From the inside, you would think that the place was dark and damp inside. The door was rotted and warped, and the roof was missing shingles, and there was a huge hole near the left side of the roof.

You would take one look at it the building, and think that at the first sign of rain, anyone inside would open their umbrellas, bad luck or not. It looked that bad.

The windows were fogged and soaped over, and if you didn't know better, you would think the place had been abandoned long ago.

Not the case however. If you managed to summon enough courage to step inside the place, you got a totally different picture. From the inside, the place was comfy, cozy, warmly lit. Looking up, you would see solid ceiling where the hole in the roof was. Long ago, the insulation had been beefed up to the point where any rain falling through the hole was absobred, and not noticed below.

The windows were soaped, but the light coming through was a pleasant subdued light. The windows were translucent, but only from the inside. From the outside, you couldn't see anything except a bunch of soap.

So when Christopher Stilson stepped inside and saw what lay behind the old warped door, he was pleasantly surprised. He grinned to himself, and stepped up to the counter, and orderd a drink. The bartender served up the drink, and moved on to the next customer.

Christopher sipped his drink, and glanced around at the other people in the room. There was a lady with a man, probably setting up some plan for the night; a guy with long stringy hair, talking to another guy who was smoking a cigarette. They were probably setting up some sort of plan, but one quite different from the one the lady and the man were setting up. THis was confirmed a moment later when a bag changed hands underneath the table.

No one bothered to say anything about it though.

Here, in this place, people rarely do.

The third table was occupied by one man. He was dressed all in black. Black shirt, black pants, black boots, black trenchcoat, black shades, and black hair. He was sipping a cup of coffee (probably black, Christopher thought amusedly).

He motioned the bartender over.

"Yessir, how can I help you?"

Christopher inclined his head to the man in black. "Who's that fun loving guy over there?"

The Bartender glanced over, but didn't say anything. He looked at the man, then at Christopher, and then back to the man. Finally, he looked at the bar.

"He's... a.... Well, he's a regular. He's been coming in here once for a week for the past year or so. Noone knows his name, and no one I've seen has managed to get it out of him. Come to think of it, no one I've seen has managed to get anything out of him."

"Hmmmm. That's interesting. I wonder if he's some sorta... like a tortured artist type. I might be able to get some info out of him then. I'm an art collecter." He held his hand out. "Christopher Stilson."

"Jack Jamieson," the bartender replied, shaking his hand once, and then letting it go. "And I wouldn't think that you being an art collector will help you any. He doesn't talk to anyone. He's a lone wolf. You would do best to leave him alone."

Christopher nodded his head, and glanced back over at the man.

The man was gone.

Christopher blinked, but no, the man was gone. His cup of coffee was still there, but the man wasn't.

He turned back and opened his mouth, but the bartender was gone too. Christopher glanced up and down the bar, but Jack was gone. He furrowed his bar, but turned back to his drink, deciding not to make anything of it. He had never been here before, had no idea what the schedule was like here.

He actually had no idea why he had come here in the first place.

There was a tap-tap-tap on his shoulder. He turned, and looked right into a pair of black eyes.

He jumped, and nearly fell out of his chair. He closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths. The man in black had soundlessly approached him from behind.

He opened his eyes, and grinned. "Sheez.. man, you scared the ever lovin' daylights out of me."

The man in black didn't grin back.

"You are an art collector?" The voice was low, quiet, and ominous. There was no hint of threat in his voice, no quality of anger. Just a simple question being asked; but the tone brooked no delay, and would not be ignored.

The man's piercing black eyes looked into his own, seeming to see into his own.

"I have something you may want to see, then. Please, take me to your car." The voice, so low, and quiet, yet so ominous, was not to be ignored.

This is how Christopher Stilson met the man in black, and a business relationship, though not nessecarily a friendly one (oh no, Christopher would think later on, definately not a friendly one), was formed between the two.

They headed down the freeway. The man in black stared out his window the entire time, not saying anything, not showing any emotion at all. Until they saw the kid. About halfway down the freeway, the man in black noticed a man on the side of the freeway. A guy walking along the freeway. In Socks. Christopher heard a low chuckle emanate from the man's mouth, and then the window was going down.

When the window was down, the man in black grinned wolfishly to himself (Christopher didn't like that grin at all), and turned to the boy.

"Wooohooo!!! Go maan!" he yelled excitedly at the kid. In the rearview mirror, the kid looked up, and then back down at his feet. A car horn went off behind them, and the kid looked up again, and then he was out of sight.

They continued down the freeway, and exited two exits up. They travelled along the parkway, and then into a private neighborhood. A couple of twists and turns later, they stopped in front of a house, and the man in black stepped out, and walked up to the front door, and unlocked it, then stepped inside.

Moment's later, after a few second's hesitation, Christopher stepped in after him.

The house was the exact opposite of the Coffeehouse. It looked bright and cheery on the outside, but when you stepped inside, it was adark, brooding, and empty.

