……………Herb Armstrong was nervous, jittery. Every unexpected sound made him jump. Point of fact - he was terrified. His thoughts were dark and shadow filled, as much as the dark night and shadows of the Adirondack Mountains that surrounded him. The light of his campfire danced in Herb’s eyes as he stared at the flames. Behind him off to one side the power metal of Herb’s Harley rested cold and silent. The chrome gleamed in the firelight; the seat and hand grips were coated in caked mud.
……………Somewhere nearby the hoot of an owl came out of the dark. Herb stiffened, gasped, and stared into the darkness. Then the snap of a twig. Wide eyed and frantic Herb smothered his campfire with his jacket. “That freak aint gonna get me,” he whispered to himself under his breath. “Oh no. Aint gonna get me.”
……………Then silence. Whatever it was, it was gone, slipped away in the night. Herb breathed a sigh of relief, but didn’t let his guard down. He wasn’t about to walk right into something like he and Scott Swanson had four days before. He just wanted to get home, back to Littleton, New Hampshire to hide and drink those images into oblivion. Those images had haunted him ever since he fled the Organ Grinder Horror four days earlier -

** *** **

……………Herb and Scott banked their bikes around the curve, slowing up for the gas station that Scott knew lay just around the bend. The Sohio sigh loomed from behind the treeline along the road. The two pulled into the gas station, rumbled up to the pumps, and shut their Harley’s down. Scott jumped off his chopped ironhead Sportster and glanced around.
……………“Sure hasn’t changed much,” Scott observed. “Good.”
……………“So, this is the place, eh?” Herb said as he joined Scott next to the gas pump.
……………“Yeah, good ole Columbiana,” Scott replied.
……………Herb smiled and waved with his fingers at an old man who was staring at them while pumping gas at the next island. “Lock up your granddaughters,” Herb said softly in mock response to the look on the old man’s face.
……………Scott chuckled. “Must have something to do with the hair and bikes,” he said, popping the tank cap on his Sportster and sticking the pump nozzle into the tank, Herb doing the same at the next pump.
……………“So, what’s the deal on Dave?” Herb said.
……………“Dave Rowland,” Scott replied. “I grew up with him, went to High School, hung out together - all that kind of stuff. I left town and Dave stayed behind to write horror stories. He’s quite good at it.”
……………“Never read him,” Herb said.
……………“You should,” Scott replied. “His stuff’ll scare a scarecrow out of a cornfield! And we got enough cornfields around here!” Scott pulled the nozzle, capped the tank, and replaced the nozzle on the pump, and flicked a credit card up between two fingers as he turned to Herb. “Mainstream Americana - all long haired Harley bikers need plastic cash.”
……………“How long’s it been since you heard from Dave?” Herb asked as he capped his own tank and replaced the nozzle.
……………“Two months.” Scott pulled the receipt from the gas pump, stuffed it in a jacket pocket and pulled a crumpled letter from another pocket. “This is the last letter I got. Listen to this.” Scott unfolded the crumpled letter and began to read, “‘...my investigations have proven to be horridly profitable. So much so that I wish I’d never undertaken it in the first place. There’s more to it than anyone ever realized. Unbelievable, but sorry to say all too real. Far from the legend it was thought to be. The things I’ve discovered, Scott, the evil, crawling, indeterminable evil, like a parasite on the land. The entire county is in grave danger, though I fear it may already be too late...’.”
……………“Legend? What legend?” Herb asked.
……………“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
……………“Well, let’s find out,” Herb said, mounting his Panhead. “It’s your town. You lead the way!”
……………Scott jumped on his bike and the two Harley’s roared to life, so startling the old man at the next island that he nearly dropped the nozzle as he was replacing it on the pump. Herb and Scott roared out of the gas station and up North Main, the strains of Steppenwolf’s Born To Be Wild racing through Scott’s mind.

