He had known he was in the sticks for a while, but entering this small, Louisiana town confirmed just how far the mighty had fallen. Decrepit buildings lined town square, gas pumps were the old style, before computers and technology made buying gas require a B.S. degree, and the state had apparently decided that road maintenance funds were best spent elsewhere. Hensley didn’t know how good his prospects would be here, but he figured he could at least hit up a couple of country bumpkins and maybe add a few more cents to the coffer before beginning the long drive back to his normal life.

He had pulled into town proper around 12:30PM. The thermometer outside the diner had climbed beyond it’s capacity to register, and he wondered just whose demented mind had decided that polyester was the best material for the business suit. With his ample girth, wide tie, and greased hair, Hensley was the epitome of the early 70's door to door sales-type. Yet, for all his appearance, he had managed to carve out quite a lucrative living on the road. He was greedy and lecherous (he admitted this even to himself), but he came off as genuine and caring to his customers. They liked him, believed in him, and he drew upon these assets to pull ahead of his competitors. It was okay. The fucksticks didn’t have to know what he thought of them in private.

And now Hensley sat in the third booth of Al’s Diner in Hell’s Armpit, U.S.A., with his briefcase close beside him. After all, you never knew who might pop up, and any living soul was a prospect for business.

His waitress approached, an elderly lady with a beehive hairdo and a face that had him betting on inbreeding as a very possible source of origin. He squinted at the name tag: Edna. How stereotypical and generic could this joint possibly be?

"Help you, mister?" she asked, in a cigarette ravaged voice that was nearly as low as his own.

He delivered his most disarming smile. He couldn’t help it; it was a force of habit. "Just a grilled cheese sandwich and coffee, miss."

She jotted the order down. "Be right up." And she was gone.

Hensley wiped the sweat from his forehead. The place didn’t even have air conditioning, and the combination of heat with the smell of grease and burned coffee threatened to press in on him physically.

He glanced around the diner. There were a few other people, even at this time of the day. A trucker type was seated at the bar, obviously just passing through. And elderly couple occupied the next booth, and Hensley suspected that this glorious repast was a special treat for them, as they probably didn’t get out much, and going into town was probably considered a major excursion. Hensley glanced down at their table, and saw two extra water glasses, with his and hers dentures soaking at the bottom. Ain’t love grand, he thought. At the far corner booth was one other man; with his sunburned skin, calloused hands, and well worn coveralls, Hensley assumed him to be one of the local farmers, taking a late lunch after sowing the seeds or milking cows or bringing in the sheaves or whatever the hell farmers do. Then of course there was Edna and the unseen cook back in the kitchen who completed the cast of Al’s Diner.

His order arrived, and he ate in silence, barely tasting the food. He was preoccupied with wondering exactly how to wring at least one profitable deal out of the remainder of the day. No contacts, no referrals, and he was a complete stranger in town. He decided that the best way to proceed would be to seek out a little local color.

He made his way to the cash register, and Edna met him there. She smiled that near-toothless grin again, and he had to put a hand over his mouth to stifle the chuckle he just knew was gathering in his gut.

"And how was everything, hon?"

Hensley smiled. "Fine, just fine, ma’am"

"That’ll be $3.75."

Hensley automatically handed her his Discover Card. She stared blankly at it, as if he’d given her a handful of live worms.

He understood. Hicks in sticks. Cash only. The nearest credit card swipe was probably in the next county. He nodded, then pulled out a five from his wallet. Edna proceeded to make change from the ancient register. The backs of her hands looked like frigging roadmaps.

Hensley eyed her. Certainly, Edna wouldn’t exactly be a font of useful knowledge...hell, she was probably only the second generation of her family to walk upright, but she probably did know who was who in this hellhole of a town. What did he have to lose?

"Uh, ma’am?" he began uncertainly. After all, he was used to dealing with more, well, civilized folk.

"Something, hon?"

"Uh, yes, my name’s Hensley. Carl Hensley. I’m with Hartford Limited out of Atlanta, and I specialize in home protection assistance." He pulled out his business card, with Carl Hensley, Security Consultant embossed on the front, and handed it to her. "We deal in theft deterrent systems, home security, and......" he stopped as he recognized Edna’s version of the ubiquitous blank stare, and realized that he had risen completely out of her frame of comprehension starting with the word deterrent. He smiled inside, then decided to back up and take another run at it.

