was a lonely beat up block in the middle of Stovington, Wisconsin. It was a quiet old person’s

            Baker Street

street with quiet old person’s ways. Trees hung down like vultures their branches bare or nearly bare with the coming

fall while the senior citizens sat on their porches waiting to die. It was a very dull dead place, and the only people that

came down Baker Street were out-of-towners, ambulances and salesmen.

            Clyde Zimmerman walked down Baker Street whistling a tune despite the fact that he hadn’t sold a single

encyclopedia set, not even one 5.99 introductory volume, nothing. But, he was happy. Clyde was always happy.

            He was not a snake oil salesman. He was nothing of the sort. Clyde was a regular Joe, an average guy. He

was just out trying to make an honest buck. Clyde was just a little on the pudgy side with a slight shine to his blue

polyester suit and a mass of missing hair that somehow had fallen from his head an had began to grow on his back.

            By 1pm, Clyde was not sure if he wanted to eat lunch or stop for the day.

He had just started for his car and was standing in the middle of the block when he heard it. A faint call, a whisper in fact that flew into his ear.

“Help me,” he heard.

Clyde looked over at the house to his right. It was a three-story job with a porch running around the front. A rusty beaten swing hung in the corner. Paint peeled. The house was locked up and there wasn’t a light on or a window open.

Clyde furrowed his brow and stared at the yard. The grass was overgrown like a mop. The cement walkway was a roadmap of cracks.

            The gate in front of Clyde swung open.

            “Hello?” He said and cautiously stepped toward the house but not inside the gate.