On a secondary side-road about an hour from Fredericton, you’ll find the home of a man with a shed.
It’s a simple red shed, sheltered on one side by tall, stately pines that sway and groan on windy days.
Behind the shed is half a cord of firewood, and an 8-foot tall pile of wood that sorely needs splitting; the axe blade embedded in the oak chopping block hasn’t been lifted for days.
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You see, a week ago, the man who owns the shed discovered another tiny shed inside it, with another tiny him chopping wood behind it. He’s sure it’s some kind of metaphor for something but for now, he sits on his couch with his shotgun on his lap, searching his Bible for any clues…
I know of this red shed of which you speak. Your recall of it ought to be brief and never spoken of again. The psychic vortex within it contains malevolent forces, too profane and dangerous to be allowed release into the world. I shall only name one item in it: Barry Shannon’s high school photos.