1937. It was the year of Old Mucky. BEWARE: If you've read my first three novels, then you might be in for a surprise with this story. You will find no correlation between Old Mucky and that of 101 Letters, Forgotten Secret or The Beating Heart. This elates me, but also frightens me. Not to mention, this is my first attempt at much shorter writing, and at horror, too. This story is dedicated to my father, Joe Kendall, who provided me all the ghost stories a boy could handle growing up, plus a little more. Though most of his stories ended with someone, or something, headless, I always found them enjoyable. He helped mold my imagination. He once told me a story (it was true, as all his stories were!) about a guy who shot at him from a tree house. Believable. Then, he said he had one eye. Believable still. But then, he said that one eye was in the middle of his forehead. They seemed to always have a comical twist to them, even if unintentional. And so it was Joe Kendall who gave you this story, because if it weren't for him, perhaps I never would have indulged myself in such a disturbing plot. My hope now is that you delight (even if it is in an unsettling way) in this story as much as I did my father's. Tommie Kendall