Peter Silef slammed his hands down on his cheap imitation-wood desk in disgust. He'd had more of this hectic city life than he could handle. Being a business-man was certainly no way to go through life, Lexus or no Lexus!

He glanced up at the clock and was pleased to realize that he could finally leave. His old chair nearly toppled over as he sprung to his feet. It was about time he could get out of here. Snatching his coat off its peg, he stepped briskly out the door to his office and slammed it behind him. Now, for the vacation he so richly deserved. Anticipating the end of his patience with work and the stress it brought, Peter had rented a small cottage in the woods several hours away. The cost had been practically nothing, probably because it wasn't exactly prime real estate. But that was precisely the point--he didn't want to be anywhere near the city.

Peter arrived at the small town later that evening. It struck him as both odd and logical that the small clustering of dwellings and dilapidated shops hadn't changed a bit in the years he'd been away. This was, of course, the same town in which he'd grown up. How long ago that seemed.

Parking his luxurious Lexus outside the general store, amidst a billowing cloud of dust churned up by the car, Peter entered the dimly lit establishment. Purchasing a few essentials and some food, he inquired as to where his cottage was located. Certainly there couldn't be too many of them around.

The elderly shopkeeper regarded him rather queerly, but pointed up an old, forgotten path through some thick forest before hurrying away into a back storeroom. Peter thought it was quite a strange reaction, but attributed it to the local legend surrounding this particular cabin. As he trudged up the thin trail, he recalled the story to mind. It was said that the past owner of the cabin, a business man from another city, had been found dead on the floor of his bedroom the day after he moved in. The unfortunate man's name had been Mr. Felis.

Some time later, Peter reached the isolated house. It was build in a small, overgrown clearing on the slope of a somewhat diminutive, forested mountain. The house itself seemed to be in reasonably fair condition, so Peter went in. There were basically three rooms. A kitchen to the left and a small bedroom with bathroom facilities to the right. The bedroom, like much of the house, was still furnished. There was a low bed and bureau on one wall, and a tiny desk and window on the other. The middle of the house was dominated by a large central room. There were soft, overstuffed armchairs in two corners, and a big brick fire place on the back wall.

A small, framed photograph on top of the mantle drew Peter's attention. It showed a young man dressed in clothes very similar to Peter's own and who seemed to share his business-like demeanor and lack of facial expression. The man, obviously Mr. Felis, was posing outside the cottage door. Peter smiled to himself and started unpacking.

Peter's first night was spent in restless slumber, from which he awoke several times. He heard nothing all night, and even noted the almost eerie silence of his wooded locale. Rest eluded him in this way several times, though he could not understand why he kept waking up. Eventually, however, exhaustion took its toll, and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, Peter got up early and cooked himself a delicious breakfast of spam and eggs. Well, perhaps "delicious" wasn't the most appropriate term, but as a bachelor alone in the woods, he couldn't exactly expect gourmet cooking.

As he carried his steaming plate and cool cup of orange juice to the den, intent on eating it in the comfort of an armchair, Peter glanced at the picture on the mantle. Startled, he gasped in surprise. The plate he carried slipped from his hands and shattered on the wooden floor.

There was Mr. Felis, in the same position, still clothed in Peter's favorite suit. This time, however, he was standing in the kitchen! Regaining his composure, Peter convinced himself that it must be some sort of illusion, perhaps an effect of the higher altitude. Either that or he had been more stressed than he'd realized, and could no longer trust his memory of the picture from his initial arrival.

Shaking his head to force these jumbled thoughts from his mind, Peter set himself to the task of sweeping up the pieces of his breakfast and finding something else to eat.

Peter went about his day as calmly as possible, sitting outside in the woods listening to the serene music of the chirping birds, and neatening up the house a bit. He even distracted himself with a vigorous, if somewhat short, hike along an old forest trail. But he avoided the photograph as much as possible.

That night passed as the last one, only Peter awoke even more frequently, sweating despite the cool night air wafting through the screen of his open window. Fatigue gnawed at him as he tried desperately to capture a few meager hours of sleep, winning a minor victory of sorts in the form of brief cat-naps.

The next morning, arising sleepily to the sound of singing birds and the brilliant rays of sunlight piercing through the trees, Peter stumbled groggily out of his room. Driven by the compulsion of wary curiosity, he glanced over at the photograph once more, silently praying that it was back to normal. What he saw made all the color drain from his face, as a choked gasp escaped his bloodless lips. Now Mr. Felis was standing in front of the fireplace!

All that day, Peter cowered in his room with the thin door securely bolted shut, horribly afraid of that dreadful picture of Mr. Felis which sat so solemnly above his fireplace.

The following night was even worse than the last. Try as he might, Peter simply could not sleep. He lay awake in bed, his stomach growling hungrily and his face as pale as the full moon above. Sometime around midnight, he stared wide-eyed as he seemed to see a thin white mist creep under the door and begin to take shape in front of him. Peter screamed. And he screamed. But no one could hear him.

The next morning Peter lay on the floor, dead. The photo of Mr. Felis was still on the mantle. He was dressed in Peter's favorite suit, as always. And he stood beside the bed, the corners of his mouth turned up in an evil grin.

Copyright (1999) by John Faron