A dark and stormy night.

That's the line, isn't it?  The beginning of some old novel penned in the nineteenth century.  The line that's been brought down through the generations as the terribly cliched beginning of many a story, to set up the scenario that something mysterious or scary or bad was going to take place, that some perpetrator of devilish malevolence was hiding in the shadows, wringing his hands, eyes narrowed into sly slits, mouth baring a teeth-clenched grin worthy of a Cheshire Cat.  Because we all know that bad things only happen on dark and stormy nights, right?

Don't I wish.

This bad thing didn't happen on a dark and stormy night-or at least, it didn't begin on a night like that.  On the contrary, everything bad started on a bright and sunny day.  How's that for an ironic twist?  So much for the rule that states that wickedness can only run its course after the sun goes down-if that rule ever did exist to begin with.

But I suppose, for the sake of dramatic effect, that saying It was a bright and sunny day when Hutch Sheridan encountered the beginning of his troubles doesn't carry the same sort of tension.  Nevertheless, that's what really happened to me, and I'm really not a guy who likes to embellish the truth, not when it comes to telling you my story.  For children's bedtime stories, embellishment's fine; for explaining a nightmare that was dropped into my lap and hasn't left since-and probably never will-the facts need to be spelled out, whether or not you think I've lost my mind. 

Don't worry, you wouldn't be the first to think that.  I've a couple of ex-girlfriends who'd be right there with you.

**

I was finishing packing for my trip to Chicago on Friday.  I had a job interview on the following Monday at Giordano's.  Saturday and Sunday were already off for me, so I had talked Mick Talbot into trading a few shifts with me in order to make it a nice four day weekend for myself.  Charlie Maris, the owner, didn't have a problem with it.  He liked me.  Granted, I wasn't looking forward to running the diner on graveyard shifts when I came back, but the ticket I picked up to catch the Cubs play on Saturday afternoon was going to be worth it.

Leaving the stuffed and zipped suitcase, I moved to the kitchen counter of my apartment and poured the last of my coffee into my mug, turning my eyes to the large living room window as I brought the still hot, black liquid to my lips.  Beautiful May morning, it was.  Not quite eleven yet, and already above seventy outside, or so the Weather Channel had told me before I had shut the television off fifteen minutes ago.  A sea of blue sky devoid of any cloudy islands and plush grass across the parking lot called to me. 

No sooner had I set down my mug than the phone rang.  I glanced at the caller ID, my face scrunching into a perplexed frown as I picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

The response came in a weak, almost whispered voice. "Hutch, it's Kevin Burgess."

"Kevin?  Where have you been, man?  You dropped out of contact three months ago!"  It was true -and weird.  One day, Kevin came in being his usual self, shooting off his mouth and bragging about the hot date he had planned that night with a tall, voluptuous blonde customer who had stopped in a week earlier; the next day he simply didn't show up.  I called his cell phone and a couple of other emergency numbers he had put down for contact, but without success.  The young college fellow had simply disappeared.

Now, Houdini was on the other end of the line. "I know, man.  I've had something happen."

"If you're calling about your job, Kev, Charlie's already replaced you."

"No-no.  It's not that, Hutch.  I don't want my job back."

A part of me was becoming uneasy about this conversation, screaming at the rest of me to simply tell Kevin that I had to go, and depart Kalamazoo for Chicago right then and there.

Why don't I ever listen to the part of my brain that makes sense? "What's the matter?"

His response was not immediate.  "Kev?  You there?"

"Yeah."  The words were spoken between gasps of air, "I've a favor to ask you.  I need you to come over to my place."

"What?  Why?"

"You've been here before, right?"

I had indeed.  Several of us had been over for a few poker nights.  "Yeah, but-"

"Hutch, please.  You're the only person I can talk to about this!"

"About what?"

Another pause.  Sounded like he was muffling the phone for a moment.  "Just come over, alright?"

"Are you in trouble with the law?"

"No! Nothing like that! I swear!"  he spit up a nervous laugh, "Believe me, that'd make things a whole lot easier!"

I let out a sigh.  My compassion, I had determined, would be the death of me one day.  "How long will this take?"

"I'll try to be brief about this, I promise."

I grit my teeth, glancing at the clock.  "I'll be there in twenty minutes.  But I can't stay long.  I've got a business-related trip I need to make."

"Oh, man.  Thank you so much, Hutch.  I promise to be quick with it.  Just this one favor before you go.  Thank you so much."

The sudden release of tension in his voice made me feel a little bit guilty about my impatience.  After all, I didn't have to get to Chicago so soon.

"You're welcome, " I answered, "See you in twenty."

**

I pride myself on being prompt in my time estimates, and this was no exception.  As promised, twenty minutes after our conversation ended, my used but reliable Chevy pickup truck pulled into his gravel-blanketed driveway.  My suitcase occupied the passenger seat; I had planned on heading out as soon as this business was finished.

My fist pounded on the door of the small, single level white house.  Moments after the final slam of flesh on wood, a response came in the form of the jiggling of metal on the other side of the door.  Finally, a pale, lifeless face floating above a black T-shirt and faded jeans appeared in the darkened opening.

"Kevin?" I asked.

The face responded with a nod that seemed absent-minded, like somebody responding to a conversation while being engrossed in a television show.  "Come in, Hutch." he murmured. 

For the first time since Kevin's phone call, a creeping sensation of fear began to tingle through me.  This was not the Kevin I worked with, who maintained a boyish look, sporting curly blond hair and a well-chisled physique that came from strict diet and exercise.  This Kevin did not look right.  Oh, his body was still physically fit, but his face seemed drained, sickly, out of place with the rest of him.

Especially the eyes.  Once halos of dark blue that surrounded his pupils, the irises now had changed to a dull yellow, giving him an unsettling appearance.