KLOKWERK

I might turn out look like Ernest Borgnine or Klaus Kinski and that’d certainly would add some nasty icing to this already bizarre cake.

As I mentally blew on some tiny, glowing embers of recollection, I was suddenly gripped by fear that stopped me dead in my tracks. A fear so raw and primal, that it stripped me of my ability to think rationally, leaving me like some cave-dwelling thing cowering from its first experience with a blinding flash of lightning or a deafening clap of thunder. Tingling beads of sweat began to run down my face, back and chest like a thousand baby cockroaches scurrying to the safety of darkness after the flicking of a kitchen light switch. I began to shiver uncontrollably and I thought I was on the verge of convulsing. Suddenly my knees buckled, but I drew on all the inner strength I could muster to remain standing. I violently shook it off as I dry-scrubbed my face with both hands and took a deep greedy breath through my nose then blew it out my mouth as I ran the fingers of both hands through my short-cropped hair. It was sodden and spiked and itched as if a few of those roaches had headed north and found refuge on my scalp. I gazed down and noticed the thin layer of red dust on my clothing. And that my boots were encrusted with dried red mud.

Red mud?

Am I in Tennessee?

Kentucky?

I voraciously sucked down a few more of the much-needed gulps of air to fortify me before continuing up the path to the house.

I reluctantly mounted the first of the four worn, wooden steps that led to the porch, then made short work of the seven foot distance to the screen door and reached down to grab the tarnished handle. The very second I felt the cold metal beneath my hand, that suffocating dread returned, but ten times as intense. It pounced on me like some cold, hungry thing. Its weight forced me painfully to my knees. But I didn’t release my white-knuckled grasped on the screen door handle. I couldn’t. I irrationally thought if I were to let go, the cold, hungry thing would drag me off into the bushes and devour me whole.

"Oh God! That was not good," I muttered just above a hoarse whisper. I remained on my knees, still holding on to the handle. I simply could not get to my feet. My body felt as if someone had removed my skeleton and left this gelatinous mass feebly mumbling entreaties to an indifferent deity.

"What in hell is happening to me?" I wondered aloud, then began to breathe deeply through my nose, then exhaled slowly through my mouth again until some functioning measure of control returned, or at least until I could feel my bones again.

With great effort, I pulled myself to my feet. My legs were still a little wobbly. I took another deep breath, then pulled the screen door open and was greeted by a huge, marred mahogany door. I held the screen door opened with my right foot then grabbed the dull, brass doorknob, twisted and pushed my way into the shadow-cast lobby. The door creaked a warning. It said to get the hell out of town and don’t look back. To be on the safe side, I gingerly poked my head in first before committing myself to full entry.