Witches Scarier

On top of a hill, a thatched cottage sits alone. A town can be seen to the northeast on the other side of a frozen peat bog far below. When the sun is at the right angle, a darkened image of the town reflects back from the bog from up here. On this particular day, that angle is at exactly 4 o'clock. The most prominent feature is a church steeple that protrudes ominously from the town's center on the ice. The horizon is obscured in every other direction by a dense forest, which is covered in snow so thick that the trees resemble the arctic pyramids of antediluvian gods.

A slim old man is pulled out of the cottage by a black bull-terrier, a tail-less dog that looks like a pig, down a well-shoveled and salted, worn path. The old man wears a gold-plated ring with an Egyptian phoenix. The path leads to a poorly plowed road and a wooden mailbox with the calligraphy "Flint Hawthorne" on it. He goes to the mailbox to see what's new. It's completely empty. After about 50 meters, the lane disappears into the hill's horizon. There are no vehicles in sight.

The terrier has a limp. With its stubby snout, it immediately begins sniffing around the property. After much deliberation and stub wagging, a single leg rises and he pisses on the cyclopean foundation of the cottage. "That's a good location. Good job, young man. You should know that this house could be the oldest house in a hundred miles." The dog comes to a halt. "Can you believe it was abandoned? I persuaded the owner to let me fix it up about 30 years ago, and he still rents it to me for dirt cheap, even though I could have bought the damned thing ten times over with what I've paid, but the bank won't give me a dime.I can't say I blame them. They are, however, crooks." The old man continues to ramble. "Now, I've never mentioned it to anyone, but there's a reason I chose to live here. Over 200 years ago, my forefathers built this house. If you can believe it, they were Gabriel Thornhill's relatives. It still has its original foundation, and it's now yours as well. That's probably how it should work. Whoever pissed on something first, owns it."

Flint gets a look from the dog that either shows or gives the impression that he completely understands what he's saying. He pulls out a golden ankh on a silver chain from his front right jean pocket. He casually dangles it in front of the dog's nose. "Let's get down to business. Look for the scent boy."

Flint is led deeper into the woods by the dog, who leads him along a path cut through the frozen brush of this winter wasteland. The dog turns to Flint after about a half hour of walking and begins whimpering and shaking fearfully. Flint gets down on his knees in the snow and wraps his arm around the terrier "Miles, don't be afraid. Faith will keep us safe." He dangles the amulet he's been clutching in his right hand in front of Miles, petting him and holding him close to his hunting jacket, but Miles squirms free and pulls on the leash back toward home, able to smell his own piss and shit through a mile of frosty forest.

"Don't worry, buddy. It'll be fine. I don't want to go back there either," the old man says, "but this trinket is the only clue we have to find the son of a bitch who harmed you. It's probably a punk kid." Miles continues to pull on the leash, pausing briefly to bark at Flint before continuing to pull. Flint, seemingly weakened by age, decides to give up the fight. "We'll have to get back anyway," he admits. He examines his Timex wristwatch, which he purchased for a low price at Walmart a long time ago. "It's possible you're right. It's almost five o'clock, which is when my arthritis starts to flare up and the good TV shows start." He looks up through a mangle of leafless tree branches that resembles a five-pointed star with the blazing sun in the middle at the sun retreating into the horizon.

Back at the cottage, the wind slams the door inwards as Flint untangles Miles' leash and hangs it, along with his coat, on a coatrack just inside the door. An old-fashioned phone is mounted on the wall below the coatrack, but the cord hangs down toward the floor, disconnected from the phone jack. The cottage's interior consists of one large room with a small kitchen with just enough space for a fridge, a stove, a sink, and one granite countertop with two cupboards and a drawer in the middle. A bar counter separates the kitchen and dining room.

A corked jug of clear liquid sits forebodingly among a pile of faded newspapers on that counter. "Beautiful Clean Coal," reads the headline on the front page, above a photo of Donald Trump wearing a red Make America Great Again hat. On the other side of the partition is a small round table with four antique wooden chairs and just enough space between the chair, the table, and the wall to squeeze into one of the chairs. An oversized deck of cards, a filthy ashtray with a half-smoked cigar, and a zippo are on the antedeluvian table. A disheveled, fuzzy brown couch is parallel to the table. A modern lazy boy recliner sits next to the couch, beside an end table with an antique lamp with lion's feet, and a large CRT TV sits inside an armoire with doors that haven't been closed in years in the opposite corner of this L seating arrangement. A television remote rests on the Velcro-attached arm of the chair. Flint usually spends his evenings there, watching the shows he's recorded on his DVR.

