The people frightened of small critters were the most fun. Matt would scratch the logs with his fingernail as they drifted off, eliciting nervous gasps of what was that? and you guys hear that? He’d just laugh to himself. His father had done the same things to him. Nothing wrong with passing down a family tradition. His father had been hazed by Ron (his father’s best pal, and the one who bought the property after the farmhouse burned). Ron had paid $2,500 for the land and what was left of the farm. Ron shared the keys as best friends do. Matt’s father had his own copy and could go whenever he wished. There were no exceptions—the place was as good as his. And it was one of the few faraway places Matt’s parents let him drive to once he got his license.

Matt gulped his soda and gazed at the trinkets and fading logs. So many memories, enough to lift his spirits. To the left of the triple bunk bed on the west wall stood a beautiful hutch. The top half was a glass cupboard, and inside were dishes, but nothing fancy. There wasn’t much fancy about the shack except for the fireplace. Below the glass cupboard on the hutch was a wooden ledge that held a sturdy green lantern. Below this a series of battered drawers that held knives, segments of rope, and duct tape. The hutches’ wood contained a reddish quality and was smooth to the touch. The glass panes in the cupboard nothing more than thin layers of frost. He got the impression they’d break at any moment. On the log wall between the triple bunk bed and hutch three hefty nails were pounded into place, holding a frying pan, a waffle pan, and a flat, square pan. On the floor beneath the pans was a white five-gallon bucket with a straightened coat hanger across the top. Needled on the straightened hangar was a soda can smeared with peanut butter. Antifreeze coated the bucket’s bottom. This was the shack mousetrap—a foul device that you were supposed to clean out upon arrival. Sometimes he’d find up to a half dozen mice. The idea was the mice would walk out onto the wire, lick the peanut butter, then spin off the soda can to a green, oozy death.

It was not a fast death.

He’d always felt that humans should afford the most painless solution possible when dealing with something as finite as ending a life. The antifreeze could also kill other animals. Ron dumped the bucket’s morbid contents into a hole on the property, mouse-soaked antifreeze and all. If another creature came and ate the poisoned mice, it too would be poisoned. On top of that, you don’t want the antifreeze running off downhill into the Black. It was a crappy system all around.