text: [Themes: modern, thriller]
  
  "So what kind of engine you got in that thing?" Gordy asks. "I hope it's not a diesel. Those things stink."
  
  You are watching as Charlei examines the keychain as if it were a rare and exotic item before tossing it back to her husband. "No, it's a V6," you say.
  
  "Oh, and not an eight-cylinder? That's too bad." At last, he turns the keychain around in his hand and applies it to the beer bottle cap, which tinks to the floor. He tosses the keys back to you, his curiosity satisfied for the moment, and returns to your grandfather's old chair.
  
  "We should go for a ride later!" Charlei says, back on her feet and standing in the kitchen once again.
  
  "And just where are we going to go?" you say. This strange idiocy of theirs is clearly getting to you, and you see no reason to conceal it any longer.
  
  "Al, settle down," Gordy says after finishing his first swig from the new bottle. "No need to raise your voice. Show a little respect to my wife, if you don't mind."
  
  "Well look who's becoming all chivalrous all of a sudden!" Charlei steps forward and wraps her arms around her husband from behind, nestling her chin on his shoulder. He shuffles his beer bottle to his left hand and reaches up to rub her hair with his right. They remain in this affectionate pose for an extended moment, almost in the opposite state of mind from when they first arrived.
  
  You get sick of watching them, so you stand up abruptly and head over to the cooler, grabbing another Magic Hat for yourself, since Gordy couldn't be bothered to do bring one for you when you asked. The sound of it opening snaps Charlei from her amorous reverie.
  
  "How many of those have you had?" she asks as you stoop to pick up the cap her husband dropped on the floor.
  
  "What does it matter?"
  
  "I don't know. I was just thinking it's a wild night out there, and you might want to keep your wits about you."
  
  The thought of returning to that folding chair and sitting with them again has become unbearable, so you back yourself against the table and lean against it as you take your first sip of the beer. "What makes you think I plan to go out in that weather?"
  
  "It's not what you're planning I'd worry about. It's the unexpected things that could be a problem."
  
  She herself is the living embodiment of her own point. You regard her from across the room: dripping wet, standing in a stranger's cabin, acting like this is all her little party and you're the cantankerous guest.
  
  "So what was that idea you had a moment ago?" you say, rubbing your chin to feel the stubble that has accumulated there.
  
  "What idea?"
  
  "Just now, you said you knew how to make the night perfect or something. What is it?"
  
  Gordy pipes up from the other side of her, never taking his eyes off the stove: "It was nothing, Al. She was just trying to tease me."
  
  Charlei says nothing to explain herself. Instead, her eyes brighten as if inspired by another idea. "This place you have here is so cozy, Al!"
  
  "Thanks," you say flatly, unconvinced of her sincerity.
  
  "Why don't you show me around? You know, give me the grand tour."
  
  "You're already looking at half of it," you say. "There's this floor here, then the loft upstairs."
  
  "Nuh-uh!" she says dismissively. "Don't you be lying to me, Al! I see two doors I haven't been through yet: one over there by the sink, and that other one by the table. Where do they go?"
  
  "The back stoop, and nowhere," you say, nodding to each door respectively.
  
  "What do you mean, nowhere?"
  
  "As in, there's nothing on the other side. Used to be there was another part of the house over there, where the old man slept I think. But the foundation rotted out years ago and my grandfather had it torn down back in the seventies."
  
  "Old man? What old man?"
  
  "Higgins, I think his name was. He used to live here around the turn of the last century. Died in 1921."
  
  "Did he die here? That gives me the creeps!" she says. You've been noticing that as this latest turn in the conversation unfolds, she's been inching away from her husband and closer to you.
  
  "Why does it give you the creeps?"
  
  "Doesn't it make you a little nervous?" she counters.
  
  "I don't get it," you say. "Why should that bother me?"
  
  "All the time you must spend here alone..."
  
  "The guy's been dead for almost a hundred years. Trust me, I've never met him."
  
  "Al is a rational man," Gordy explains from the other side of the room, same position as always. "Things have to make sense, or he doesn't believe they can happen."
  
  You don't respond. For someone who's only known you for about twenty minutes, it's not a bad assessment.
  