During this time, a demoniac has been deftly peering through the corner of the northern kitchen window with an unnatural stealthiness.

Flint releases Miles from his leash, and the backwards god sits patiently by the door like an Egyptian pharaoh or a sphinx, his glowing amber eyes following him around the room. Flint opens his antediluvian cupboard, removes a stainless-steel pot and pan that he received as a Christmas gift, and then closes the cupboard loudly. He fills the pot with water and places it on the stove with a cling, a clang, and a bang, and then cuts a slab of ham from the old brown Whirlpool fridge, which hums with white noise, with an exact replica of the knife Rambo used in First Strike, which he keeps in a sheathe attached to his belt. He dabs butter onto the pan with his knife and tosses a thick slice of ham into it. The vinegary smell of cooked pig flesh replaces the mustiness of the house as it sizzles and spits. He returns the rest of the ham to the inefficient fridge.

While the ham cooks, he takes three potatoes from an upper cupboard burlap bag and a potato peeler from his only drawer, both of which were donated to him by the local food pantry. He sits at the table and peels them slowly into a small white plastic waste basket, the kind you can get for $4.99 at Walmart, getting up once to flip the ham, at which point he throws a small piece to Miles, who is still sitting patiently by the door, his eyes following his master around the room and his mouth salivating off his dangling tongue in Pavlovian anticipation of being fed. He devours the ham before licking the floor. Flint washes a single plate, fork, and knife in the sink, then turns off one of the stove's burners and slides the ham from the pan onto the plate. He places the pan in the sink and immediately turns on the faucet, which causes a hissing sound for a brief moment as some of the water evaporates to steam and cools down. The peeled potatoes thunk and then thud at the bottom as the water in the pot boils. Miles, who is no longer limping, has taken up residence in the living room recliner during this time. Flint reclaims his seat at the kitchen table and stares blankly at the dining room wall for ten minutes. His mind went back to the fadeless day he found Miles in the white woods.

---

It was now autumn. Flint could be seen sauntering peacefully through the woods, which he did every day between 4 and 5 p.m., over a thicket of sticky fallen leaves.

At 4:27 p.m., a panicked yelping came from about 50 yards away through thick brush, effectively communicating intense fear and an animal's need for assistance mastered over eons of evolutionary biology. Flint drew his Rambo knife from his sheath and methodically chopped his way through the brush toward the sound, triggered exactly as nature intended. Meanwhile, the demoniac, whose identity will be revealed at a later date, detected Flint's presence with preternatural senses and quickly fled the crime scene, moving at speeds of 28-40 mph over a short distance and avoiding detection. Flint emerged from the brush to find a clear circular opening in the center with a single tree that appeared to have sprouted from the ground from Hades. Miles was blindfolded and dangling by his neck from a twisted branch of the demon tree.

Flint grumbled, "My God." Flint quickly cut the dog down with the toothy back-end of the blade, wrapped him in his own flannel shirt, and carried him back to his home on the outskirts of Melas, about a mile away.

"What kind of sick fuck does that to a dog, and why the blindfold?" he wondered aloud at one point. When he returned home, he gently placed Miles in his own bed, bandaged his wounds, and persuaded him to drink at least one lick of water from one of those antiquated aluminum cups before resigning himself to sleeping next to the unconscious animal in his bed.

Flint returned to the crime scene the next day, armed with a revolver to conduct a more thorough investigation. Despite the fact that the tracks in the snow had been covered by the wind, he remembered exactly where they had been the day before, as well as the general direction they were traveling in, and swept the area. Because this land had not been cleared in decades, the brush was thick. The only clue he found was a silver necklace with a golden ankh hanging from a low-hanging branch of a tree about 500 feet away from where he discovered the dog. The tree had snatched it from the demoniac's neck, and he must have been in such a hurry that he didn't notice.