Cold was the word that came to Christopher's mind. The house was cold.

The man took him down a large empty hall, and into a large room.

The room, however, was not empty. No, the room was definately not empty.

The room was crammed with people. They stood, looking at the two men as they entered, frozen, as if surprised to see these two men. Eyebrows were upturned, and mouths were in one of two positions.

The first was a pleasant kind of smile, bu the second...

The second was a horrible screaming rictus of pain and agony.

Then Christopher realized these were not real people. They were statues. A chill or relief swept through him, and he let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

The room was filled with statues, that were perfect replicas of human beings. He stepped toward one, and looked it over closely. The staute was perfect. It was flawless. Even down to the eyebrows, and hair. Instead of lines crafted across the head, there was an individual point for each strand of hair. A little flick of marble poking up, marking each hair. The craftsmanship was incredible.

He breathed carefully, looking over the statue, and looked back at the man in black. The man in black had some resemblance of a grin, but only in a slight upturning of the lips. It could have been a wolf's grin, just before it ate a chicken.

"This... this is... incredible! I've never seen more superb craftsmanship! I must have one or two for my collection. Please."

The man in black stepped forward, and took Christopher by the arm. "Yes, I know. That is why I brought you here. I will sell you some, but none that are in this room. These are my favorites. Please, come with me."

He led Christopher down another hall and into another room, where more people waited. Christopher was astonished at how many sculptures he had made. How long had he been doing this? He looked back at the man, but couldn't make a guess at how old he was, due to the shades.

The workmanship here was just as exquisite though, possibly even better, but Christopher didn't bother to point that out. He looked over several of the sculptures, and pointed to three of them.

"Can I purchase these three off of you?"

"Wy, certainly you can. I'll get them all set up to be delivered. If you'll please come with me, so we can fill out a receipt of sale...?"

He led the way down yet another hallway, and into an office. He drew out a form.

3 (Three) Sculptures- human figurines @ $12,000.00 ea.

$36,000.00

Below that, he had signed his name (an illegible scawl, much to Christopher's disappointment) and had left a spot for Christopher to sign his name.

Christopher took the pen and wrote out a check. Then, on the receipt, his signature, phone number, and address.

The man in black grinned, another of those wolfish grins.

"Very good then. I shall have it delivered on the morrow. I do hope you enjoy your purchases."

He showed Christopher to the door, gave him directions on how to get back to the freeway, and the closed the door.

A cloud passed over the sun then, and a chill passed through Christopher's chest, and he shivered, having a horrible premonition. Almost a vision.

He was a statue in this man's collection, standing in the room with a bunch of other statues, frozen with pain on his face.

Then the sun came out from behind a cloud, and the vision fell away, and he thought no more about it that day.

He headed home, and pulled off at exit four, Highway 92. He hung a right, and looked into the face of a huge traffic jam. Traffic was jammed across the across all four lanes of highway 92, both sides backed up. The folks westbound were backed up by a car wreck, complete with flashing police cars, fire engines, and a couple ambulances. The Folks eastbound were backed up by the ever pleasing morbid thrill of rubbernecking.

He sat in his car, listening to the news, WGST (The home of Rush Limbaugh, and Dr. Laura) mentioned as a humerous sidenote, that a man in western Montana, was avidly preaching a conspiracy theory connecting the U.S. Government, The Russian Government, and Sponges, actually used as listening devices for both, and then they moved onto the traffic.

After a couple accidents that were about fifty miles away, on the 75-85 connector, and one on the 285 Perimeter, they mentioned the accident on Highway 92.

"Highway 92 in Woodstock. There's an accident with fatalities on the 575 entrance ramp. A white toyota camry, and a green saturn collided across the westbound lanes, blocking the lanes, so if it's at all possible, avoid Exit 4 from 575."

FIfteen minutes later, he was through the traffic jam, and life had moved on.

Two days later, Christopher was sitting at home, reading a book, and the doorbell rang. He went to the door, vaguely wondering who it was, and opened it. It was a delivery man, and he held out a clipboard.

"I need you to sign here," he said, holidng a pen out and pointing to a blank spot on the paper.

Christopher looked at it numbly, and signed, and the man walked back to the truck, and came out with a huge box. He brought it up to the door, dropped it off, and walked back to the truck, and drove off.

Christopher stared up at the box, and looked at the return address. Then it all flooded back to him. His statue was here! He jumpd up and down in a quick little dance, and then ran for a crowbar.

He came back and opened it, and there was his statue. He grinned to himself and then wondered how he was going to carry it into his Art Room. He put his arms around it, and pulle dit forwrd it forward to see how heavy it could be.

It came forward easily, almost toppling him over with the ease with which it came. He caught his balance, and pushed it back up. It weighed no more then 200 pounds. Something this huge though, made out of marble should have weighed much more.

It was weird, but the craftsmanship was outstanding, so he decided to overlook the weirdness.

He dragged it down to his Art Room, and set it up in the center.

He stepped back and looked at it, and grinned. It was perfection.

