Thursday. The next morning. I fought exhaustion, climbed in my Mercedes, and drove the twenty miles northeast to the cottage. Traffic on Interstate 90 seemed lighter than usual; a hub for the states of New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. The New York forest next to the lake thickened: many oaks and pines, Iroquois property the government thieved from its American-Indian landowners and created a state forest. I turned off the interstate at the Ripley exit and headed northward bound to Lake Erie and the tiny cottage. Away from Bitter for the time being. Distanced from that horrible call from the night before.
As I drove to the cottage, I recalled one of my published tales. Pure fiction. Maybe drivel. An excerpt from Unseen, by Renaldo Drake. Originally published in Horror and Frights magazine
