When Uncle Gus put Janey's soup plate in front of her he asked her how she was feeling.

  "Fine," said Janey quietly, eyes down.

  "Then you'll be able to appreciate the soup." He smiled, trying to look pleasant." It's a special recipe. Try it."

  She spooned some into her mouth.

  "How does it taste?"

  "Kinda sour."

  Gus shook his head, trying some for himsell "Ummm… delicious."

  He paused." Know what's in it?"

  She shook her head.

  He grinned, leaning toward her across the table." It's owl-eye soup.

  Made from the dead eyes of an owl. All mashed up fresh, just for you."

  She looked at him steadily." You want me to upchuck, don't you, Uncle Gus?"

  "My goodness no, Janey." There was oiled delight in his voice." I just thought you'd like to know what you swallowed."

  Janey pushed her plate away." I'm not going to be sick because I don't believe you. And when you don't believe in something then it's not real."

  Gus scowled at her, finishing his soup.

  Janey knew he planned to tell her another awful spook story after lunch, but she wasn't upset about that. Because.

  Because there wouldn't be any after lunch for Uncle Gus.

  It was time for her surprise.

  "I got something to tell you, Uncle Gus."

  "So tell me." His voice was sharp and ugly.

  "All my friends at school know about the thing inside. We talked about it a lot and now we all believe in it. It has red eyes and it's furry and it smells bad. And it's got lots of very sharp teeth."

  "You bet it has," Gus said, brightening at her words." And it's always hungry."

  "But guess what," said Janey." Surprise! It's not inside me, Uncle Gus … it's inside you!"

  He glared at her." That's not funny, you little bitch. Don't try to turn this around and pretend that He stopped in mid-sentence, spoon clattering to the floor as he stood up abruptly. His face was flushed. He made strangling sounds.

  "It wants out," said Janey.

  Gus doubled over the table, hands clawing at his stomach." Call … call a… doctor!" he gasped.

  "A doctor won't help," said Janey in satisfaction." Nothing can stop it now."

  Janey followed him calmly, munching on an apple. She watched him stagger and fall in the doorway, rolling over on his back, eyes wild with panic.

  She stood over him, looking down at her uncle's stomach under the white shirt.

  Something bulged there.

  Gus screamed.

  Late that night, alone in her room, Janey held Whiskers tight against her chest and whispered into her pet's quivering ear.

  "Mommy's been crying," she told the cat." She's real upset about what happened to Uncle Gus. Are you upset, Whiskers?"

  The cat yawned, revealing sharp white teeth.

  "I didn't think so. That's because you didn't like Uncle Gus any more than me, did you?"

  She hugged him." Wanta hear a secret, Whiskers?"

  The cat blinked lazily at her, beginning to purr.

  "You know that mean ole Mr. Kruger at school… Well, guess what?" She smiled." Me an' the other kids are gonna talk to him tomorrow about something he's got inside him." Janey shuddered deliciously." Something nasty!"

  And she giggled.

  2 - Joseph Payne Brennan - Canavan's Back Yard

  I first met Canavan over twenty years ago shortly after he had emigrated from London. He was an antiquarian and a lover of old books; so he quite naturally set up shop as a second-hand book dealer after he settled in New Haven.

  Since his small capital didn't permit him to rent premises in the center of the city, he rented combined business and living quarters in an isolated old house near the outskirts of town. The section was sparsely settler, but since a good percentage of Canavan's business was transacted by mail, it didn't particularly matter.

  Quite often, after a morning spent at my typewriter, I walked out to Canavan's shop and spent most of the afternoon browsing among his old books. I found it a great pleasure, especially because Canavan never resorted to high-pressure methods to make a sale. He was aware of my precarious financial situation; he never frowned if I walked away empty-handed.

  In fact, he seemed to welcome me for my company alone. Only a few book buyers called at his place with regularity, and I think he was often lonely. Sometimes when business was slow, he would brew a pot of English tea and the two of us would sit for hours, drinking tea and talking about books.