"Sorry", he began, "We sell stuff to help people protect their homes, their cars, things that are valuable to them. We are a company that wants people to feel safe when they go to bed at night."

Edna worked her lips like a cow chewing cud. "Sorry, hon’. I ain’t got no use for that stuff. Been livin’ at the Morningside Retirement Home for the past six years, and they already got locks and gates galore."

Hensley nodded his assent. "Well, would you know of anybody who might be interested in what I have? Anybody who has a lot to lose, if you know what I mean?"

Edna glanced sideways at the farmer sitting a few rows down the prehistoric counter. He met her gaze, and something seemed to pass between them, something unspoken, yet clear as water on the air.

"Whatcha’ think, Charlie?" she asked, "Emma Leche?"

Charlie nodded, then spoke up. "Emma Leche lives out on County Line Rd. She’s in her nineties, and don’t get out much no more. But she lives alone, in that big old house. Might want to talk to her."

Hensley felt his adrenal glands kick into gear, the salesman’s predatory instinct awakening after a brief respite, and he almost licked his lips "Leche? Is that right?"

"Yep, Emma Leche", said the farmer, "Like I said, she doesn’t get out much. I haven’t seen her in years. ‘Bout the only way anybody knows she’s still alive is because her mail gets picked up every day, and somebody keeps sending in her phone and power bills."

Hensley was already gathering his things together, barely hearing the farmer’s words. "Thank you very much, ma’am, sir. I’ll be on my way." He started toward the door when the farmer’s voice stopped him.

"Best you know up front, mister. Old Emma don’t take too kindly to folk sniffing around her place. She don’t take too kindly at all. If I was you, I’d watch my step."

Hensley grinned. He’d had irate customers before. Hell, some were even downright threatening, but he had always managed to assert his charm, and win over the most callous of the unbelievers. Emma Leche might prove to be a new challenge, but nothing he couldn’t overcome. This should be fun, he thought.

"Thanks for the tip. ‘Afternoon, folks". Then he was out the door, and the jingling of the bell attached to the door heralded his exit.

The farmer and Edna looked at each other in the stillness of Al’s Diner, and they smiled......

It was about fifteen minutes later when Hensley’s well worn Lincoln Continental turned onto County Line Rd. Finding the directions hadn’t been hard; hell, everybody in town knew about the old Leche place. It had been rather hard to suppress a smile when the gas station attendant had come to the part about ‘turning off the paved road’. He had seen that coming a mile away.

The Leche place lay near the end of County Line Rd., and Hensley almost drove right past it. Only a broken down mailbox caught his attention, and he slowly backed the Lincoln up. Mrs. Leche’s driveway entrance was really little more than a break in the foliage by the side of the road. There was a fence, but it was so grown up with kudzu vine that it was rendered nearly invisible, except for the wrought iron gate, which was unmarred...and effectively blocked the entrance.

Hensley pulled to the side of the road and got out, surveying the scene. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then opened the trunk and pulled out his briefcase. This shouldn’t be too hard.

He looked up at the sun boiling in the sky. The south was well known for it’s heat waves, and today was already shaping up to be another scorcher. Best to get this done and get back on the road. Maybe find a nice, air conditioned hotel to spend the evening. A six pack by his side, a skin flick on the tube, ah, that was the life....

Then he saw it. There, partially obscured by the foliage, a sign peeked out at him from beside the gate. It was old, and the letters were all but faded from years of sunlight, but he could still make out the message: Beware Of Precious....

Hensley had to laugh. He had always found old women to be a bit eccentric, and he could just imagine the diminutive Chihuahua that would undoubtedly yip and snap at his heels as he strolled to the front doorstep. He’d seen it all before.

He reached the gate and looked beyond. The house was about fifty yards down a small, dirt drive, and looked completely lifeless. No prob. The townsfolk said she’s there, so she’s there.

Hensley hoisted his ample frame up onto the gate for a better view, supporting himself on one of the support railings that ran across the bottom. The metal rather loudly squeaked it’s disapproval, and Hensley was suddenly aware of just how quiet the afternoon was.

