This particular area of downtown Cedar Hill had once been the most thriving quarter of the shopping district, but after the last two recessions, several plant closings, and the opening of the Indian Mound Mall, more and more businesses were either closing their doors permanently or relocating to higher-traffic areas; as a result, this strip of buildings on West Church had very few active businesses remaining, save for a paint store, a bakery, a pawnshop, and a Tae Kwon Do studio that had replaced DeVito’s Books a few years back after John DeVito, the owner and proprietor, had died. A brass plaque in front of the Tae Kwon Do studio commemorated the site’s former owner.

Martin found himself looking at the place he’d always think of as the bookstore, remembering the hours he’d spent alone browsing inside, always finding an interesting book or three to purchase, picturing the way Mr. DeVito would wrap the book in brown butcher’s paper and tape it closed—an old-school bookseller, was Mr. D—and for the first time in months, felt a strangely comforting pang of nostalgia; hell, his parents used to bring him here as a child to buy his school supplies. This building had been an important part of his life for . . . well, most of his life.

Digging into his grocery bag, Martin removed a matted watercolor painting that he’d bought off some old street dude for fifty dollars a few years back. It was a painting of the front of this very building, only instead of the Tae Kwon Do studio, DeVito’s Books was still there. The artist had done a really good job of capturing not only the look of the bookstore and building, but the feeling you got about the place, as well; everything was very warm, very inviting: this was a place where you could relax and enjoy yourself, have a good conversation with Mr. D, find some terrific reading, put your troubles on hold for a while. The old dude who’d painted it had done dozens of similar watercolors for other businesses all over downtown—Martin had recognized the man’s work almost at once—and had told Martin that part of how he supported himself was by painting watercolors of local homes and businesses. Martin guessed the old guy was either homeless or lived in a grubby room in the Taft Hotel; he didn’t really ask. The guy was really grateful for the fifty bucks, and Martin had a terrific painting of the bookstore.

He’d decided that this watercolor was the thing he wanted to be looking at while he fell asleep for the very last time. Good books, good conversation, good memories, good-night.

He looked from the watercolor back to the building, just to compare the two one final—

—something moved on the roof.

Looking back to make sure none of the cruising cars had decided to come this way (the square proper seemed the only place anyone wanted to be), Martin rolled down his window and leaned out, craning his head for a better look.

Whatever was on the roof was moving again, albeit slowly and with a great deal of odd noise; metallic clicks and scrapes, underscored with something like a wet fluttering sound.

The light changed to green. Martin checked behind him again—still no cars coming—then decided he didn’t give a shit if anyone drove down this way or not; he had about half an hour before the second and more serious dose of meds needed to be ingested, so why not take a few minutes for a last little adventure?

Climbing out and leaving the door open, he walked around to the front of his car, then into the middle of the street to see if it afforded him a better view. At first he thought that he’d either moved too far toward the opposite side of the street or that whatever was up there had backed away from the edge of the roof, because all he saw was the front of the building—countless broken or boarded-up windows of the empty apartments, the upper floors of the building having been closed off several years ago.

Then something moved again above one of the windows near the rusted fire escape, this time stepping directly into the semi-foggy but nonetheless bright glow of a nearby streetlight.

Wow, thought Martin. I didn’t think I was this fractured yet.

At first he thought the thing was some kind of old-fashioned box camera, the kind used back at the turn of the last century; its head was box-shaped and shone with a deep, hand-rubbed rosewood finish, and that wasn’t really so odd—

—until you saw the long, sharp beak protruding from the place in front where the lens should have been; on each side of the of the box was a hand-sized half-sphere of brass that looked like the bulging eyes of a toad; a thin iron rod like a neck connected the box-head to a wider, longer box that looked like a small child’s coffin standing on end, held upright by a pair of thick, powerful, furry legs, each ending in a wide wolf’s paw, claws extended to give it purchase and balance.

So this is what going round the bend feels like. Somehow, I’d thought there’d be more screaming and drooling involved.

A set of membranous wings unfurled from the back of the lower box, and with another series of metallic clicks and scrapes the creature began to move back and forth across the roof, bending its legs at the knees and hopping forward while its wings fluttered with a furious speed to rival that of a moth’s.

As Martin let fly with one brief, barking laugh, the creature on the roof came to an abrupt halt, its beak opening and closing as if it were trying to either speak or snap a bug out of the air. Spatters of wet, dark blood spilled from the tip of its beak. Perhaps it had been snacking on a stray mouse, bird, or rat.

It bent forward, blood spattering against the fire escape railing and splashing down onto the sidewalk, its beak rapidly opening and closing with intense determination, and as Martin watched, mesmerized, he heard a child’s voice reciting a bit of Keats, one of his favorite poets:

“Darkling I listen; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever it seems rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain . . .”

He shook his head, remembering what the suicide handbook had said about things like this (though the book never once used the term “suicide”, opting instead for the more overly-poetic “self-deliverance”; it was all tomato-tomahto as far as he was concerned): “Visual and aural hallucinations are not uncommon once you have begun the process of self-deliverance. Just accept that these are merely products of your subconscious mind clearing away the detritus. Do not be afraid. Do not doubt your eyes, your ears, or your sanity. Many of these phantasms are said to be lovely, sometimes even funny. Enjoy these last gifts your mind gives to your soul before the two part ways.”

Martin almost didn’t want to look away from the creature—how the hell had his brain come up with something like this, anyway?—but he had to stick to the schedule.

“Did I get it right?”

Startled, Martin spun around, but saw no one; it wasn’t until he felt a small hand tug on the bottom of his coat that he looked down and saw the little boy standing there.

“Did I get it right?” asked the boy. “The poem? You do remember that poem, right?”

“Uh . . . yeah . . . I remember that one . . . and, yes, you did get it right.” Martin stared at the child. “What’d you mean, did I remember that poem?—never mind, scratch that, moving on: Who are you?”

The child shook its head, giggling. “Dumb-bunny. You know.”

Of course he recognized the little boy—how couldn’t he? Even with the better part of four decades separating them, Martin at once knew he was looking at the six-year-old child he’d once been.