  Canavan even looked like an antiquarian book dealer-or the popular caricature of one. He was small of frame, somewhat stoop shouldered, and his blue eyes peered out from behind archaic spectacles with steel rims and square-cut lenses.

  Although I doubt if his yearly income ever matched that of a good paperhanger, he managed to "get by" and he was content. Content, that is, until he began noticing his back yard.

  Behind the ramshackle old house in which he lived and ran his shop, stretched a long, desolate yard overgrown with brambles and high brindle-colored grass. Several decayed apple trees, jagged and black with rot, added to the scene's dismal aspect. The broken wooden fences on both sides of the yard were all but swallowed up by the tangle of coarse grass. They appeared to be literally sinking into the ground.

  Altogether, the yard presented an unusually depressing picture, and I often wondered why Canavan didn't clean it up. But it was none of my business; I never mentioned it.

  One afternoon when I visited the shop, Canavan was not in the front display room, so I walked down a narrow corridor to a rear storeroom where he sometimes worked, packing and unpacking book shipments. When I entered the storeroom, Canavan was standing at the window, looking out at the back yard.

  I started to speak and then for some reason didn't. I think what stopped me was the look on Canavan's face. He was gazing out at the yard with a peculiar intense expression, as if he were completely absorbed by something he saw there. Varying, conflicting emotions showed on his strained features. He seemed both fascinated and fearful, attracted and repelled. When he finally noticed me, he almost jumped.

  He stared at me for a moment as if I were a total stranger.

  Then his old easy smile came back, and his blue eyes twinkled behind the square spectacles. He shook his head." That back yard of mine sure looks funny sometimes. You look at it long enough, you think it runs for miles!"

  That was all he said at the time, and I soon forgot about it. I didn't know that was just the beginning of the horrible business.

  After that, whenever I visited the shop, I found Canavan in the rear storeroom. Once in a while he was actually working, but most of the time he was simply standing at the window looking out at that dreary yard of his.

  Sometimes he would stand there for minutes completely oblivious of my presence. Whatever he saw appeared to rivet his entire attention. His countenance at these times showed an expr fright mingled with a queer kind of pleasurable expectancy. Usually it was necessary for me to cough loudly or shuffle my feet before he turned from the window.

  Afterward, when he talked about books, he would seem to be his old self again, but I began to experience the disconcerting feeling that he was merely acting, that while he chatted about incunabula, his thoughts were actually still dwelling on that infernal back yard.

  Several times I thought of questioning him about the yard, but whenever words were on the tip of my tongue, I was stopped by a sense of embarrassment. How can one admonish a man for looking out of a window at his own back yard? What does one say and how does one say it?

  I kept silent. Later I regretted it bitterly.

  Canavan's business, never really flourishing, began to diminish.

  Worse than that, he appeared to be failing physically. He grew more stooped and gaunt. Though his eyes never lost their sharp glint, I began to believe it was more the glitter of fever than the twinkle of healthy enthusiasm which animated them.

  One afternoon when I entered the shop, Canavan was nowhere to be found. Thinking he might be just outside the back door engaged in some household chore, I leaned up against the rear window and looked out.

  I didn't see Canavan, but as I gazed out over the yard I was swept with a sudden inexplicable sense of desolation which seemed to roll over me like the wave of an icy sea. My initial impulse was to pull away from the window, but something held me. As I stared out over that miserable tangle of briars and brindle grass, I experienced what for want of a better word I can only call cutiosily. Perhaps some cool, analytical, dispassionate part of my brain simply wanted to discover what had caused my sudden feeling of acute depression. Or possibly some feature of that wretched vista attracted me on a subconscious level which I had never permitted to crowd up into my sane and waking hours.

  In any case, I remained at the window. The long dry brown grass wavered slightly in the wind. The rotted black trees reared motionless .