If this text is ever to see the light of day and escape the great fascist book burnings of the twenty-first century, Miles was not only beaten and tortured by this twisted person prior to his hanging, but also abused in ways that are too taboo to even discuss. He'd spent months nursing Miles back to health, which doesn't need to be discussed further. The landlord, a relic from this dimension's feudal era, did, however, show up for an inspection and informed Flint that the dog was not permitted. He insisted that he place him for adoption as soon as he felt better, or else he would be in breach of the lease agreement. They shook each other's hands. Despite the fact that Flint agreed and is a man of his word, he had grown attached to Miles and spent the evenings teaching Miles to walk with a limp.

---

Flint smiles as Miles licks his face as He twists down to feed Miles, his meal, his left-over ham and mashed potatoes. "Miles of Slime, oh, how I adore you. It's funny. I'm going to make you a doghouse tomorrow, and I'm going to paint Slime on it to make it official."

Glen Loris unexpectedly appears on Flint's stoop at this precise moment, his nose almost touching Flint's front door's small window. He stands there for at least a minute, his eyes peering out from beneath his red hat and between the corners of the window's cross-shaped glass top, before Flint notices and is greeted. Flint knows Glen as a rookie police officer.

Flint is visibly shaken by Glen's sudden appearance, which he hides behind a dark and brooding discountenance until he realizes he's making it. He shuddered, I imagine, because he only expects visitors on poker night and prefers his solitude in between trips to the pub to watch the games. In the winter, the road out to his house can be treacherous, and he hasn't been into town in a few weeks. To make matters worse, Flint has a bootleg gin operation in his basement, as well as shelves upon shelves of gin and whiskey mason jars. He disapproves of the fact that this police officer conducts random welfare checks on his own time. He'd frequently call the cops to complain that "we might as well have lost the cold war," and he grimaced at the prospect that if God took him in his sleep one of these nights, Glen would be the one to discover his body.

"If what you're selling isn't good, I'm not going to buy it." Flint says as he opens the door and reaches out to shake Glen's hand. Glen is not in uniform and must not be on official police business, so he looks at ease for a moment. Because Glen was carrying a Sears toolbox likely full of still-in-tact craftsmen tools whose lifetime warranty Flint had outlived, his body language showed this was instantly diminished.

"Oop," says Glen. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I apologize for leaving you hanging, but my hands are full. We tried calling you, but your phone is once again ringing off the hook."

"I'm not interested in any girl scout cookies," Flint says dryly.

"Don't be concerned. This isn't a government handout. I volunteer at the church, and your landlord requested that I come by and perform some routine maintenance. Do you mind if I come in?" Glen gives a convincing explanation. "This toolbox isn't getting any lighter," Glen adds as Flint pauses. "They don't make 'em like they used to," Glen stifles a chuckle as Flint moves out of the way to let him in, and Glen immediately places his large tool box on the kitchen table in front of the door.

"I'm guessing those girl scout cookies aren't in that toolbox." Flint says this, most likely to lighten the mood. Glen saluted Flint with the two-finger salute, his right hand palm facing out at shoulder length. “Ha, I wish, but there aren't any girl scout cookies. Scouts take pride in their work.”

“I was under the impression they used three fingers.”

“I used to be a Wolf Cub." Glen laughs, “The girls prefer three fingers.” When he realizes the joke isn't working, he shifts the conversation to Miles, asking, "How has Miles been since my last visit?"

“He's taking a break. I told the cops not to bother me anymore. I'm fine, and if anything goes wrong, I'll call you. Have you heard anything about the dog, or have you heard of any other animal cruelty cases?”

“No,” says Glen. "That's not the case. As I previously stated, we are required by law to comply when police are asked to check on a person. People wouldn't have to worry about you if you didn't leave your phone ringing.”

“Yeah, but they broke into my house,” says Flint. "Trespassing is illegal, and I have the right to refuse to answer the door.”

“That's true, but if we have reason to believe you're in danger, we have the authority to obtain a warrant to investigate. You may have needed assistance after falling down in the shower. We're only here to assist you. Who am I kidding, who am I kidding? My supervisor is an actual Nazi. What exactly is this?” Glen takes up the moonshine jar Flint had left on the counter.

Flint clenches his teeth and says, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

“So it's a controlled substance,” says Glen. "You never know when I'll return with a warrant.”

“Don't get your pants all tangled up. Like the song says, it's just some whisky in a jar.”

Glen chuckles. “I was just joking around with you. Let's give it a shot.” Glen begins to open the upper cabinet. “Can you tell me where your cups are?"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't. I only have one cup, and I don't feel like drinking.”

