you. It feels quite unnerving really, to one born and bred in a big city.
   - The trees are nice, are they not?
   The girl is speaking up with a bright, energetic voice. Almost sensual in its deep, singing tone.
   Now, that is an odd phrase, if you have ever heard one. A sight of a forest... or the sight of a tree, may be deemed nice, not the trees themselves. Trees wasn’t «nice» or anything, they didn’t have a personality... did they?
   - You have quite a liking for this place, haven’t you? you’re pondering.
   - What are you saying? she’s smiling at you.
   - I mean, one thing is to move to a place like this, as my friend did, being fed up with life in the fast lane. But a... a younger person like yourself will usually want to leave it behind, at least for a number of years. You must really be attached to the place since you’re evidently not even considering it.
   - Sure, she says unfazed,- it’s nice here.
   She doesn’t seem to mind the chill either. Talk about indomitable youth spirit.
   You’re reflecting, bringing one hand tight to the other, attempting to rub the stiffness and the cold out of them both.
   Steering with one hand is easy enough. By habit you’re looking behind you, to see if there are impatient drivers there, who want you to increase your speed, making their point with the horn and a lot of obscene gestures. But there isn’t likely to be any crowd of them in these parts.
   Is there?
   As you’re stopping the car, there seem to be something akin to a aurora borealis, a northern light, hanging over the house on the hill. But once you’re actually looking at it, there is nothing, except the night and the trees and the house. You realize you’ve been here before, a few hours ago, asking the old man in the house for directions.
   - You know, I was here a couple of hours ago, you’re laughing.- asking your father for directions. Talk about driving in circles...
   You want to go outside and open the door for the girl, but before you’ve managed to completely stop the car, she has opened the door and left the car. Quiet as a shadow, fast as the wind.
   - Thank you, thank you, she says with her bright smile.- You’re a true lifesaver. I’ll see you around, okay?
   - Sure, you’re saying a bit out of breath.- Anytime.
   You see her walking safely to the house, before driving off.
   You’re returning to your destination, driving the same, horrible, bumpy road. The birds can be heard singing in the trees. And you’re stopping for a moment. Not the car, but your train of thoughts. Did you actually hear the birds sing before? Had the road been bumpy?
   It's a nice little town or township this. White walls, one house, one home, not more than two floors. A nice place to settle down, if that is one's desire. And bumpy roads, like most of the more unsavory aspects of village lifestyle, are probably something that will grow on a person.
   There aren't any people outside this evening, but that's hardly surprising either, with this weather.
   You're looking out through the windshield. The weather isn't so bad really, almost quiet and dry, compared the hairy impression one is getting while being inside a house. Another village peculiarity, you gather. Villages are very quiet compared to big cities. Though, while nature is rearing its head, it tends to be experienced (by visitors) as worse than it actually is.
   Your new car is behaving… strange tonight. The noise from the engine makes it sound as if it's really striving. And on flat ground to boot.
   You're shaking your head and keep on driving.
   Just a few turns and you're there. Your friend's picturesque and truly nice home is seen in a cold, silver-blue glow in the moonlight. Translucent and strangely inviting.
   You leave the car as it is, unlocked. Your friend is waiting in the hallway. The door is open. You walk inside. Your old friend is closing the door behind you.
   - Oh, it's just you...
   - Yes, for now, you're replying, looking closer at the other man. Was he expecting other dinner guests as well?
   The table is set for three. Glasses, forks, knives, plates in three sets are shining at you. The air seems even more smoke-filled than earlier. There is no discomfort.
   The meal starts a bit apprehensive, but the hot food and drinks are loosing tongues fast enough. At least yours. The man you haven't seen for years, is still behaving a bit pulled back, a bit strange, compared to how you remember him.
   But that isn't really strange, is it? Absence does that to a friendship. Words are haltingly begun and spoken, as the mind is looking for rusty phrases and forlorn memories.
   You're giving each other a toast. The sound of the two glasses clinching strangely muted in the smoke-filled room, the hazy air.
   - I do believe there's logic in the universe, you're saying eagerly, after a sip or two.- It's just quite different from the one we're usually imagining. Layer upon layer of complexity for the inquisitive mind to peel away.
   Your friend is looking downright weird then.
   - Is something going on in this town? You're asking casually.
   - What do you mean? Your friend is replying.
   - I mean, you're laughing,- is something special happening these days?
   - Not that I'm aware of, your friend is laughing.- I told you nothing ever happens in this town. If you're looking for action, you've come to the wrong place.
