THE HOUSE LOOKED RIGHT, FELT RIGHT, TO DR LOUIS CREED

Rambling, old, unsmart and comfortable. A place where the family could settle; the children grow and play and explore. The far-horizoned, rolling hills and meadows of Maine seemed a world away from the city-spawned dangers of Chicago, fume choked and garish.

Only the occasional big truck out on the two-lane highway, grinding up through the gears, hammering down the long gradients, growled out an intrusive interstate note of threat. But behind the house and away from the road; that was safe. Just a carefully cleared path up into the woods where generations of local children had processed with the solemn innocence of the young, taking with them their dear departed pets for burial. The simple little markers in the clearing told their story: Marta Our Pet Rabit, Hannah the Best Dog That Ever Lived, Smucky The Cat He Was Obediant . . .

A sad place maybe, but safe. Surely a safe place. Not a place to seep into your dreams, to wake you, shouting, sweating, slippery with fear and foreboding …