He climbed down off the fence, then picked up his briefcase and gave it the old heave ho over the gate. It landed in the dirt about ten feet away. He then managed to boost his entire frame over the top, but lost his balance and fell unceremoniously into the dirt on the far side.

"Shit", he muttered under his breath. Then, dusting the dirt from his pants, he retrieved his briefcase and started toward the house. He managed to get about ten steps when he heard it.

A low, guttural growl, beginning in the lowest of registers and rising slowly in pitch. Abruptly the mental image of the benign little rat dog vanished with a nearly audible poof!. And was replaced by an image far more sinister. Beware Of Precious......

Hensley spun in his tracks, and barely had time to glimpse the shape coming towards him. A blur of black and gray, with ears flattened against the side of the head, a head that was crowned by a set of glistening white teeth. It launched itself into the air, and somehow Hensley managed to get his briefcase between him and it, and with nothing even resembling time to spare.

The dog crashed into the briefcase and fell to the ground, it’s teeth locked into one of the flaps. Growling and snapping, it shook its head from side to side violently, threatening to wrestle the briefcase from Hensley’s grasp.

Gotta hang on, thought Hensley, his mind racing. That’s a fucking Rottweiler! If I lose my grip on this briefcase, my throat’ll be next!

The dog ripped its teeth from the leather case and backed off, growling like a well tuned V-8 engine. Hensley, wide eyed, watched the big dog’s muscles flex as it moved, and could see the spit fairly dripping from the teeth, which were effectively bared in a most threatening manner. Hensley kept the briefcase positioned between himself and the dog. It was now his sole line of defense.

Precious, I presume, he thought. Boy, the one time I’m off on my judgement and I have to blow it big time.....

"Easy, Precious", he said calmly. He knew that trying to calm a trained attack dog was about as effective as holding back the ocean with a broom, but when you’re backed into a corner...

"Down, Precious. Easy, boy", he coaxed. But the growls only grew louder. Then the dog began to bark, hurling spit in the process.

"Come on, Precious", he continued (Jeez, who the hell came up with that name?), summoning his most soothing voice. "Easy, hon..."

The dog leaped forward. Caught off guard, Hensley stumbled backward, then regained his footing and began to run. The gate was only about twenty feet away, but he could swear it was receding into the distance with every step he took. God, that bastard’s gonna trip me and if I fall, I’ll never get up......

Then he was at the gate. He jumped up, grabbing for the top, when the dog buried its teeth into Hensley’s right leg. Hensley screamed in pain and surprise, and fell to the ground. The dog instantly let go and lunged for Hensley’s face. God!

Hensley managed to get the briefcase up again, and brought it down hard. He felt the impact and knew that he had knocked the dog off target. He jumped up, and, before the dog could react, brought the briefcase down hard, again and again. The dog snarled and growled, barked and snapped, but with every blow of the briefcase, Hensley sensed he was gaining the upper hand.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the dog quit barking. Hensley pulled the briefcase back, and allowed himself a moment to observe.

The dog stumbled away from Hensley. Shaking its head from side to side as if to shake off the effect of the multiple blows. Hensley backed up to the gate, then turned and fairly jumped over the top, landing in a heap on the other side. And just in time, for the dog wasted no time in returning to his basic instincts. It approached the gate, again growling and posturing, with absolutely no remnant of his earlier beating in evidence.

Hensley dropped to one knee and rolled up his pant leg, ready to take inventory of the damage inflicted. Much to his surprise, he had little more than a scrape, which was barely oozing blood. He decided to count himself lucky, since Rottweilers didn’t tend to let go once they had a good hold on you. Still, he would need a tetanus shot when this was over, just in case there were any unwelcome germs.

Hensley eyed the dog across the barrier. Fuck you, he thought. I didn’t come all this way just to let Wile E. Coyote here screw up my business opportunity....

Rolling his cuff back down, he returned to the Lincoln and rummaged under the front seat, eventually coming out with his .357 revolver. Purchased long ago, it was his sense of security on those days and nights when he returned home with thousands of dollars in checks and large bills in his possession. It stayed loaded, and always within easy reach. Fuckin’ ay....

Hensley strode back to the gate and peered over the top. The dog was lording over the now tattered briefcase, emitting soft growls and always keeping one eye on the gate. Hensley wiped the sweat out of his eyes again for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, then slowly cocked the revolver. Ready to rock? Let’s go, bitch, he thought savagely.

