| OCR Text |
Show Ferguson Lives Butch and Fenn Stories 28 "Let's go." I can hear the lever on the transformer nicking over the raised dashes on the dial, and then Butch snaps it full right. Inside the basement, a buzz sets up, steady, weird and even, like a dial tone. I inch back from the window. Fenn is over our shoulder, saying, "Hear that?" Then there is a series of blitzing blue flashes, ten, twelve, arcing inside off the walls, and the smell of electricity gone wrong as the dial tone begins to rise, siren-like into a razor wail that even rises, keening right out of ear range, and Tiny begins a ravaged gut-deep howl behind us. The television tube goes white, filling with electric milk, swelling, or so it seems. Butch takes my arm and says, "Watch out!" But the tube explodes with a headache KABOOM-AHHHMMMMAA! as he speaks, and the night becomes a fifty gallon drum being kicked and kicked. I reach for the house but it is gone. Then I realize I am back ten feet from the window. Tiny is lying low, whining in his foxhole. Fenn comes from somewhere behind me, grabs my arm lifting me up, and says, "Did you hear that?" My ears are full of a sweet humming static. A thin gaseous kind of smoke is trailing out the window, where Butch still lies, angling this way and that on the ground, trying to get a better look. He pushes himself up and grabs us: "Come on," he says. "We'll have to go inside." |
