By
Karen Ann Carpenter
Patsy O' Reilly didn't ordinarily knock on stranger's doors at the end of the day. But this day had been anything but ordinary. And, though Patsy didn't realize it yet, the day was far from being over.
The old man was civil enough when he answered the door, though he made no attempt to hide his obvious annoyance. Twenty-one-year-old Patsy hadn't the time to cater to the moods of some grumpy old man. She'd driven all day, all the way from New York City, into the wastelands of upstate New York, searching for this God-forsaken town, just so she could ask somebody the one question that desperately needed answering. Patsy ignored the scowl on the old man's face and asked that question.
In response, the shaky old stranger hobbled out from his cabin and limped toward the desolate mountain. His arm quivered as he unfurled his fingers and pointed straight up, into the hills.
"There," he said in a hushed whisper that the wind immediately captured and swept away. "The man you're looking for -- Hans -- he's up there."
Patsy stared across the bleak November landscape. Only a diffused hint of late day sun remained, barely visible behind rippled, blue-grey clouds. From somewhere up high in the hills, a wolf began to howl . . .