Running on pure adrenaline, Hensley climbed over the gate again, which he knew was no small accomplishment for a man his size. This time though, he did lose his balance, and toppled from the perch, landing in an untidy heap on the ground.

The dog instantly perked up at the sound. It looked at Hensley, and immediately its eyes narrowed, its ears flattened, and its gums pulled back to reveal the mouth loaded with pearl white teeth. The growls carried clearly across the way to Hensley, and he scrambled to his feet to avoid being caught off guard a second time.

Hensley faced the Rottweiler, gun in hand, waiting for his opportunity. Again, he noticed just how uncomfortably silent the afternoon was. The sun blazed overhead, only now beginning to sink as the afternoon began to wane. The heat sucked at him relentlessly, and sweat ran, stinging, into his eye.

He reached up to wipe his eye, and that’s when the dog sprang, growling and slathering as it rapidly ate up the short distance between them. Hensley was caught momentarily off guard, and brought the gun up sharply at the last available moment. The dog had already fully launched itself into the air when he pulled the trigger.

The blast was extraordinarily loud in the still, heavy afternoon air. The recoil of the gun jolted Hensley backward, but he still saw the bullet tear into the dog just below the neck, and the splatter of blood and bone as it erupted out between the massive shoulder blades. The dog dropped to the ground like a stone. It lay perfectly still under a fading cloud of smoke.

Hensley stood for a moment, surveying his handiwork, then cautiously approached the body. There was no movement, no breathing, hell, not even a good old fashioned death spasm. He kicked the body viciously. Nothing. It was dead. He allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction.

Hensley was suddenly acutely aware, aware of the blast, the noise it had made, and it’s ability to carry on the wind, and he looked around anxiously. This definitely was not something he would want to explain. He shot a gaze toward the house, but it gave no sign of life. And he hadn’t passed any other houses for several miles. Okay, then.

He dragged the dog’s body off the driveway into the brush, counting on his assumption that Mrs. Leche didn’t get out much, and that the dog’s body would return to the earth long before it could be discovered. Satisfied with his work, he tucked his gun into his belt behind him, and went to retrieve his briefcase.

He dusted the briefcase off, and quickly made the decision that at least part of his profit from this trip would have to go toward a new one. The Rottweiler’s teeth had made short work of the expensive leather finish, and for a moment his blood chilled as he realized how close it had come to doing the same thing to him.

Oh, well. Onward and upward. He still had a sale to make, and some good mileage to get under his tires before retiring for the night. He began walking briskly toward the house.

The residence of Mrs. Leche seemed to grow fluidly as he approached, and he soon realized that there was quite a bit more to the house than was evident from the street. Two stories, with a large, full basement evidenced by the incline around the edges of the house. There were no curtains in the windows, but there was nothing but jet black behind them, as if they had been tinted. Maintenance on the yard obviously ceased years ago, as there was nothing left but spiky, brown crabgrass and the decaying skeletons of a few rhododendrons.

Hensley was formulating his sales pitch even as he was reaching the house. Several key elements could be brought into play, the isolated location of the house, failure of the guard dog to provide protection (he would come up with an explanation for the dog’s absence later, and only if she asked), the rusted gate (which had all but threatened to break under his weight), and several other staples of his trade that he would throw in for good measure.

At length, he reached the house. He ascended the battered steps to the front porch and stood before the ornate front door. There was no sound from within, so he went ahead and knocked aggressively. As an afterthought, out came the handkerchief. A wipe, a dab, a tuck, then back into his coat pocket.

There was no answer.

Hensley swore under his breath. What fun to about be ripped apart by the family dog only to discover there was nobody home. He knocked again, even more boldly, and to his surprise, the huge, heavy door swung wide open. It banged against the wall. Almost immediately, a musty, acrid smell reached out and embraced him. It was similar to the smell he remembered from visiting his Grandma’s house as a child; he’d always just called it the ‘old folks’ smell’, and it was indigenous to Grandmas houses and retirement homes.