……………598 Quincy. That was the address. Scott picked the numbers off the walls of homes as they rode past, finally keying on Dave’s house. He banked into the driveway, Herb close behind. They kicked down the kick stands and cut the bike engines next to an old ragged pickup.
……………Scott gestured to the truck as he started toward the front door. “Dave’s parents bought him that as a high school grad present,” he said. “Was brand new.”
……………“Looks like it’s been to hell and back,” Herb muttered.
……………“Knowing Dave, it probably has,” Scott replied. He rapped on the front door. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. “Come on Davy boy, open up,” Scott voiced his thoughts. “Juzz like you use to say to the senior girls, open up!”
……………Herb glanced over his shoulder, scanned what he could see of the neighborhood, and turned back to the door as Scott tried the handle. The door popped open a crack. Scott paused, peeking in. It was dark and silent. Eerily silent. Scott glanced at Herb, then swung the door open wide. Instantly they were assailed by the noxious odor of spoiled meat - something dead.
……………“Whew!” Herb exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. “Something died in there!”
…………… “Yeah, just hope it isn’t Dave,” Scott said softly. “Come on.”
……………They entered the house and paused inside the door. “Leave it open, man,” Herb stopped Scott from closing the door. “Let the damned place air out!”
……………They wandered into the living room. Scott threw back the curtain that covered a large picture window. The light of day rolled into the room, removing the veil of darkness, uncovering disaster, but no Dave.
……………“Holy Horny Toad!” Scott exclaimed as they surveyed the living room.
……………The room was a wreck. Furniture was pushed about haphazardly, lamps overturned, trash, papers, and books littering end tables, a coffee table, and the floor. Dust lay thick over everything. Here and there lay clumps of spoiled food teaming with writhing white worms. A maggot heaven.
……………“Not a very good house keeper, is he?” Herb joked softly as his eyes scanned the room.
……………“Or he should’ve fired his interior decorator,” Scott returned the jest as he glanced at the paintings hanging on the walls, then added cautiously, “Uh oh. I think we’ve got a serious problem here.”
……………Herb turned, noted Scott’s line of sight, and followed. His eyes scanned each painting, one after another, wall to living room wall. All the same subject matter, various renditions of various Great Old Ones or associated locales. Herb slowly approached the nearest painting and studied the minute details. The details seemed to shimmer and caused Herb to blink his eyes in the hope of removing the seeming distortion.
……………“Well well well, Yog-Sothoth; hello there ole bubble boy,” Herb voiced his thoughts softly, then turned his eyes to the artist’s signature. “Kimberly A Gordon, 94. An uncanny rendition of the ole Yogster.”
……………“Yeah, looks almost real,” Scott said softly, joining Herb at the painting. “Too real.”
……………“No doubt about it; she does have talent,” Herb voiced as he moved to the next painting, Scott following. The painting was a horde of Deep Ones clambering onto a decaying dock, presumably Innsmouth. Herb peered at the glassy eyed figures in the painting, then the artist’s signature. “Hmph,” he muttered. “Another Kimberly painting.”
……………They moved to the next painting. This one was the crumbling foundation of a large manor with one wall standing and part of an adjacent wall. “The Organ Grinder Horror, Kim Gordon,” Scott voiced softly, reading the name plate on the frame and the signature in the lower right corner.
……………“Man, the Great Old Ones have her in their back pocket, bought and paid for,” Herb said, shaking his head. “She’s way too good.”
……………“They...they’re alive,” came a soft whispering voice choked in fear.
……………Though a whisper, in the silence of the living room the voice was like cannon fire. Having elected not to climb the wall and disturb the paintings, Herb and Scott spun on their heels instead, their eyes wide. There was Dave, sticking his head out from behind a chair. His eyes were dull, his hair disheveled. His outward appearance was as much a disaster as the rest of the living room.
……………Scott started toward him. A terrified Dave scrambled on his hands and knees to the nearest corner of the room. He hunched there, drawing his knees up under his chin. His eyes remained wide with fear, He whimpered and only slightly calmed down when Scott stopped his advance.
……………“Hey man...,” Scott said softly, Dave whimpering in fear. “Hey, it’s me, Scott Swanson.”
……………Haltingly, Dave reached out a shy finger, pointing to the paintings. “They...they come alive,” he whispered fearfully. “They...they talk to me. Tell me...things.”
……………“If I didn’t know the Great Old Ones, I’d say he was nuts,” Herb said softly. “But...”
……………“He’s lost it, Doc,” Scott interrupted, his eyes still on Dave. “But, yeah, I believe what he says.”
……………Scott slowly started toward him again. Dave raised a hand, trying to ward Scott away, as he pushed himself further into the corner.
…………… “No, no! Stay away!” Dave cried.
……………Scott stopped. “Hey man, you wrote to me, remember?” he tried to break through. “Something going on here, some evil parasite...”
……………Scott’s words trailed off as Dave raised his head, his eyes still wide with fear. He hesitantly pointed at the painting where Herb stood. “That...,” Dave stammered. “Organ Grinder. Organ Grinder!” And he broke down, shielding his head with his arms and sobbed violently.

