The toddler ran straight into Paul's arms and as he picked the boy up, glancing around to see who the child belonged to, he saw her—the stripper he met at his bachelor party who almost convinced him not to get married.

The old man, his eyes clouded over, told them the stories of the long-dead, weaving the town's dark history.

When the workers tore up the floorboards they discovered a child's secret cache—a pair of small white gloves, a pocket knife, a brass horn—deposited there 100 years ago by a now long dead boy.

Rye Toast Thompson never did much like working, so when his wife finally threw him out he began his journey to Florida on foot where he planned to sleep on the beach and try his luck at picking the pockets of fat cat tourists.

Like a gerbil on a wheel, the government spent its time holding inquiries into the ramifications of all the split-second decisions it had made earlier.

Teetering on the edge, it only took one rude comment from Mark's coworker to light the fuse that ended in an explosion of violence.

The town, which once did a brisk business in the tourist trade before the Interstate was built, had slowly collapsed in on itself.