I’LL admit when I first heard it, my instinct was to get back in the car and step on the gas and go away from that place very fast. In plain English, I was scared; and if any wise egg thinks he can get a belly laugh out of Jerry Taylor being scared, why, go aheadr and laugh, egg! But get the picture before you laugh. This tourist camp was just off Highway Fourteen, which goes right spank through the middle of Towanda County. There’s the gas station alongside the road, and about, say, a hundred feet in, and surrounded by birch trees, are the cabins—twelve of them. Now, Mr. Egg, suppose you drove up to this gas station at two A. M., and there was nobody around; and suppose just as you got out of the car to take a look- see if you could rouse somebody, you hear this weird moan that seems to come from right next to you. And you look around, and there’s no place that sound could have come from!
Would you be scared, egg, or wouldn’t you?
Well, I was scared. But I didn’t go away, for the very good reason that this was the place I’d been sent to by the sheriff of Towanda County.
So I kind of braced myself against the shivery feeling that crept up between my shoulder blades, and peered around to make sure there were no bodies lying around.
There weren’t.
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