But this smell was different. It was a thousand times stronger, and gave him the impression that he was entering a tomb rather than the home of a prospective customer. And it was heavy, carried on the heat which suddenly sucked at him anew from within these walls. Old folks’ homes were typically warmer than normal, but the vestibule felt like the frigging tropics. Uncomfortably hot, even by Lousiana standards.

"Mrs. Leche?", he called, and his voice seemed to be immediately dampened as he spoke. His eyes scanned the vestibule, and the living room which lay to the right. Ornate though it was, it did not give the appearance of recent use. It looked more like a museum piece than anything else. High backed antique chairs. Heavy, dark carpet. A mahogany coffee table which was, Hensley was sure, worth more than his last month’s gross income.

And there was a picture above the fireplace. Worn, aged, the face of an older man stared back at Hensley. Thick beard, craggled features, receding hairline, and those eyes. Something about those eyes. They seemed to stare at him with....what was the term....mild reproach. Yeah, that fit. And something else.....

Hensley looked closer, then the light bulb went on. The old fart was missing an arm. His left arm was tucked into his coat, and his right arm terminated just above the elbow.

And the longer Hensley stared, the more the face in the picture seemed to smile.

He shuddered, abruptly, without warning, and realized he was nervous. What for?, he thought. Just because of a painting? Get a grip. It’s just a big house, no more. Hensley gave the painting a mock salute, then moved onward.

"Mrs. Leche?" he called again, this time surprised at just how loud his voice sounded in the overwhelming silence. "Mrs. Leche, could I have a moment of your time, please?"

Even as he went, Hensley was refining his sales pitch. The isolation factor and the dog’s impotence as a weapon of defense were good points, but now he could add the ease with which he had infiltrated the house. So far, he had seen nothing that would impede his presence here. Selling Mrs. Leche on home security would be as easy as selling whiskey and hor d’oeuvres to the Indians. If I ever find the old bitch......

As he proceeded deeper into the cavernous home, he marveled at the state with which it had apparently been kept. Every room was completely furnished in very early American, with a lifetime of antiques, collectibles, and family memorabilia in every room. Pictures, crafts, quilts, woodworking pieces. In the kitchen, huge pots and pans hung from the rack in the center of the room, over a chopping block that must’ve required at least ten more than able bodied men to carry in.

And still there was no sign of life.

Hensley moved around the room, poking and prodding at the various artifacts (which was the only term that seemed to fit; you just didn’t see this type of decor in American homes anymore). Then he saw it, a door just to one side of the stove. It apparently opened into the kitchen, and there was a rather formidable, mahogany plank secured across the front. This was the first thing that looked out of place. Was it designed to keep someone out? In?

Either way, Hensley decided that it could also serve as a factor in his sales pitch, if he could demonstrate that, as a defense, it was completely useless. He also recognized that his actions had more than crossed the ‘illegal entry’ border, but he really didn’t care. It wouldn’t be the first time he had broken the law, and certainly not the first night he had spent in jail. All were simply necessary inconveniences in the process of closing deals.

Placing his briefcase on the stove, he wrapped both of his meaty hands around the barricade and pulled. It came out of it’s brackets surprisingly easy, and he quickly discovered just how heavy it was. Stumbling, he lost his balance, then his grip. The barricade tumbled to the floor with a rending crash that he was sure would wake the dead. But the dust settled and silence returned almost immediately.

Hensley wiped his hands on his coat (no need to try and stay clean after all this), then casually pulled the door open.

There was nothing but darkness beyond the open portal.

Hensley moved forward slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. It was impossible to tell if there was a room beyond, and he didn’t want to risk falling down an unseen stairwell. He took two steps inside the door and stopped.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Hensley whirled, blindly groping for the doorknob. His night vision had not yet adjusted, and he was momentarily blind. He had dropped his briefcase, and he felt shakily along the door frame, searching for his ticket to freedom. After a few moments of groping, it became evident.

There was no knob on this side of the door.

Fighting off the onset of panic, Hensley pounded against the wood, hoping to force the door to give. It was like pounding a stone face, and just as effective.

He turned, looking into the darkness. The darkness was impenetrable, and his eyes refused to adjust. He felt a mild wave of vertigo wash over him, and he quickly slid to the floor to avoid falling over.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The whole situation was rapidly moving beyond any he had experienced before. Just stay calm, he thought, there’s got to be a way out of here...