“I am adamant.” The aluminum cup is discovered on the counter by Glen. “Can you tell me where this cup came from? Is it from the civil war?” Flint is deafeningly silent. “I guess this stuff is strong enough to kill whatever germs are in here,” says Glen. He takes a whiff, uncorks the jar, and pours himself a shot. “This isn't your typical whisky.” He takes a sip of his beverage. “That's a 180-proof moonshine,” says Glen. "This stuff has the potential to kill someone. That is why it is prohibited.”

“Where do we go from here?” Flint's arms are crossed.

“If you just tell me where you got it, we can forget about it.”

“It's not going to work.” Flint clenches his teeth once more. He saunters over to his recliner. “How are you going to detain an elderly man?” He reclines his chair and uses the remote to -scrccht- turn on the television. While the TV is turning on, there is a brief pause of silence.

Drew Carrey says, "Help control the pet population," at the end of a rerun episode of The Price is Right. "Have your pets neutered or spayed.”

Glen exclaims, "Oh, I love Drew Carrey. Fortunately, he wasn't a liberal. Did you hear about Adam Sandler's execution? He was apparently found to be a socialist, communist, liberal Jew who infiltrated Hollywood and the Republican Party, according to the tribunal. He was a key member of the Gay Agenda's Social Engineering team.”

“I don't want to discuss it. I spent my entire life fighting communists, only to discover that our true foe was the fascist new world order. They're no better than the thugs of Stalin, Hitler, or Mussolini.”

“Now, I am a strong supporter of the first amendment, but that is treasonous.”

Flint doesn't look away from the television as he searches through his DVR's recordings.

“I looked over your military history. You killed 322 communists during the Korean War. That is a one-of-a-kind number. So, out of gratitude for your service, I'll overlook it.”

“Are they now giving cops intelligence clearance?”

“The Police Intelligence Act of 2024. We can now track and prevent crimes before they occur, as well as aid in the search for terrorists and resistance members.”

“Wonderful. I feel like I'm in a Phillip K. Dick novel that Orwell co-wrote. Aren't you supposed to be working? You, on the other hand, just keep flapping. It's your meat.”

“I'm a big Lovecraft fan. Arthur C. Clarke was flapping his meat. However, you are correct. I should..." Their attention is drawn to a weather alert on the local news.

“This isn't a test,” says a female-gendered robot voice. "The City of Melas Emergency Notification Service has issued an Extreme Weather Emergency Alert. This isn't a test. This is a true emergency situation. We are not a news organization that spreads false information. STAY INSIDE if you're inside. Gather your materials. Look for higher ground. The threat of flash flooding is real. Extremely cold temperatures are expected, with winds gusting to 80 to 100 miles per hour. Anomalies in the electrical system. On the East Coast, multiple tsunamis have been detected. Visit emergencyalert.gov for more information. Please send an email to [email protected] if you have received this message in error or are having trouble receiving this broadcast. Thank you for tuning in to the Melas City Government's Extreme Weather Alert Emergency Notification System. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.”

The TV returns to The State News Service as soon as the alert is over. “Another one of these ‘extreme weather events, orchestrated by our enemies in the UN, who used radar arrays to control the weather to convince the world they were right about global warming,” a talking head says. "Tom, I'll get back to you.” Flint flips off the television.

He notices Glen has left and hears Miles yelp from the bedroom. When he opens the door to his room, he sees Miles pacing back and forth, indicating that he needs to go outside. He also notices that his basement door is open when he lets Miles out. He'd hung the key to the lock on a hook right next to it.

“The basement is off-limits,” Flint growls down the stairwell. Glen is standing at the bottom of the stairs, next to shelves stacked with jars of booze. He'd yanked the tarp away from his still.

“It appears that I have located Melas' Al-Capone.” Glen exclaims, pleased with himself.

“I already told you to get out of here. Without a warrant, you're trespassing. It'll be dismissed in court.”

“I never stated that I would call it in.” Glen is resuming his ascent of the stairwell. “I replaced your furnace's filter, and this wall requires some masonry work. It's crumbling, and it's a load-bearing wall. This place would be shut down by a home inspector. I'm also a fire inspector.”

Flint returns to the kitchen as he reaches the top of the stairs. “I don’t sell the stuff. I use it as money in a private poker game between me and some old friends. It’s one of the few things I have to look forward to every week.”

