The guy stared into Grant’s eyes for a few seconds. “You really want to hear it?”

“Sure do. Whole thing, beginning to end. And I don’t think you’re crazy—no more so than half the people who come through that door with a story they want to get off their chests.”

The guy looked unconvinced. “But I said it’s a demon, a monster.”

“I heard you the first time.” Grant poured two cups of coffee, set one down in front of the guy, and then pulled up the chair he kept behind the bar. “I make a good pot of java, if I do say so myself. And before you start quizzing me again about everything you’ve said up to this point, you need to understand that I’ve seen some seriously weird shit in my day.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Jackson.

The Reverend only nodded, and for a moment the three of them looked up toward the shelf that ran above the length of the bar, a shelf with an odd but eye-catching assortment of items, knickknacks, and bric-a-brac, among which could be seen a hand-made model of a lighthouse with a clipper ship crashed upon the shore, an old harmonica, and the highly polished broken neck of an acoustic guitar. Each of these items held a special meaning for the three men, each had its own story, and every story, as Grant had told the guy at the bar, contained its own element of “…seriously weird shit.”

“So,” said Grant to the guy, “if someone walks in here and wants to tell me a story about a demon or a monster, I don’t shake my head or pass judgment or jump to the worst possible conclusion. Now, why don’t you drink some of my unjustifiably un-famous coffee and get on with it?”

The guy took a couple of sips. “I, uh…sorry, no one’s ever asked me to tell the whole thing before. At best I get about halfway through before someone whips out a prescription pad and starts scribbling.”

Grant said nothing. This was a guy who desperately needed to talk to someone. If Grant waited in silence long enough, the guy would get the idea that he wasn’t going anywhere and begin wherever he needed to begin.

“You’re right,” the guy said. “This is really good coffee.” He took another sip, set down the cup, and pulled in a deep breath as he steadied himself and his hands. “Wow. Somehow I thought it’d be easy to start this, y’know?”

“It’s your story,” said the Reverend. “Start it wherever you wish.”

“That’s just it,” said the guy. “It’s not just my story.”

The Reverend nodded. “Most stories usually aren’t.”

The guy rubbed his eyes. “Anyone got a smoke? I mean, is it okay to smoke in here?”

Jackson laughed. “Can’t you smell it in the wood?” He fished a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket. “This is one of the few businesses left in the state where you can still smoke.”