** *** **

……………Scott was glad to see that the Country Kitchen Restaurant on the corner of South Main and Friend Streets hadn’t been replaced by another antique store as so many other businesses had. In Scott’s heart and mind, some things needed to remain the same. Country Kitchen Restaurant was one of them although the restaurant had itself replaced Allan’s Shoe Store long ago. Still, it was like coming home to see an old friend.
……………Seated at the restaurant’s breakfast bar with coffee cup in hand, Herb swirled the liquid and took a sip. “You think it was wise to just leave Dave there like that?” he asked.
……………“I don’t know what else we could’ve done,” Scott replied, sipping his own coffee. “He’s been like that a long time. Would be kinda hard to explain things to the cops or EMT folks.”
……………“Yeah, well someone’s gonna have to do something,” Herb concluded. “Eventually.”
……………Scott nodded as he sipped his coffee again.
……………“So, what’s the deal with this Organ Grinder thing?” Herb asked.
……………“Just an old local legend. Organ Grinder Road.”
……………“Organ Grinder Road?”
……………“Yeah, the real name’s Woodville School Road,” Scott said, “nicknamed Organ Grinder Road because of some flaky old dude named Hutchinson who lived around here some two hundred and fifty years ago.” Gesturing with a turn of his wrist, he added, “He played one of those hand crank organs. You know the kind; those guys on street corners with monkeys holding tin cups.”
……………“So what’s the legend?”
……………“There isn’t much too it. Story goes that the old dude built this huge old house, invited a bunch of people for a house warming party, killed them, and then committed suicide.”
……………“Charming,” Herb was sarcastic.
……………“Certainly not your best buddy type. Anyway, the story goes that you can see what’s left of the house at certain times of the year; you can also see a light pass by what once was a window - things like that. Typical ghost stuff. Every state has one like it. You know.” Scott paused, took another sip of his coffee. “Oh yeah, and sometimes you can hear him playing that crank organ thing.”
……………“Hmph, the ghost of a murdering organ grinder,” Herb mutter in reflection. “No every state has one of those.”
……………Scott sighed. “Yeah, guess not,” he muttered as he stared into his coffee. His thoughts drifted to Dave and what had caused Dave’s deterioration. Certainly something to do with the Great Old Ones by evidence of the paintings. And of all the paintings, the one he’d singled out had been the painting of the Hutchinson manor ruins. No doubt Dave had commissioned it from Kimberly Gordon. It was the only one of the paintings that concerned a local legend. And had no connection to the Great Old Ones. At least as far as Scott knew.
……………But Scott couldn’t divorce the thought from his mind that the painting was guilty by association. The painting entitled The Organ Grinder Horror had to be associated with the other paintings in some way. And Scott was certain that the association had some foundation in Great Old One activity.
……………“So, what do we do now?” Herb asked softly, breaking in on Scott’s reverie.
……………“We need to get some answers from Dave,” Scott replied. He downed the rest of his coffee, then slipped off the bar stool. “And I don’t care what it takes. Let’s go.”

** *** **

……………The paintings were bridges to other worlds, other dimensions. They’d been painted that way, intentionally. For a reason. Dave Rowland had learned too much. Now he had to be controlled. Eliminated if necessary. Thus, the paintings were painted and gifted to him. One at a time. Until it was too late. Now they controlled and commanded Dave, taunted him, toyed with him. Now his will was nearly gone.
……………Dave had no where to go, no place to run. He’d never given thought to running. The paintings made it so, cleared his thoughts of running. They held him captive, entranced. He’d sit before them and stare. He’d watch them while they filled him with fear and loathing. They’d come alive and speak to his chaotic thoughts.
……………Now, with Dave cowering in the corner of his living room, again they began to come alive. His throat was raw. His voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper. He could no longer scream as he once had. Eyes wide with fear, he watched and whimpered as the green incandescent globules in the Yog-Sothoth painting ballooned three dimensional, then detached from the painting. They hissed and crackled as they began to float about the living room.
……………Dave sat up on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. He closed his eyes and shook his head repeatedly, whimpering, foam flecking his lips. The floating green incandescent globules, the size of tennis balls, hovered around his head.
……………Another painting came alive. Bloated white worms, their stench horrid, oozed from the painting and down the wall to the floor. They inched toward Dave, climbed up his trouser legs. Some disappeared under his shirt. He paid them no heed, just sat there on his knees - trembling, eyes closed, hands clasped, whimpering.
……………A third painting came alive. Tentacles from some horrid monstrosity writhed from the wall across the room toward Dave. Then the voices started. And the music - unearthly, yet mesmerizing. It held Dave in sway. Strange whispering voices in cadence commanded him, told him of things to come, his immediate future.
……………“All is done,” they whispered.
……………Forced by an unseen power, Dave lurched forward onto his hands and knees. He crawled across the living room floor, the white worms swarming over his body, the glowing globules hovering around him. The writhing tentacles flicked at his face and ears as he crawled into a hall that lead to a bedroom. He fought against the power of those voices telling him what to do, where to go. But all in vain. He no longer had the will. They controlled him, forced him to do things he wouldn’t normally do.
……………Dave crawled into the bedroom, fighting every inch of the way with what little he had left. His fight to survive hardly slowed his path to destruction. The whispering voices urged him on. “To the table, to the table. In the drawer.” Dave crawled to the night stand. He opened the drawer and took out the loaded Magnum handgun. Staring at the gun, he heard the final words. “Time to end.”
……………A pause, only a moment, his eyes scanning the surroundings. The bloated worms swarmed over his body. The green globules hovered about his head. The tentacles writhed in the doorway. The voices whispered unintelligibly while the music playing its raucous cadence. It had only been a moment, a last glimpse, then Dave placed the barrel of the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
……………Blood and brain splattered the bedroom wall.