  But now Charlei has closed most of the distance between you. She reaches forward to tap you on the chest. "But sometimes things happen that have no explanation, Al. What do you make of that?"
  
  All you can do is shrug, the beer swishing inside the bottle you're holding.
  
  "By the way, don't you have a bathroom in this place?" she asks, now practically face to face with you. But before you can reply, she answers her own question: "Let me guess, a girl has to go outside to use the outhouse."
  
  "I keep a clean privy," you say.
  
  "I'm sure. But you have to go outside to get to it."
  
  She does have a point. "It's not far. And you can't get any wetter than you already are."
  
  "Can you show me?" she asks.
  
  "It's just outside that back door," you say, pointing to the door beside the sink. "Take the flashlight from that shelf to the left. It ain't more than twenty feet away."
  
  Charlei doesn't even look at the shelf you just pointed to. Instead she reaches up on her toes toward your ear. "I have something I want to tell you," she whispers before rushing off toward the door. She looks at you as if imploring you to follow, her hand on the handle.
  
  > Nothing is going to convince YOU to go out in that storm.
  You've never met anyone more obnoxious. No, of course you're not going to follow her outside in this weather.
  
  "You'll find the toilet paper inside a coffee can screwed to the wall," you tell her, stepping away.
  
  Charlei looks disappointed. She mouths the word But—
  
  "Seriously, take that flashlight. It's dark out there." You take a drink from the beer bottle, watching your guest standing by the door. She hesitates, as if waiting to see if you really aren't going to follow her. In reply, you pull out the last remaining seat at your table and sit down.
  
  "I can't believe this," she says out loud, letting go of the door handle.
  
  "What, you don't need to use the privy after all?" you say, sitting sideways in the metal chair and leaning back against the wall.
  
  Gordy begins to chuckle over by the woodstove, a chuckle that quickly grows into a consuming laughter. He bends forward, head propped in his hand as his body convulses.
  
  "And what do you find so amusing there, mister?" his wife asks, annoyed with both of you.
  
  He sits back up, sighing to bring his breathing back into rhythm. "Ah, you know. Just the sheer ridiculousness of life, I guess."
  
  "So long as you're not laughing at me," she says.
  
  That shuts him up, as far as the laughing goes. "You know I wouldn't do that."
  
  Charlei shakes her head at him, although of course he's got his back to her and doesn't see her gesture of frustration. As you sit and watch with your beer, she paces the middle of the room twice, indecisive of what to do or where to go, and then she goes to the woodstove to fetch her chair. Gordy pays her no attention.
  
  She sets the chair down beside you at the table, then sits with her face propped on her chin, the instant picture of boredom.
  
  "So this is it, Al? This is what you consider a fun Saturday night?"
  
  "I've got a deck of cards."
  
  Her face lights up. "Exploding Kittens?"
  
  "Say what now? No, I was thinking something more like Pitch."
  
  "Pitch?"
  
  "Sure. Don't you know how to play?"
  
  "Isn't that one of those games with lots of rules?" she says, nose furrowed in disapproval.
  
  You don't respond; clearly Pitch is not an enticing option. There was a daily crossword in that newspaper, but Charlei seems too fidgety tonight to be interested in that kind of thing, either.
  
  "I'm tired of being soaking wet," she announces a moment later. "Aren't you, Gordy?"
  
  "That's why I'm sitting here, babe. Trying to dry off."
  
  "But I'm too on edge to just sit around. I wish I had a change of clothes."
  
  She looks at you expectantly, and a second passes before you realize she was actually making a request.
  
  "What?" you say, reflexively taking another drink from the bottle. "What do you want from me?"
  
  "Doesn't your wife ever come here?" she says.
  
  "Sometimes, I guess. Not often."
  
  "But doesn't she have any extra clothes laying around?"
  
  You shrug. "I honestly don't know. Maybe."
  
  "Where?"
  
  The idea of a stranger — and really, that's what she is, as far as you're concerned — prowling through Heather's personal items and wearing her clothes makes you uncomfortable. On the other hand Charlei looks as if she fell into the river; she may be annoying, and her husband may be a creep, but it can't be fun being stuck inside that soaking-wet hoodie of hers.
  