  Not a single bird, not even a butterfly, hovered over that bleak expanse. There was nothing to be seen except the stalks of long brindle "rass, the decayed trees, and scattered clumps of low-growing briars.

  Yet there was something about that particular isolated slice of landscape which I found intriguing. I think I had the feeling that it presented some kind of puzzle, and, that if I gazed at it long enough, the puzzle would resolve itsell After I had stood looking out at it for a few minutes, I experienced the odd sensation that its perspective was subtly altering. Neither the grass nor the trees changed, and yet the yard itself seemed to expand its dimensions. At first I merely reflected that the yard was actually much longer than I had previously believed. Then I had an idea that in reality it stretched for several acres. Finally, I became convinced that it continued for an interminable distance and that, if I entered it, I might walk for miles and miles before I came to the end.

  I was seized by a sudden almost overpowering desire to rush out the back door, plunge into that sea of wavering brindle grass, and stride straight ahead until I had discovered for myself just how far it did extend. I was, in fact, on the point of doing so-when I saw Canavan.

  He appeared abruptly out of the tangle of tall grass at the near end of the yard. For at least a minute he seemed to be completely lost.

  He looked at the back of his own house as if he had never in his life seen it before. He was disheveled and obviously excited. Briars clung to his trousers and jacket, and pieces of grass were stuck in the hooks of his old-fashioned shoes. His eyes roved around wildly; he seemed about to turn and bolt back into the tangle from which he had just emerged.

  I rapped loudly on the window pane. He paused in a half turn, looked over his shoulder, and saw me. Gradually an expression of normality returned to his agitated features. Walking in a weary slouch, he approached the house. I hurried to the door and let him in. He went straight to the front display room and sank down in a chair.

  He looked up when I followed him into the room." Frank," he said in a half whisper, "would you make some tea?"

  I brewed tea, and he drank it scaking hot without saying a word.

  He looked utterly exhausted; I knew he was too tired to tell me what had happened.

  "You had better stay indoors for a few days," I said as I left.

  He nodded weakly, without looking up, and bade me good day.

  When I returned to the shop the next afternoon, he appeared rested and refreshed but nevertheless moody and depressed. He made no mention of the previous day's episode. For a week or so it seemed as if he might forget about the yard.

  But one day when I went into the shop, he was standing at the rear window, and I could see that he tore himself away only with the greatest reluctance. After that, the pattern began repeating itself with regularity. I knew that that weird tangle of brindle grass behind his house was becoming an obsession.

  Because I feared for his business as well as for his fragile health, I finally remonstrated with him. I pointed out that he was losing customers; he had not issued a book catalogue in months. I told him that the time spent in gazing at that witch's half acre he called his back yard would be better spent in listing his books and filling his orders. I assured him that an obsession such as his was sure to undermine his health. And finally I pointed out the absurd and ridiculous aspects of the affair. If people knew he spent hours in staring out of his window at nothing more than a miniature jungle of grass and briars, they might think he was actually mad.

  I ended by boldly asking him exactly what he had experienced that afternoon when I had seen him come out of the grass with a lost bewildered expression on his face.

  He removed his square spectacles with a sigh." Frank," he said, "I know you mean well. But there's something about that back yardsome secret-that I've got to find out. I don't know what it is exactlymething about distance and dimensions and perspectives, I think. so But whatever it is, I've come to consider it-well, a challenge. I've got to get to the root of it. If you think I'm crazy, I'm sorry. But I'll have no rest until I solve the riddle of that piece of ground."

  He replaced his spectacles with a frown." That afternoon," he went on, "when you were standing at the window, I had a strange and frightening experience out there. I had been watching at the window, and finally I felt myself drawn irresistibly outside. I plunged into the grass with a feelin of exhilaration, of adventure, of expectancy. As I advanced into the yard, my sense of elation quickly changed to a mood of black depression. I turned around, intending to come right out-but I couldn't. You won't believe this, I know -but I was lost! I simply lost all sense of direction and couldn't decide which way to turn. That grass is taller than it looks! When you get into it, you can't see anything beyond it.