Another couple of days later, another package arrived for him, bearing another statue. The second of the three statues. He signed for it, and opened the box, and there was te second statue. He dragged it to the art room, and opened the door.

Something was off. There was something not right in the room. He looked around, but all the paintings were there, and in the right place. His newest sculpture was there, exactly in the center of the room, right where he had left it.

So what was off? He stood, considering, and then it hit. The smell of the room. There was something wrong with the smell. He took a deep breath, but couldn't figure out what it was. It was like... some sort of... decay.

Oldness. That was how it occured to him. He took another deep breath and barely caught a whiff of something stronger, and more pungent.

But it was still barely there. He moved the second statue in, moving the first off to the side. The two statues were now honor guards, awaiting the presence of the third statue.

He stepped back to the door, and looked at the room. It was great. It looked wonderful. He smiled ot himself and closed the door.

The next day, the doorbell rang, and there was the third statue.

He dragged it into the art room, and the first thing he noticed was the smell was stronger. There was a more powerful smell of decay in the room, and it was beginning to worry him. He walked around the room trying to fnd where the smell was coming from, but couldn't locate it.

Unless...

No, it wouldn't be coming from the statues. Marble doesn't smell. Not like this. He took several whiffs closer to the statues, and imagined it got stronger.

He moved right up to one of the statues, and looked in it's marble eyes, but the smell was just as weak here, next to the statue.

That was when he heard the moan.

A low moaning coming from directly behind him.

He spun around, but there was no one there. The room, and the house was as empty as it had ever been. He rubbed his forehead, and looked aorund the room. There was no one in the room, no place to hide. So where had the moaning come from?

The statues.

No, no, it wasn't the statues. Statues don't moan, no matter how lightweight the marble is.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it was hollow. Maybe that was why it was so light. The statue was hollow. Then, when the marble twisted, or something under the weight, it sounded like moaning. That would be it. No problem.

He chuckled to himself and turned back to the third statue, and began to drag it into the room.

He wasn't looking where he was going however, and bumped into one of the other statues. He turned and looked, just in time to see it topple over and shatter against the floor.

He saw the marble aorudn the hand shatter, and shards of marble go flying everywhere. The skittered across the ground, and against the wall. That didn't attract his attention though. What attracted his attention was the statue.

The hand, was still on the statue. The marble had shattered, but the hand was still there. His mind didn't make the connection at first, but then it did.

This was not an ordinary statue.

This was a human being, encased in marble.

The thought staggered him. He looked at the hand, and the hair, with little bits of marble hanging on, like overgrown lice.

He shuddered, and a scream stuck in his throat. Was this really happening? Could it be happening?

He fell back against the door, and it opened, spilling him on the ground, and that woke him out of his stupor.

He ran for the car, and dived in.

He prayed he remembered the way.

HE drove for what seemed like hours, and finally arrived at the house of the man in black.

He banged on the door, demanding to be let in, and finally the man in black opened the door, another wolfish grin pasted across his face.

"Ahhh, Mr. Stilson, are you enjoying your statues?"

Christopher couldn't respond. He was still shellshocked.

"Please, please, come in Mr. Stilson. You look like you have had a nasty shock. I do hope everything is okay."

"Yeah... yeah... fine." Christopher replied, not really knowing how he could say FINE after what happened.

"Ahhh, glad to hear it then, Mr. Stilson," He said. He led Christopher into a room, and suddenly Christopher fell into blackness, never really knowing why he had passed out, or what had caused it.

He would have one more moment of lucidity, in which he would realize his most horrified moment of fear, and then it would all be over.

Of course, he knew none of that though.

He awoke an uncertain amount of time later, and had no idea who he was, where he was, or why he felt so bad. He wasn't really awake, but he wasn't really asleep either. All he knew was the grogginess, and the haze he as enveloped in.

He tried to move, but couldn't. Whatever had knocked him out had killed his motor control. He tried to moan, but couldn't.

Then, he felt warmth on his feet, and soon it became a searing hot agony. It moved to surround his entire foot, but he couldn't scream. His other foot began to warm, and then burn also. It was like someone was pouring lava on his body.

It slowly crept up his leg, bringing agony at every inch, and still he couldn't scream.

That was when everything hit. All the pieces fell into place.

The man in black made his sculptures from bodies he dug up.

He covered them in molten marble, and then let it cool. That was how it was such perfect work.

The third statue he got.. the person inside must have still been alive.. one of the victims, still alive inside the statue, and not able to move, or communicate.

The heat reached his waist, and began to inch up his chest.

Suddenly, he realized he was to be the next statue. He was going to join the man in black's collection, and he might one day be sold to another art collector.

He closed his eyes as the marble reached up to his neck, and then found the strength to scream.

The next day, the man in black opened the human shaped casing that fit perfectly around a human body. He looked at the marble that had cooled around the body of his latest addition and grinned. A job perfectly well done.

He would have to add this one to his own collection.

He always added the ones who found the strength to scream.