Around the neighborhood, people don't like to talk about . . . what happens. In autumn, when night comes early and clings late, people sleep fitfully and wake before dawn. The wakened hold still, waiting, sometimes counting breaths in the hope that time actually passes. They don't talk about . . . They don't think about . . . It's better, they are sure, not to draw attention - not to refer to . . . give a name to . . . Davie worries about more pressing matters. He's down on his luck and scraping by, like so many people when times are tough. When his uncle starts telling wild stories to the police, Davie shows up, to help out and for a place to stay. There's a spare room. The neighborhood seems nice. The house has a lake view, right in the city. And if there is some ancient terror there, as Davie suspects, he knows it can be dragged out into the light. No horror can frighten after it has been exposed and analyzed and cataloged. All he needs is the right key to turn and the Bitter Lake Demon will be nothing but folklore.