** *** **

……………Dave lay dead, cold, and stiff on the bedroom floor. Blotches of dried brain matter decorated the wall; streaks of dried blood added to the decoration. Next to the body lay the gun. Scott leaned over, was about to pick it up, then thought better of it. Best to leave Dave’s fingerprints on it, if that was whose prints were on it.
……………“I don’t think he’s gonna talk much,” Herb said softly, his eyes on Dave.
……………Scott stood up, shaking his head. “Oh man, now Dave why’d you have to go and do this?!” he thought aloud, then turned to Herb. “We’d better call the cops.”
……………“Two long haired bikers and a dead guy with his brain on the wall,” Herb said. “I don’t think the pigs’ll understand.”
……………They left the bedroom, careful not to touch anything, knowing they hadn’t been so careful when they’d entered the house. They’d certainly left prints and they knew the cops would know they’d been there. And Herb knew that sooner or later there’d be questions to answer. But not now, not yet. There were other questions that needed answering first.
……………In the living room, Scott reached for the nearest painting, the Organ Grinder painting. He threw it hard across the room. “Dammit,” he growled as the painting frame splintered against the far wall.
……………The painting and frame fragments fell to the floor. A movement caught Herb’s eye. He half turned, his eyes narrowing, as he noticed the tentacles of a green slimy thing that seemed to writhe from another Gordon painting. “Damn, she’s good,” Herb said softly. “I think it’s high time we skedaddled.”

** *** **

……………The sun had set. Shadows snaked through the line of trees along the roadside pullout on Woodville School Road where Herb and Scott had stopped. Scott had been leaning against his bike. He pushed off, walked to the edge of the pullout, and gazed across the road to the vast open field on the other side.
……………The field stretched east to the horizon. A line of trees on the left curved to the north. To the right stood a cluster of trees, one of many that dotted the field moving southeast. Somewhere out there, invisible from where Scott stood, Elk Run Creek, little more than a muddy trace, cut through the field in a meandering course to join with Beaver Creek far to the south.
……………Herb joined Scott at the edge of the pullout. “So, you think the old dude really committed suicide?” he asked softly.
……………“I don't know,” Scott replied. “Could just as well have been murdered.”
……………“Hmph, murder the murderer,” Herb voiced his thoughts softly.
……………“Well, anyway, the house is out there somewhere,” Scott nodded, his eyes on the distant horizon.
……………“I don't hear any organ grinder music,” Herb said half heartedly, trying to displace his uneasiness.
……………Scott chuckled at the comment, then taking note of the long creeping shadows in advance of the night, he said: “Why does all the creepy bullshit happen at night!?”
……………“Why the Hell ARE we here at this time of day?!” Herb questioned.
……………“Let’s go before it does get dark,” Scott said. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”
……………Scott started across the road and into the field. Herb was close on his heels. It was a slow and tedious walk, the field thick with overgrowth. They fought their way through the overgrowth as dusk approached. The blue sky deepened, the shadows crept into the field from the line of trees on their left and the tree stands on their right. The further into the field they went, the more puzzled Scott became. He was certain they’d have come upon Elk Run Creek by now. Still no sign.
……………“I thought you said some little excuse for a creek cut across this field?” Herb broke the silence.
……………“It does,” Scott replied. He stopped and looked back the way they’d come, noting their bikes lost in shadow far behind them. He sighed, turned his gaze to Herb, and added, “Guess it’s just further out than I remembered.”
……………“Maybe it’s dried up.”
……………“Maybe,” Scott said. He turned and continued on. An uneasy feeling was coming over him.
……………Herb was about to follow, but a soft sound caused him to pause and glance around. “Hey! Did you hear that?”
……………Scott stopped. “Hear what?”
……………“I don’t know. Thunder maybe?”
……………Scott glanced at the sky. There was a sparse cloud cover, darkening with the coming night, but nothing building into storm clouds. “I don’t think so,” he said softly.
……………“Well, what do you make of it?”
……………“I don’t know,” Scott replied. “I didn’t hear it.”
……………“Well, it’s gone now,” Herb grumbled as he started after Scott. “You need to get your hearing checked.”
……………They continued across the field and finally came upon Elk Run Creek. The overgrowth concealed it so much so that they nearly stumbled into the small and shallow mud filled creek without seeing it. They stood on the bank, kicked at the overgrowth, then leisurely jumped to the other side.
……………Scott paused and glanced around to get his bearings. “This way, I think,” he said softly. He started toward a nearby cluster of trees. His unease was growing.

