announced MAGIC BEACH/HARBOR DEPARTMENT.
Fog folded the truck out of sight. Its engine faded to a distant guttural purr.
Rising to my feet, I breathed fog faintly scented with exhaust fumes. After my third inhalation, the last engine noise whispered away into another neighborhood.
I wondered what kind of corruption coiled in the heart of the harbor department.
Moving toward the break in the hedge that accommodated the front walkway, I heard a noise issue from the dark house. Not loud. The low squeak-ping of metal tweaking metal.
Although a sense of danger welled in me once more, I turned from the street and followed the walkway to the foot of the porch steps.
Intuition told me that pretending to have heard nothing would be taken as a sign of weakness. And weakness would invite attack.
The subtle sound was a kind of singing, still metallic but also reminiscent of an insect’s clicking serenade.
No less than the world around it, the porch was filled with fog and shadows.
“Who’s there?” I asked, but received no reply.
Climbing the steps, I saw movement to my right. The rhythmic sweep of a slatted form—forward, back—timed to the squeak-ping-click, drew me forward.
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