  "Up those stairs over there, first room on the left," you say, pointing to the steps that climb up to the left of the woodstove. "Heather is a bit taller than you, and I can't guarantee her clothes will fit, if in fact she left something for you to borrow."
  
  She seems excited by the possibility nevertheless. But before she rises to go exploring the second floor of your camp she reaches across the table to grab a notepad and a pencil. After hastily scratching out a message, she holds the pad up for you to read it:
  
  > go upstairs with Charlei.
  You look across the table at Charlei, her eyes silently pleading for your attention. Something is clearly on her mind, and following her up the stairs seems more reasonable than heading out into the rain.
  
  "There are several closets and dressers up there," you say, "so I probably better go and help you look."
  
  She is clearly pleased with your decision. "Thank you thank you thank you!" she gushes again, just like when you first let her in the house.
  
  You stand up from the table, and she does the same, with all of the eagerness of someone going off on an adventure. "Are you always so easily impressed?"
  
  "Are you always so sarcastic with your guests?" she fires back. "Maybe this explains why you're here all by yourself. No, seriously though, you have no idea what it's like wearing a wet bra for hours on end."
  
  "You got me there," you say. "All right, come on."
  
  She follows you past Gordy and the woodstove to the foot of the stairs, where you grab a spare flashlight perched on a shelf. As you begin to climb you catch her smiling goofily to her husband, who looks back at her somewhat blankly, like none of this means much of anything to him. His only response is to cross his legs and take another swig of beer. The old wooden steps creak under your feet, and you flick on the light as you ascend into the darkness.
  
  "You really need to get some lights for this place," Charlei says behind you.
  
  "Normally I'd bring the Coleman with me, but that would mean leaving your husband in the dark."
  
  The upper half of your camp has always been a bit of an enigma to you, inasmuch as you can't figure out why it was built in the first place. Everything you've ever heard about Old Man Higgins suggests he lived here most of his life alone; if so, then why build three additional bedrooms up here, as if in anticipation of children?
  
  The only one of the three rooms you've ever used is the one to the left of the stairs, directly above the woodstove at the front of the cabin. Up here there is less separation between you and the storm outside, and the sound of the rain against the roof is distracting. A normal summer shower creates a soothing white noise, but not so obnoxious Bob.
  
  "You might try that dresser over there," you say, pointing to the white-painted monstrosity at the far end of the room, with red knobs for handles. "I'm pretty sure that's the one my wife was using the last time she was here."
  
  "I take it Heather's not much into camping," Charlei says. But instead of searching for a change of clothes, she sits herself down on the end of your queen-size bed. "Not bad, not bad."
  
  This is unbelievable; you try to help somebody, and it turns out they just want to waste your time. "Is there something else you need from me?"
  
  She quickly rises from the bed, her finger held upright in front of her lips. "Shhh! Yes, close that door."
  
  Actually, that's the last thing you want to do. Instead you stand there somewhat dumbfounded, flashlight in hand, wondering what it is you've just stepped into.
  
  Giggling softly, she reaches both arms around you to close the door herself. It is practically an embrace. "Are you out of your mind?" you say.
  
  "I said quiet!" she whispers. "He's right downstairs, you know."
  
  "Well, yeah!"
  
  She ignores you, sliding around the corner of the bed to the dresser you pointed out. "Can you shine that light over here, please? Thanks!" Upon opening the top drawer, you can see from across the room that Charlei has found something of interest. She picks out a set of mauve flannel pajamas. "This will work. Tell Heather I like her taste in clothes. Now turn around while I change out of these nasty wet things."
  
  "Maybe it's better if I—"
  
  "No! Don't go!" she says. "It's creepy up here. I don't want to be left alone. Just turn around and don't look."
  
  Suppressing a response, you set the flashlight on the bed and turn to face the door. So was this the reason for the apparent urgency in that note, come with me? She just needed a chaperone in case the ghost of Old Man Higgins made its first-ever appearance?
  
  "Darn! I guess I need you to face me after all," she says sheepishly. You turn back around, feeling duped the moment you do. She is standing between the dresser and the bed, back towards you, topless except for the bra.
  
