The only thing that worried the police was my story; I was a good kid and I swore on a stack of bibles.

Atop a broken, crumbling, faded remnant of a once-strong stone wall – that’s where it perched.

I was old enough to know better, not drinking, air so crisp and clear.

You should (and must) know I wasn’t the only one.

John & Abby, too, check their stories.

We all drew the same thing.

Mine was best. I was known as an artist.

I am an artist. I wish I had imagined this. I am a painter. I am an artist.

The second oldest road in Dover, Massachusetts.

You don’t get that old without a tale or two behind your ears.

These stories will not die. Mysteries with orange skin and tendril fingers and, especially, mysteries with glowing eyes will not die.

I’m a serious painter, you know. An artist.

I wish I had made it up.

I wish someone else would see it.

I’m sure.

I wish I could be sure.

I wish I had made it up.

Something in the dank, wet woods.

Something deep in the woods.

I wish I could be sure I’m sure.