Event. Where the Susquehanna River, coiling under the roots of an enormous elm tree, lips the edge of a lonely oatfield in Pennsylvania, two campers lay last week. The night was thick; a fog, which had crept like a huge grey beast out of the riverbed, sniffed at their fire; they waited for sleep.
At about 11, something woke in the obscure night over their heads; at first no more than a drowsy, indistinguishable murmur, then a louder whine, like the nasal complaining of some fabulous insect; presently...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
