A Bled Hog Screech

"I keep finding this," he says almost apologetically.

"Say what?"

"I found this, put it away and kept looking. Then I found it again. Six times."

"Maybe you have more than one," I suggest nervously.

He shakes his head. "Look at it."

I look. The book is old and worn, and the cover has several scratches and scuff marks. From what I can see glancing down the side, several pages are dog-eared. The book is obviously older than either of us, and lucky to be the last of its kind. Another clue to its age is that the title is written in blackletter.

"O... Bead... Mag...?"

"A Bled Hog Screech!" James blurts, sounding almost like he's spitting out the words. The sudden outburst makes my heart skip a beat. "Wha-...what's it about?"

"Don't know. Never finished it."

"Why not? The typeface is a bit hard to read, but..."

"Because it's scary as hell, that's why!"

I look at the old book, hesitant to even touch it. "Well, I guess this can't be one of Flassot's, right?"

"It doesn't say who wrote it. No publication info at all, so I don't even know how old it is. But there is a foreword signed by one... Rolf Shutts Odegaard."

"Odegaard?" Repeating the name sends a chill down my spine. "Wasn't he a satanist or something?"

"Never heard of him."

1. I find a computer and google Odegaard.
2. I ask James to summarize what he read.
3. I bravely start reading the book.
4. Well, the foreword at least.
5. Trying to change the subject, I ask James about the forest. [6241]
6. I hear a scornful laughter. It seems to come from... the book?!

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