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The Dream Stalker: Excerpt Father John waved the flashlight over the cabin: missing chinks; rotting logs; broken window pane; plank door hanging on its hinges, half opened. There was a faint odor of wet horses, a sense of life having passed by. Rain pinged on the tin roof. He pushed the door open. It squealed into the night, protesting the effort. "Anybody here?" His voice reverberated around him. The flashlight splayed across a room no more than twelve feet square, and he took it in all at once, like the jumbled flash of a dream: the plank table and wood chair toppled sideways, legs stiff in space; the cardboard carton stacked with a couple of cans of food and an orange box with white letters – Wheaties; the poster tacked to the wall, edges curled inward – an old pinup of a naked woman, the curving sweep of thighs and breasts; the red-black wetness next to the poster, like paint hurled against the log wall; and slumped beneath the poster, a man. A man in blue jeans and dark shirt, with half of his face blown off. © Margaret Coel