……………In the dwindling light of dusk shadows played across a small clearing nestled between two stands of trees. A slight breeze whistled, cutting angles around ruins that seemed to have formed out of the shifting shadows. There were two adjacent ruined walls and the foundation of what would have been a large country manor. A soft light shifted near a ruined wall, like a candle carried past a window that was no longer there. A strange unearthly melody began to play against the softly whistling wind. And as the melody echoed across the field, a soft rumbling earth tremor reverberated beneath the ground.
……………“Dammit! There it is again!” Herb exclaimed as he stopped in his tracks. “Like thunder! I know you had to have heard...”
……………Scott stopped, raised a hand, gesturing. Herb fell silent. There was a sound, a different sound. It was unmistakable. It had been years since Scott last heard it, but he’d never forget it. His eyes went wide as he looked at Herb. “Organ grinder music,” he whispered. “Hear it?”
……………Herb paused, listening, then: “Uh huh,” he said fearfully, nodding his head.
……………“The ole dude’s out and about this evening,” Scott said softly.
……………“His ghost, you mean,” Herb replied.
……………The sky was purpling fast. Stars were appearing in the canopy above. The black mass of a sparse cloud cover churned to the southeast, seemingly out of place with the rest of the clouds that dotted the evening sky. Scott knew instinctively that the churning clouds had something to do with the ruins, at the very least, a beacon to where the manor was located.
……………“Follow those clouds and we’ll find the ole house,” he nodded, softly voicing the thought.
……………They continued on, following the strangely churning clouds. Again the ground vibrated beneath them, this time more noticeable. They shrugged it off, their attention drawn by what they might find ahead in the shadows. They skirted cluster after cluster of gently swaying trees where shadows danced menacingly. Many times they thought they’d seen something lurking amidst the trees, but were met by nothing more than mere shadows cast by swaying branches.
……………Suddenly, just ahead, a light shown softly through a small tree stand. Just beyond was a small clearing. Herb and Scott ducked into the tree stand, found the light to be a torchier, its flame dancing on the breeze. The ruins of an old house stood nearby, partially obscured in darkness. The light of the torchier cast dancing shadows on a ruined wall.
……………Scott knew those ruins without ever having seen them. They were the old manor house. He held out a restraining hand to Herb. “Well, son-of-a-bitch,” Scott whispered. “I’ve never seen it, but sure as shit, there it is.”
……………“Huh? What?” Herb was stammering. “It? What it?”
……………“Hutchinson’s house,” Scott replied. “Legend claims it only appears when something’s going to happen...”
……………“Yeah yeah,” Herb interrupted nervously. “You told me. When something happens. Yeah.” Herb peered at the ruins from the shadows of the tree stand, and then glanced at Scott. “Somethin’s gonna happen, man! Somethin’s gonna happen!”
……………“Well, let’s find out.” Scott started toward the ruins. Herb timidly followed. Shadows danced around them. Imagination gave life to the shadows - evil, menacing, sentient, reaching out with long boney fingers, clawing, laughing in imaginary voices of a thousand damned souls. And lurking in the dark between the trees were tangible black masses that seemed to mimic the shadows.
……………But nothing happened. Scott and Herb crossed the clearing and stopped not more than twenty yards from the crumbling walls of a ghost house that had appeared out of thin air. The soft unearthly strains of the organ grinder music echoed through the darkening sky all around. Beneath, the ground seemed to tremble with rising intensity. They glanced at one another. Apprehensive. Fearful.
……………Suddenly an old man appeared out of the dark from behind a ruined wall. Strange eerie shadows cast by the torchier played across his aged and lined face. He was malformed in a hideous sort of way - severely hunched at the shoulders, a twisted right foot that dragged behind him as he made his way to the torchier. He stopped and stood there, a strap around his left shoulder, holding a hand organ at his waist. He cackled maniacally as he continued to slowly turn the hand crank. It produced the strange unearthly organ grinder melody. And as he played, the wind howled, carrying the strange unearthly organ grinder music with it through the trees and out across the field.