“So, there's illegal gambling and controlled substance production. Both offenses are felonies. Let's make an agreement. You beat me in a poker game, and I'll forget about it, but you have to put up something valuable.”

“I don't have anything,” he says. "This is the definition of extortion.”

“Oh, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on. You must possess something. Something special. Something gleaming. If I turn this in, I'm sure I'll get a promotion.” Glen takes a seat at the table and takes the over-sized deck of cards from the ashtray next to the half-smoked cigar. “Smoking is bad for you,” he says, smiling. "It has killed more people than the bubonic plague and all serial killers put together.”

Flint reaches into his pockets, feeling the gun in one and the necklace in the other, retrieving the necklace, sitting down, and placing it on the table.

“Now that the Deep State has been exposed, and the Fake News has been shut down, Soros, who faked his own death by the way," Agent 45 can be heard giving a speech in the background. On that, I have excellent intelligence, the best intelligence. With these latest attacks, he's getting desperate...”

Glen is shuffling the cards with supernatural dexterity and is having a hard time concealing his desire for the necklace.

“Why don't you just leave it to me? Flint remarks, "You appear to be a little too good at that."

Glen says, "Deal," and places the cards in the middle of the table. Flint shuffles the cards slowly before dealing them out quickly. They lay their cards face up now that the wager has been made. Flint has aces in the pocket, a heart, and a club in his hand. Glen has the 2 and 3 spades in his hand. The ace of spades, the five of spades, and the ace of diamonds are all shown on the flop.

Glen claps his hands together and says, "Oh, this is exciting. All I need is a 4 of spades.” Show me where the river is. The number four in spades. The four of spades.” He's grinning, as if he knows what's going to happen.

“I'm done with poker if you get a straight flush and I have four of a kind,” Flint says. The jack of clubs and the four of spades are the cards he deals. “This is unfucking real.”

“The necklace, please,” Glen says as he extends his hand.

“So I give you this, and you forget everything,” says Flint. “What makes it so important to you?”

“It's true. Now, please give me the necklace.”

“All right. I'm a man who keeps his word. It's right in front of you. Why don't you just take it?” says Flint.

“You must hand it over to me.”

“I'm afraid I have to hand it to you. You're a strange son of a bitch,” says Flint. Glen catches the necklace as he drops it. Outside, muffled thunder from a lightning storm sounds like a beach being shelled with artillery at the time. On the television, the weather alert is being replayed.

Miles lets out a yelp. He'd completely forgotten about him. He flips the chair around without getting out of it, and as soon as he turns the door knob, the door flies open, nearly hitting him in the head. When Miles enters, Flint fights the wind and struggles to close the door for a brief moment. He catches a glimpse of Melas, which is obscured by a massive ocean wave and a night sky streaked with lightning from all directions. He gets the door shut with a rush of adrenaline and sits down with his back to the door.

Glen is standing in front of Miles by the kitchen table, wearing the ankh around his neck. Miles is shivering and urinating on the floor, just as he did in the woods. And then it hits him: Glen is the one he's been looking for.

He takes out his revolver and points it at Glen. “Do not budge.” he says as he stands up shakily.

Glen says, “I am bulletproof,” and takes a step toward Flint.

“Bullshit,” Flint says as he fires three rounds at Glen. Flint's face lights up with surprise as Glen approaches him and snatches the gun from his grip with unnatural speed. Flint reaches for his knife, but Glen kicks him in the sternum, knocking him back against the wall. The old man's back is pierced by the coatrack on the wall, and he falls to his knees and elbows on the ground.

When Miles sees his master in danger, he summons the courage to chomp down on Glen's leg, which is still retracting from the kick. Before Miles releases, Glen falls back into a chair and hits Miles several times in the head with the revolver's butt.

Flint has risen to his feet and drawn the large knife from his belt sheath by this time. Flint thrusts the knife into Glen's heart at this point, but Glen spins beneath the table and tries to kick Flint in the knee, which is when something strange happens. Flint deflects the kick as if he were reincarnated as a young man or possessed by spirits hostile to the demoniac. Glen tries to push Flint against the wall with the table, but he's outmatched. As he's penned to the wall by Flint so hard that the table legs split outward, his ego collapses in on itself. He slams Glen against the wall until the table starts to fall apart, at which point he effortlessly tosses it aside. Glen sags his shoulders and falls to his knees. Flint smacks him across the face with his ring, leaving a phoenix imprint on his forehead.

