Tap, tap, tap.

The white cane tapped against the railroad tracks, gathering spiders under the moonlight.

They ran from beneath the crumbling bricks of the old smokestack from inside the rusting

Hulk of an abandoned box car and from the red brick remnants of the factory

itself the spiders melding into the cane and becoming one with it. The image of the tall bent figure with a birch cane

flashed into my mind as I sat behind the wheel of the idling squad car. I flipped on

the flashing lights and punched the gas.

Never before had I received any kind of psychic vision and the force of it struck terror in my heart.

I had to get home to my family.

I had to get home to my son. I had been under incredible stress the last few days

having stumbled upon my former partner and narcotics detective taking a

large stash of dope from the evidence room, which

suddenly explained the Alpha Romeo he'd recently bought.

He had no idea I was aware of what he'd done, had probably done many times before but I was a straight cop.

In fact everything I did in my life was by the book and not just legally because as a boy I'd done something so awful I'd spend my whole life trying

to wipe it from my brain.

Tap, tap, tap, tap. The white cane tapped fences, mailboxes and curbsstones, gathering more spiders from

manicured lawns and short driveways. My wife and I had long known my son had an imaginary friend, but at first we didn't worry much about it,

supposing it was nothing unusual for a boy.

We did grow more concerned when he reached the fifth grade and still carried on with his friend and we became somewhat alarmed when we learned it was some kind of old man

But we hoped maybe he just wanted a grandfather

My wife had never known a father and as for mine he had died tragically with the rest of my family when I was young. But then my son told us the imaginary friend's name, Mr. Shands.

...