   You're swallowing a huge sip...
   There's a loud crack outside, as if something is hitting the wall. The house is shaking. You look at your friend. He isn't looking overly worried. You're slightly bracing yourself, awaiting a possible more devastating attack at the house.
   - Cheers, your friend is saying aloud, lifting his glass.
   The two glasses meet with a sound of two glasses meeting. You drink some more. You relax.
   There isn't really a storm outside. You know that. You've been outside. The wind is occasionally gaining strength a bit (more than a bit), that's all. One second the wind is there, the other second there isn't any. And the peace and quiet of the village is accentuated… until the next gale of a wind is rocking the ground, rocking the village.
   Not like any wind you've ever seen, but a wind nonetheless.
   And yes, you know that you can't really see the wind, only the results of it. Like you can't hear the rippling in a pond, after a rock has hit its surface. And you might not have been present while the actual stone hit the surface, but you may still observe and be caught in the effects.
   Food is hot, mixing with the liquor, causing an explosive mix in your stomach.
   And you can sense it. You can sense it all around you.
   There is a tingling, suddenly, gone before you're really noticing it. Looking at your skin, you see no gooseflesh, no rising hairs and you're no longer sure what you felt an instant ago.
   - Cheers, your friend exclaims cheerfully.
   - Cheeeeers, you exclaim at least as cheerfully.
   Two glass meet and part. The sound is lingering in the room, as an echo, a resonance.
   - So what have you been up to, since you moved, you're asking.
   - Just living, you know. Life is all in all pretty quiet down here.
   - You're right, you agree.- A man could really learn to appreciate it.
   That weird look again. You decide it must be a trick of the light. The light is funny in here.
   A loud whine from the oven, signifying more food soon to be available by the table. So convenient a timing. You swear you can smell cameras in here...
   Your friend comes sliding with the bowl of shrimps in one hand, a new bottle of wine in the other.
   - Shrimps, you're saying leveled.- And Margeux '69, too. You're evidently recalling all my favorites. Me? I can't recall your memory being that good.
   - It's the countryside air, your friend exclaims cheerfully.
   He wants me too stay, you think. That must be it. What other explanation can there be?
   Calm sets in the house once more. There is the wind outside and the talk and fun shared between two old friends, but there is silence. Quiet perhaps, but no calm. The storm is already raging.
   - There can be a bit lonely here, he says suddenly.- The villagers are nice people, but they're not like having a bunch of old friends around.
   - Hardly a bunch, you hear yourself saying.- Why didn't you invite the bunch by the way?
   - I did, he says, sobering a bit.- The entire bunch. You were the only one replying.
   Now, that was odd. You want to give voice to your concern, but find that you can't quite find the words.
   - That's hard to comprehend. You did get replies, didn't you, their reasons for not attending?
   - No. He shakes his head.- Not a word.
   It's hot in here. Not strange that. The fireplace seems to extend its fires ever further out in the room. Its tongues stretching, touching the walls, the roof, the floor, the furniture. You can feel it close to you, like a living thing. It's at least five meters to the fireplace from where you are sitting... or so it seems.
   A loud wail is making you jump in your chair, a whisper in the fog of suffering and torment.
   - What was THAT? You're exclaiming, almost shouting.
   - The mist creates funny sounds around here, your friend is saying unfazed.
   Or so it seems.
   - It sounded human, man. Didn't you hear it?
   - You'll get used to it.
   Your friend says unfazed.
   Later. It has calmed down a bit outside. Inside there's a pleasant, tempered atmosphere. The food is good. You taste the fluid in your mouth. The wine is good. In fact you can't remember having a more tasty meal for some time. If ever. You can't remember your friend being such a good cook either, but you let it slide. It is your friend sitting there. His eyes, his face, his ever so pale complexion. You wonder if there is ever sunshine down here. Perhaps every evening, also during the summer, as the sun set behind the hills, and the heat of the day is dissipating, moist is created, lots of moist in the interim between day and night, and the fog is rising from the wet moors. And it might stay during the next day, and the next, until summer is done, and autumn and darkness envelops the land and the village.
   There are the moors, the wet moors, where fog is rising and creating strange shapes, like reality itself is forming there in the afternoon air. You saw them earlier today, from the road. For each opening in the forest, where trees were scarce, there was a moor.
   - Devon got nothing on this place, you mumble.
   - I didn't quite catch that, your friend is saying.
   You raise your head, speaking up a bit.
