Unperturbed by the landing, as he would be by any minor inconvenience, the heavy-set man exited the wicker basket, brushing unseen dust off his jacket. Dressed like the ring-master for a dark carnival, he possessed a natural flair for the theatrical.

A peal of thunder caused him to glare at the sky, beaked nose high in the air like a preacher’s finger taking a sinner to task. The clouds writhed under his gaze and he nodded in satisfaction.

Calmly, and with no discernible effort, he leaned his immense bulk down and withdrew a long umbrella from the inside the basket, which he leaned against the outside, and a long black cloak that settled on him like a second shadow.

With umbrella in hand, the fat man moved with a kind of sinister grace, like that of a lion, or perhaps an evil king, toward the small town. His next set of victims called to him in their troubled dreams even if they didn’t know it. The Balloon Man wondered which one of the nine would survive the game this time. That was the rule- nine and one.