Continuing the assault, he grabs Glen by the shoulders and throws him against the low ceiling, then drags his near-conscious body into the living room while reciting the Lord's Prayer, "Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. On earth as it is in heaven, your kingdom come, your will be done. Give us our daily bread this day, and forgive us our debts, just as we have forgiven our debtors. And do not lead us astray, but deliver us from evil." He pushes the large CRT TV from the armoire onto Glen's head when he reaches the word evil.

Glen's final sighting is 45's orange mug, which says, "Let's Keep America Great Again. That was my idea —”

Flint attends to Miles right away, discovering that he is not seriously hurt, and then checks his own wounds in the bathroom mirror, discovering that the deep punctures from the coatrack have miraculously healed almost completely.

---

Glen is bound to a chair in the basement when he wakes up. His head is wrapped in a burlap bag. His wounds have healed too, but he is still unable to free himself from Flint's shackles. On the other side of a partially constructed wall, Flint kneels before him. He smears some mortar onto a brick and places it in its proper location. “How is this possible? you might wonder. You failed to notice that I am wearing Gabriel Thornhill's ring.” He kisses the Egyptian phoenix on his golden ring. “It's more powerful than your trinket,” says Flint. "The question now is, 'Who are you?' Some pitiful lesser demons who, I'm sure, belong back in the pit.”

While finishing the wall, he begins reciting a list of demonic entities that he has memorized. Meanwhile, the demon screams profanities and blasphemes as it twists and contorts in its chair, ripping its own flesh apart. It reverts to Glen's persona at times, attempting to elicit pathos. “Look, you need to stop. You're going through a mental breakdown. We can assist you.”

Finally, Flint comes across the name "Iagrego," which binds the demon to his will, and tells him to "shut the fuck up" as he pisses on him, saying, "I bless this piss in the name of the Holy Spirit." Nothing happens except to enrage the demon even more, but Flint says as he zips up, "That would've been funny if it worked." As he douses Iagrego with lighter fluid, Flint says, "I bet this'll work."

Flint is peering through the final gap in the wall at him.

“Just tell me how,” Iagrego says earnestly.

“To be honest, I'm not sure. I thought she was crazy, but I've been using an EVP recorder to communicate with something through my whirlpool refrigerator. Says its my dead wife. For the past 30 years, I've been waiting for you here. You wouldn't believe what I know.” Flint slid the final brick into place before pulling a demon-themed handwritten book from his back pocket. He moves on to Iagrego's section. He paints a crudely drawn picture of a sigil, a five-pointed star with the sun blazing in the center, onto the finished wall in red. Next to the furnace is Glen's toolbox, which is open. The contents include a noose made of rope and a variety of murder tools such as a hacksaw, bleach, and rubber gloves. Flint then pours a thick line in front of the wall, as well as on all of the thresholds and windows upstairs, with side-walk salt.

He downs the moonshine Glen left in the antediluvian aluminum cup, uncorks the glass jar of moonshine, takes a swig, rolls up the newspaper and places it in the jar, lights the half-smoked cigar with the zippo, puffs, pauses, then lights the Molotov, throws it down in the basement through a crack in the door, closes the door, and then high-tails it out. He pauses as he approaches the exit. Then he dashes back inside to retrieve the jack of clubs from the floor and dashes out again. When he turns it over, he notices that the size and backing no longer correspond to his deck of cards.

“Son of a bitch,” he says.

It's early morning outside. He tries to walk down the trail into the white woods, the thatched cottage burning behind him and the windows collapsing inward, but Miles pulls him back to the city. Flint appears to be thirty years younger than he was. The city of Melas, as well as the frozen peat bog, are no longer visible beneath the hill. The flood has turned the city into a glass city. The only structure tall enough to jut out over the ice is the church tower. The church bells are ringing, indicating that someone inside is still alive.

“All right, Miles, the Dark Tower,” Flint says. He spits the cigar out and reloads his revolver with bullets from his hunting jacket's inside coat pocket. “But first, let's go burn down that fucking tree,” says the narrator. Miles yaps in agreement. “Isn't it true that you can stop limping now?” I believe we will be evicted.” He checks his mailbox and discovers a post-dated letter from his late wife addressed to him. He quickly tucks the letter away, as if he is aware that we are watching him.