This story is true. I came to visit my friend Eddie, who lived on Washington Street, near Barendo, near the cemetery: this was about sixty-five years ago. A terrible roar was heard. We ran out into the street and rushed to the intersection. The car was traveling at seventy miles an hour. Crash into a telephone pole and split in half. There were six people sitting inside. Three died instantly. I leaned towards one of the women, hoping to help with something: she raised her head and looked at me pleadingly. Her jaw, which lay on her chest, was torn off: with her gaze she begged for salvation, but her eyelids closed, and I realized that she had died. So: while I was standing over the woman, a crowd gathered from nowhere. There was a cemetery on one side of the street, but all these people couldn’t have come from there? Or could they? Everything else was excluded: the buildings were empty in the evening, the lights in the windows did not come on. There was no one in the nearby schoolyard. There was nowhere for a single person to appear, except perhaps from the cottages, but they were several blocks away. However, a whole crowd came running - were they ghosts? I remembered this crowd six years later. And I thought: “I need to write a story about this. I don’t know how the plot will go further, but why not start?” And two hours later the story was written.