……………Scott stared wide eyed at the old man. Though he couldn’t be sure, gut instinct told him that this malformed old man was Hutchinson - the genuine article, 200 years later, and still living. The clothing, the organ box -
……………“How the Hell can you still be alive?” Scott whispered his thoughts.
……………“Who said I’m alive?!” the old man howled.
……………His maniacal laughter reverberated against the walls of the ruined manor. His horrid organ grinder music played out through the trees. A sudden loud grating of rock against rock erupted all around them. Scott and Herb glanced about wildly. The ground beneath their feet started to swim, rippling like waves of water, then shook violently and started to buckle.
……………The ruins of the old manor swayed and crumbled. Parts of the ruined walls toppled to the ground. Trees whipped about like shaken rags. Some snapped like twigs. Jagged vents in the ground tore open, snaking away into the overgrowth in the field beyond. Dirt and rock erupted from the vents as they widened. Herb danced sideways on tip toes, trying to maintain his balance as a vent opened under his feet.
……………“Come on, let's get the Hell outta here!” Scott yelled. He turned and started to run back the way they’d come.
……………“Right behind ya!” Herb shouted over the din.
……………The rumbling noise of splitting earth, the howling wind, the old man’s maniacal laughter, and his unearthly organ grinder melody echoed around them as they dashed through the tree stand and into the field. All around the ground continued to splinter. The overgrowth in the field swayed as though possessed by an unknown sentience whose purpose was to hold them back.
……………“Shit. Shit!” Herb voiced fearfully as he ran. He glanced over his shoulder and added, “Ohhhh shit!”
……………Herb’s eyes were wide with terror. He strained with every ounce of energy he had left and passed Scott as they ran headlong toward Elk Run Creek. He saw what Scott hadn’t - writhing tentacles hundreds of feet long bursting forth from the vents.
……………“Shit!” Herb repeated. “What the...?!” His thoughts suddenly spiraled as did everything around him. He had reached Elk Run Creek, tripped, and rolled sideways into the sticky mud. Mud splattered everywhere as he rolled over and pawed madly, trying to climb out of the creek. Gaining his feet on the far side, he paused as he heard Scott scream. He looked back long enough to see Scott hanging suspended in the air, a tentacle coiled around him. A second tentacle snapped off his head. That was enough for Herb. Before Scott’s head hit the ground, Herb turned and ran for his life. He disappeared into the gathering darkness on his way toward Woodville School Road and his bike.
……………Herb’s mind spiraled, a pool of mad disjointed images. It was hours before he regained enough of his senses to find himself somewhere in the shadowed night of Pennsylvania’s countryside. How he’d gotten there, which roads he’d taken, where he may have stopped to gas up his bike, he just couldn’t remember. Tentacles, huge writhing tentacles, was all he could remember. And all he wanted to do was to get home to New Hampshire.

** *** **

……………Night had long since closed in on the house where Dave Rowland lay dead on his bedroom floor. In the living room all was pitch black. The curtains were drawn. No streetlight shed its glow on the disarrayed room. There was silence, no sound to betray the slightest movement. Everything was as it had been since Dave committed suicide hours earlier, except for one minor detail that would go unnoticed.
……………The Organ Grinder Horror painting lay on the floor propped up against a wall where it had fallen when Scott had thrown it across the room. Scattered about were fragments of its’ frame. The painting itself was undamaged. But there was a change. Where the painting had previously depicted only the ruins of Hutchinson’s manor, it now included huge tentacles writhing from vents opened in the earth and two figures - one running and the other held fast in a coiled tentacle.