   - I'm willing to bet that Sir Arthur Canon Doyle's inspiration for "The Hound of Baskerville" didn't come from him traveling in Devonshire, you say, a bit pointed.- but from this place. He just changed the setting or the names, for one reason or another. Writers do that.
   - Or perhaps the story came to him in a dream, your friend is shrugging.- It was a damn good story, anyway, wasn't it?
   - You know... you're leaning forward a bit, suddenly quite eager.- Want to know what I think? I think he really met a demon dog, but were to afraid, to shaken after the experience, to write the truth about it.
   - Or he was afraid they wouldn't believe him or worse, that he would be the laughing stock of everybody.
   Your old friend says, seemingly quite sober.
   - You know, you're saying, squinting your eye slightly.- For just a moment there, you seemed quite sober. But that, as they say...
   IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE TO CONTEMPLATE, they completed in unison.
   The sofa. It's like you're floating on it. But you get that sometimes, during your most wild drinking evenings. You've often reflected upon the fact that during many such an evening, your feet seem to stay higher than your head most of the time. Your head is pointing to the floor, your feet at the ceiling.
   - The value of contemplative moments like this, you're staring at your glass,- should never be underestimated.
   - I understand what you mean, the man on the other side of the table is saying.- I understand it very well. Don't think I don't.
   - I'm not, you say, looking serious and serene.- I don't doubt that at all.
   Do I?
   Your friend is looking at his watch again. Who is he waiting for, this late?
   Something is gnawing at your subconscious, but you can't for the life of you call it forth and remember. It can't be anything important, can it? This is a strange village, true, but didn't you expect that? There is a question I won't ask, and just the thought of it makes me afraid. I can hear the giants knocking at the door and the walls are crumbling.
   - Cheers, you salute again, raising your glass.
   - Cheers. The man in the sofa is clinking his glass against yours, and again you hear the echo resonate through the room.
   You're sitting in the sofa, looking at the man in the chair over the table. There is frequent movement as you and your friend is changing on the duty of going to the reserve and picking up new bottles.
   - There are consideration I use to reflect over at times like these, you say a bit mumbled.- While ingesting alcohol the body's getting numb and also certain areas of the brain are more or less paralyzed... But there are areas of the brain that's hardly affected at all... or are even working better.
   - It's said about alcohol, as about many narcotics that it's a portal to the subconscious, your friend is saying, speaking with evident difficulty.
   You're nodding in solemn agreement. Even if your not quite certain what you're in agreement about. During the evening you've developed quite a need for looking over your shoulder. You do that again at this time. As with the hundredth times you've done it earlier, there is nothing there.
   At least you don't see anything. The cold going down your spine, however, isn't imaginary.
   - Something isn't right here, you're mumbling
   - Well... it isn't perfect if that's what you're insinuating, your friend is laughing.- but compared to other places... it's a rather nice resort.
   - Last resort. You're laughing, too.- But except for that it's quite excellent.
   You're looking under your chair. There's nothing there.
   The road to the toilet is a rather strenuous one. You get there in time, though. You miss at your first attempt at hitting the closet, but then you hear the clear sound of the waterfall. There's a lot of humidity in here. You can hardly see yourself in the mirror because of all the steam. One attempt to clean the glass with your hand is a failure. Repeated attempt are all failures. You're washing your hands, drying them with the soft, pleasant handkerchief. The handkerchief does the job. You can finally see your mirror image, take a good look at your bloated face, a look distorted through a more than shaky vision.
   - Your bathroom has at least one ruptured pipe somewhere, you're informing your friend upon your return to the living room.
   - Yeah, believe me I've noticed. Your friend is shaking his head.- I've been chasing the plumber for days, but so far he has managed to avoid me.
   - It wasn't like this earlier tonight, though...
   - It is behaving rather unpredictable. Sometimes during the last few days I've got the feeling that it's sentient and just playing tricks on me.
   You're dumping back into your chair and grabbing, raising your glass.
   - Here is to sentient bathrooms.
   - Cheers.
   Two glasses are once more connected over the table. The sound is as muted as ever.
   The two men are drinking, emptying their glasses.
   - Christ, you're exclaiming.- That one hit several spots. In fact, I'll bet it hit an entire field of spots...
   They have another laughter riot.
   Room starts spinning. Your head falls back, and you're half sitting, half leaning back, staring at the ceiling. There's a lamp hanging from the ceiling. It seems to very, very high up. You're wrinkling the skin of your forehead. There are circles around the lamp, black concentric circles, spinning round and round and round...