Feeling for his briefcase, he scrabbled forward on his hands and knees. His briefcase, however, seemed to have vanished. He was just about to give up when the floor disappeared from beneath his outstretched hands. He gave a startled cry, and then he was falling, no tumbling, tumbling head over feet down some kind of chute. His hands grabbed helplessly at nothing but smooth walls, and could find nothing to halt his descent. God, what kind of place is this?

Then, mere seconds later, it was over, and he was dumped unceremoniously onto another floor. Hard, cold.....obviously concrete. Bruised and bleeding, he staggered to his feet. Gradually his head began to clear, and his eyes were finally able to adjust in the dim light of his new surroundings.

He was standing on a bare cement floor. The walls were made of brick, and the ceiling was framed by several large rafters. It was hot down here as well, but also extremely humid, even more so than Mrs. Leche’s vestibule. He slowly let his eyes roam around the room. An old walker, some kid’s bicycle twisted into the corner, and a huge ragged hole torn right through the brick at the far end of the room. It was impossible to see beyond the hole, but Hensley could hear the sound of running water, as if this part of the house were built over a river or stream.

And something else. An enormous shape in one corner of the room. Large, solid, apparently hewn out of wood, it appeared to be a giant....bowl? Couldn’t be right. He looked closer, and stared in disbelief. It was. A huge, crater-like bowl, fashioned out of oak or mahogany, a bowl filled with bones and raw flesh, the remains of some kind of large animal. And scrawled on the side of the bowl, in black letters over a foot high.......Precious.

Hensley staggered backwards, his heart pounding frenetically into overdrive. If that wasn’t Precious he had offed in the front yard......what the hell did that bowl belong to? He scanned the remainder of the room for an exit, a door, a window, anything to help him wake up from this nightmare. But there was nothing. The room appeared to be tightly sealed. He couldn’t even find the opening to the chute from which he had entered the room.

Then he felt it coming. He felt it before he even turned around. Another presence, coming, coming for him. The slight shaking of the floor was accompanied by the low slung sound of breathing, and Hensley did not want to turn around, for he did not want to see, but basic, blind, instinctive curiosity overwhelmed him, and he spun. He spun and he saw it lunging out of the darkness at him, a jagged, cavernous mouth lined with rows of two inch teeth. Somewhere behind he glimpsed a lashing tail. He stumbled backward spasmodically, groping for the pistol he had tucked in his waistband.

He felt his sanity slipping away like water off a duck’s back, but he still recognized the shape of the giant alligator as it surged forward. What the fuck? That thing has to be thirty feet long! What the fuck?

The great beast was almost upon him, and Hensley managed to get the gun up and squeeze off two shots, even as the gaping jaws ground shut. He could feel it’s hot, stinking breath on his face, and he dropped the gun, pulling himself backwards with his hands. The alligator recoiled from the gunshots and jerked away, turning slightly.

Hensley tried to stand. He had no idea where that hole in the brick wall led to, but it was sure better than the options that awaited him here. But could he outrun such a large, powerful beast? Just watch me, hoss.....

He struggled, but he couldn’t stand. All his signals were jumbled, mixed. His legs didn’t want to respond. God, please, no! If I freeze up, I’m done! Then he looked down.....

....down at the two ragged, bloody stumps just above where his knees used to be. Flesh hung in ribbons, and warm blood fairly gushed out on to the cold, hard floor. His screams were searing, unending, and he grabbed the stumps and held them tightly, frantically trying to stem the gushing tide.

Eyes bulging, he looked up again. He could see the huge mouth opening, beyond the rows of teeth, and a human leg swathed in polyester sliding down the gullet, which suddenly yawned open....and in his last moments Hensley wondered if he would still be alive and aware as he passed into the digestive track.

The mouth lunged forward, and Hensley threw up his arms in a helpless gesture of self defense. And he screamed and he screamed and he screamed, and each pitiful cry seemed to echo forever through the cavern walls.

Then he did not scream anymore.

The afternoon was quiet, and a slight breeze blew across the front yard of the Leche residence. The front door was once again closed, and the wrought iron gate was once again closed and locked. The sun began to set, and the Leche residence faced another fine Southern evening, as it had for over ninety years, it’s lone resident protected by the single sign, and the unwary traveler’s only warning.....