by Jacqueline Seewald

"I hardly work for a tabloid. I do sensitive interviews."

"And I would offer the same response to Barbara Walters. The answer is no."

"Look, Baxter's books have been bestsellers since Hollywood bought the film right to The Demons and produced a blockbuster hit. It's not like he isn't a public figure."

"Mr. Baxter demands privacy. Is that so difficult for you to understand?"

"I would like nothing better than to honor his need for privacy, but unfortunately, I've been give an assignment. I'll do it with or without your help."

Vernon gave me a grim look. "Definitely without."

My determination did not falter. "Just the address then. I won't trouble you again."

Maybe he was affected by my persistence or maybe he felt that Brunhilde had more important things to do than
forcibly eject me from his office; in any case, Vernon finally gave me Baxter's address, but not without a final dire warning about how I might come to regret my course of action.

I recalled his words as I took the long, lonely drive from the airport to Baxter's farm. It was late November and the leaves had already fallen. The backwoods of New England looked haunted and bleak. Out in the middle of nowhere, Baxter's farmhouse was difficult to find, nor did I have good vibes on seeing the place. For one thing, there was an air of dilapidation.

It was obvious the place had not been a working farm for many years. Everything was in disrepair from tumbledown barn and fences to the chipped, peeling clapboard of the graying house itself. Sinister silence settled over the ground where no grass or crops grew and no animal of any kind resided. There was a sense of isolation and emptiness, a quality of the surreal as if I'd stepped into a Poe, Kafka or Lovecraft landscape. The fact that the sun was actually shining brightly only served to underscore the total desolation of my surroundings. I could almost imagine the ghosts of witches haunting such a place. Stubbornly, I shook myself out of this silly reverie. After all, I was in rural Vermont not Salem, Massachusetts.

I got out of my car, removed my camera and clicked some location shots. Then I drove right up to the house and marched up to the front door before I lost my nerve. There was no doorbell to ring and no response to my forceful knocking. I tried again. I also called out and then attempted to look into a front window, but the shades were drawn. Eventually, I heard movement within and called out more loudly.

Finally, a voice responded. "Go away, get out of here!"

He was behind the door now; I sensed his presence. Tenaciously, I hung on and explained who I was in a clear voice.

"We're a national magazine with millions of readers. You must have heard of us. My editor sent me here because the whole country wants to know about you. Your books are incredible. You're much admired." I figured a little flattery couldn't hurt my cause. "If you give me this interview, you won't be sorry. You'll be as famous as a movie star or royalty."

I thought my strategy might be working because Baxter opened the door a crack. "I don't want people knowing about me. Now go away!"

"You'll sell more books," I said.

"I don't care. They're selling better then I ever expected. Besides, I didn't write them for the money."

I desperately tried to think of some way to persuade him. "Look, I've come a very long way to meet you, all the way from New York City. Suppose you and I just sit and talk for a little while. Then if you decide not to do the interview, I'll go away and never bother you again. Okay?"

The door opened a crack further. I gave him what I hoped was my friendliest smile, all sincerity and straight, pearly teeth.