   Your laying stretched out in the sofa. Your friend is still sitting up in the chair.
>    - I find your endurance pretty darn impressive, you're virtually shouting over the room, to your far away friend.- I mean... I find it annoying, but still darn impressive.
   Your friend is sitting close to you. You can easily see the wrinkles in his forehead as he's concentrating, concentrating about looking at his glass and holding it steady.
   - Alcohol, you know, is strange stuff, he says.
   He's holding his glass a bit unbalanced. No fluid is decorating the table yet.
   - Hi! you're exclaiming and pointing somewhere with your finger.- Didn't you have a full glass.
   - One can drink a lot and not really get drunk. He's leaning further over the table.- Did you, by any chance, read about the double blind laboratory sessions, where one half got served alcohol and the remaining half lemonade or something?
   - Sure. By now you're wrinkling the skin of your forehead, too.- Both groups were told that they were served drinks with alcohol, but the group who wasn't, the control group, got more drunk than the group who was.
   - Life is strange, your friend nods.
   You're sitting in the chair, studying your hands, mumbling.
   - Was... wasn't... was... he he
   You're looking down your glass. There's nothing there.
   - Something is not RIGHT here, you're shouting exasperated, hitting the table with your fist.- I've felt it in my gut since I got here... early this evening.
   No whiskey is spilled. Not a drop is decorating the table.
   - Your gut isn't feeling much of anything at this moment, the man across the table is grinning.
   The man sitting either in the sofa or in the chair.
   - He he, you're grinning.
   - There's something wrong here, you're whimpering.- I can feel it in my gut.
   And the wind is laughing its heart out outside.
   You're rising from the chair (or from the sofa), standing on your two feet. Or so it seems. A man Is standing by the window, looking out. You can see the porch and the lawn outside. The man may be you.
   But you're not sure.
   - I hate to be the one pointing it out, your friend says,- but it's getting late.
   - Late? you say.
   - You spoke of a girl. She's late isn't she?
   You're turning towards your friend. Suddenly you feel damn sober and all the alcohol you may have ingested is pushed in painful ways out through your skin.
   - What are you talking about? The girl was with me when I arrived and left after a while. There isn't more than one.
   The fog is drifting into the room; condensing from the smoke and humidity inside, drifting in from the outside, through keyholes and windows not open.
   This is it. Whatever it is.
   You realize you've been waiting for something all evening. The shock is hitting you unexpectedly and cruel.
   You're sweating. You're not hot anymore, but you're sweating.
   - How... did she look like? Your friend is finally saying something, but what is he saying?
   - She's young, blonde, quite pale, tall, full lips, full everything… Why are you even asking me this? You saw her well enough yourself, didn't you? She even knew you, for god's sake.
   - Jesus, your friend cries.- You've seen the ghost.
   You keep staring at him. He's dead serious.
   - It's a prank, right? Tell me it's a prank.
   You've always suspected that people in the countryside were half crazy, but this is a bit too much.
   - I didn't see her, he tells you somberly.
   - B-but... you were talking.
   But had they really been talking? You're attempting to reach back, through the fog of time. He could recall now, how they both had replied to him, how they had both spoken as if the other wasn't there.
   You're running to the bathroom, you're running outside, starting the car. You're looking at yourself in the mirror.
   And in your mind you're revisiting the house on the hill. You see what your mind didn't or couldn't acknowledge before: The girl walking up to the house and entering it. But she isn't opening the door... she's just walking straight through it.
   You're running up the slope to the door. A man, her father is coming out.
   The car is almost leaving the road as you drive back to the house on the hill. The sunken old man is standing on his porch, and start talking the moment you jump out of your car.
   - I have been waiting for you, he says.- My daughter was run down by a runaway driver last fall. She's been following drivers back here ever since.
   The drive back is even more unreal. Did the entire drive ever take place?
   The bathroom isn't even remotely comforting now. Water is flooding your face, as your hands are moving up and down, up and down, from the sink. The water is turning into mist the moment it's released to air.
   You're looking at yourself in the mirror, the sweaty face, the dilated pupils, the shaking lips. And you know, you know, beyond words, that this is not the end. And all the lights, all the bright spots in the small room can't keep the darkness away.

   THE END OF CHAPTER ONE

   First Chapter of a novel to be published in a year or two. It was supposed to be a short story cut long, but grew beyond that recently. It will be published by Midnight Fire Media