His hair grew long, like a sheepdog, dropping down into his face. He couldn’t see a thing that night, stopping at the red light, glow of the neon sign flashing over him. Next to his car, the dude pulled up, the big dude. The one nobody messed with, didn� t even look at sideways. And the dude said: “Wanna race?” It wasn’t really a question. The shaggy-haired fool was in it, and there was no pulling out. And when that light turned green, off they sped, down the road, into the darkness--and with just the two of them to witness what was about to occur.

What did occur, they couldn’t say for sure. There was a blinding white light, and then they were out of it, blacked out, seeing nothing, remembering nothing. He felt hands over his body. And he dreamt of hands, a dozen or so of them, caressing him, all over his naked body. Naked? Why and how? Well, he would soon know the answer to that, at least: he opened his eyes to the horror about him--a dozen “things” hovered over him, he lying completely naked on a stone slab. How did he get here, and who were these people? He would soon discover, though, that they were not people, not as you and I define the word.