black dog, part one

Crickets rubbed their legs together somewhere in the monkey grass. The chirp always came from further away than four or five feet, for the noise stopped as soon as a large presence was felt. It really didn't matter how quietly he walked. It didn't matter if he was skinny and light and had all the little muscles in his feet trained to bend and bow and breathe in just the right rhythm. They knew he was there, not by sound, but by some other sense. It seemed the air must twinge and ripple with some force that only crickets detect. He was given away before he even knew what was in his plans.

He continued, however, to walk softly. There was no real reason to, but it was one of a few things at this point out of which he drew any measurable amount of pleasure. Unfiltered, rosy pleasure. He had, of course, learned to gain an amazing amount of perverse pleasure from other hidden things of a much more self-destructive bent, but he was not so far gone that the sweet satisfaction of moving across the earth unheard and unseen was beyond him. He still enjoyed sweeping his bare feet above the braille of the soft grass and twisted roots of the trees and the sharp ends of loose gravel in his driveway. As he moved, he wondered what the crickets were keeping secret. He wondered if their secret was as special as his own.

The shape of his car appeared. The moon wasn't glowing, but he had been in the darkness long enough and his night vision was engaged. He didn't know where he was going, but he proceeded with a specific, quiet purpose. He opened the door, threw himself in the front seat, groped for his keys in his pocket, slammed down the clutch and started the car. The top was already down and a fresh layer of midnight dew had settled inside the cabin. The steering wheel was wet, and he could feel the moist seat below him. He took in a healthy whiff of the condensation. It smelled like camping. He threw the car in gear and quietly coasted out of sight.