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I could barely see Baxter, hidden as he was by the gloom within. He stood there considering me in silence for a time; then he opened the door wider, just enough to let me walk inside. It took a little time for my eyes to adjust to the dark room. I studied Baxter carefully after he led me into his parlor like the proverbial spider and fly. He was a nondescript man, fortyish with graying brown hair that was thinning back from his prominent forehead. He was slight, not much taller than I was. He wore dark-framed eyeglasses, which gave his pale gray eyes an otherworldly quality. The furnishings were worn, old-fashioned tables, chairs and sofas, large Victorian pieces which cluttered the room, overwhelming it. In the corners were stacks of old magazines and yellowing newspapers. Baxter obviously didn't believe in throwing anything away. He didn't invite me to sit down and so I remained standing, very much aware of my status as unwanted guest. I had a notepad, a mini cassette recorder and a small camera in my oversized handbag but I withdrew nothing, convinced that if I did, it would spook Baxter, since he was eyeing me sharply. "Why do you want to interview me?" "You're famous. Yet no one knows much about you. Our readers are curious. You're a greater mystery story than any of your books." "What do they want to know exactly?" "Anything you're willing to tell them. They're your fans, they worship you." Maybe that was spreading it a little too thick, but Baxter seemed to accept it. "For example, is this your family home? Have you always lived in Vermont?" "Yep." I tried again. "Has this farm always belonged to your family?" I was rewarded by a slight incline of his head. "And your family, are there other members living here?" "They're all dead." "Then you live alone." "I didn't say that." I decided this was definitely not going to be an easy interview. "Are you married? Do you have children?" He shook his head. "Significant other?" He looked distracted, his eyes vague and unfocused. "There are others all right. I've written about them. It's the only way." "The only way for what?" I persisted, wishing I could take notes. "I try to warn people. There might be others, more of them." The way he spoke sent a chill slithering down my spine. It seemed to me that Baxter was as eerie as his home; perhaps the interior of his soul was as dismal as the interior of his house. "Who are you talking about?" "You don't want to know. When I was a child, my mother said they were only part of my nightmares, just bad dreams, but I knew different." I thought it best to change the topic. "So were you a farmer before you became a writer?" "No, nothing can grow here. I went to veterinary school. But then my mother died and a few months later my father followed her. I was sick for a while. Then I got well again." "I see," I said, although I really didn't. "Doing my experiments helped me get better."
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