  "What's the matter?" you say, resenting the way she seems to be going out of her way to embarrass you.
  
  "The hooks are stuck, and I can't get them unstuck." She backs up toward you, placing the malfunctioning bra strap within easy reach.
  
  You're no expert on these things, but your wife has never had this problem. Aren't there ways in an out of a bra that don't require male involvement? Isn't that entirely the point?
  
  "Well, what are you waiting for?" she says.
  
  "Seriously, you want me to undo your bra for you?"
  
  "Why not? You're married, aren't you? That sort of implies you've seen a woman before, and you know how bras work."
  
  Something seems very wrong here, but it won't even take a second to unhook those straps. Biting your sense of propriety, you reach forward to give it your best shot.
  
  You nearly jump into the ceiling when Charlei shrieks upon contact.
  
  "What, are you nuts?" you whisper-shout. "Be quiet! What was that for?"
  
  "Sorry, but your hands are cold! Try it again; this time I'll be ready."
  
  She's wrong, because this time she giggles as if the touch of your fingers is tickling her spine. And then you hear Gordy's footsteps coming up the stairs.
  
  > Next page.
  "Now you've done it!" she says, turning to face you, holding the loosened bra in her arms and still giggling.
  
  But this isn't funny, not in the least.
  
  "Maybe I should lay on the bed and start bouncing. Ee-aw-Ee-aw-Ee-aw," she continues, simulating the sound of a noisy mattress spring.
  
  You, on the other hand, are mortified. It is almost as if she has deliberately set you up for the confrontation that is about to come. "What the fuck is wrong with you!" you say, but she never gets a chance to respond. The door opens, and in walks Gordy.
  
  "I was just about to ask you the same question, Al."
  
  "I tried to tell him to leave, Gordy, but he was getting fresh."
  
  "Is that so?"
  
  You don't respond; in fact, there is no response conceivable that would work in this situation. In a heartbeat your mortification becomes resentment. Clearly, this whole encounter was staged.
  
  "He nearly ripped my bra off me. That's why I shrieked."
  
  She also giggled quite loudly too, and there's no way Gordy could not have heard that. Nevertheless, it's not a factor he seems to be taking into consideration.
  
  "Are you all right now, honey?" he says, eyes fixed on you.
  
  "I'll be OK."
  
  "Al, perhaps you and I should come down here and have a little discussion."
  
  The only part of that plan you like is the part where you get out of this room. Beyond that, there's not too much you want to discuss with either half of this couple anymore.
  
  The problem, though, is that Gordy is the first to step out of the bedroom. This means he is blocking the top of the stairs when you enter the hallway, blocking that avenue of escape. Charlei closes the door behind you, keeping the flashlight with her. Other than the little bit of lantern glow leaking its way from downstairs, this floor is mostly pitch black.
  
  "Let's go this way," Gordy says, gesturing toward one of the lightless guest rooms.
  
  "Let's not, if you don't mind. This is all absurd, and you know it."
  
  "Are you calling me a liar, Al? Are you calling my wife a liar?"
  
  "I'm calling both of you 'no longer welcome here,' that's what I'm doing. If we must, then let's go down—"
  
  You are cut off when you feel something hard and metallic thrust into your rib cage. "You know what this is, don't you Al?" he says.
  
  In the dark it's hard to tell anything for certain, but yes this does feel like a gun pointed point-blanc at your vital organs. The otherwise wimpy-looking Gordon Fellows has the upper hand here, and you acquiesce when he pushes you into the dark room.
  
  "Tell me this is all one big joke," you say, finding it difficult to believe this is actually happening. It could just be a cigarette lighter in his hand, and thus his preference to keep you in the dark.
  
  "I wouldn't want to get your hopes up," he says. "Now, where are those truck keys of yours?"
  
  You don't say a thing.
  
  "Hmm, well, doesn't matter. I'll find them. They're in one of your pockets, I know that much."
  
  "Gordy, this is ridiculous!"
  
  "Isn't it, though?" he says. There is a single strobe-like flash of light, and in that instant — before you keel over backward — when you can see his resolute expression, and he can no doubt see your look of shock.