  "I know this sounds incredible-but I wandered out there for an hour. The yard seemed fantastically large-it almost seemed to alter its dimensions as I moved, so that a large expanse of it lay always in front of me. I must have walked in circles. I swear I trudged miles!"

  He shook his head." You don't have to believe me. I don't expect you to. But that's what happened. When I finally found my way out, it was by the sheerest accident. And the strangest part of it is that once I got out, I felt suddenly terrified without the tall grass all around me and I wanted to rush back in again! This in spite of the ghastly sense of desolation which the place aroused in me.

  "But I've got to go back. I've got to figure the thing out. There's something out there that defies the laws of earthly nature as we know them. I mean to find out what it is. I think I have a plan and I mean to put it into practice."

  His words stirred me strangely and when I uneasily recalled my own experience at the window that afternoon, I found it difficult to dismiss his story as sheer nonsense. I did-half-heartedly-try to dissuade him from entering the yard again, but I knew even as I spoke that I was wasting my breath.

  I left the shop that afternoon with a feeling of oppression and foreboding which nothing could remove.

  When I called several days later, my worst fears were realizedCanavan was missing. The front door of the shop was unlatched as usual, but Canavan was not in th in every room.

  Finally, with a feeling of infinite dread, I opened the back door and looked out toward the yard.

  The long stalks of brown grass slid against each other in the slight breeze with dry sibilant whispers. The dead trees reared black and motionless. Although it was late summer, I could hear neither the chirp of a bird nor the chirr of a single insect. The yard itself seemed to be listening.

  Feeling something against my foot, I glanced down and saw a thick twine stretching from inside the door, across the scant cleared space immediately adjacent to the house and thence into the wavering wall of grass. Instantly I recalled Canavan's mention of a "plan." His plan, I realized immediately, was to enter the yard trailing a stout cord behind him. No matter how he twisted and turned, he must have reason cord.

  It seemed like a workable scheme, so I felt relieved. Probably Canavan was still in the yard. I decided I would wait for him to come out.

  Perhaps if he w to roam aro ong enough, without interruption, the place would lose its evil fascination for him, and he would forget about it.

  I went back into the shop and browsed among the books. e end of an hour I became uneasy again. I wondered how long Canavan had been in the yard. When I began reflecting on the old man's uncertain health, I felt a sense of responsibility.

  I finally returned to the back door, saw that he was nowhere in sight, and called out his name. I experienced the disquieting sensation that my shout carried no further than the very edge of that whispering fringe of grass. It was as if the sound had been smothered, deadened, nullified as soon as the vibrations of it reached the border of that overgrown yard.

  I called again and again, but there was no reply. At length I decided to go in after him. I would follow along the cord, I thought, and I would be sure to locate him. I told myself that the thick grass undoubtedly did stifle my shout and possibly, in any case, Canavan might be growing slightly deal Just inside the door, the cord was tied securely around the leg of a heavy table. Taking hold of the twine, I crossed of the house and slipped into the rustling expanse of grass.

  The going was easy at first, and I made good progress. As I advanced, however, the grass stems became thicker, and grew closer together, and I was forced to shove my way through them. was no more overwhelmed with the same bottomless sense of desolation which I had experienced before. There was certainly something uncanny about the place. I felt as if I had suddenly veered into another worlda world of briars and brindle grass whose ceaseless half-heard whisperings were somehow alive with evil.

  As I pushed along, the cord abruptly came to an end. Glancing down, I saw that it had caught against a thorn bush, abraded itself, and had subsequently broken. Although I bent down and poked in the area for several minutes, I was unable to locate the pie ic it had parted.

  Probably Canavan was unaware that the cord had broken and was now pulling it along with him.

  I straightened up, cupped my hands to my mouth, and shouted.

 

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