The smell of snow was in the air as Eddie Joubert opened the back door of the Bottom of the Fox and walked down the steps for the last time. It was only a few minutes after 5 on this Saturday evening in late November 1981, but except for a thin ribbon of light in the western sky it already was dark.

Eddie paused on the bottom step, pulled a battered Zippo lighter inscribed with the motto “Look for the Union Label on the Box” from the right pocket of a well worn leather vest and an unfiltered Camel cigarette from a pack in the left pocket. He had recently gotten into the habit of scanning the backyard with especial care whenever he left his bar in Delaware Water Gap, a village at the eastern end of the Pocono Mountains straddling the Maine-to-Georgia Appalachian Trail.

Eddie was a scrapper from way back, a street smart former trucker and Teamsters union organizer who was capable to taking care of himself, but he recently had found out about something awful. Worse yet, the perpetrators were aware that he was onto them and he was in fear of his life.

Beneath a canopy of hemlocks in the backyard were empty beer cases and jetsam from the bar, some railroad ties, an extension ladder, picnic table, an old Volvo station wagon and an even older Dodge pickup truck. Firewood for the jack stove in the kitchen was scattered everywhere. Firewood was as much a part of Eddie’s life as eating and shitting. Chopping. Chain-sawing. Splitting. Loading. Hauling. Unloading. Stacking. Burning. If you wanted to stay warm during the long Pocono winters, you just did it.

Eddie could keep a woodstove cranking in his sleep. Open the damper. Open the door. Bank the coals to one side. Shovel out the ashes from the other side. Bank the coals back over. Shovel out the rest of the ashes. Load more wood. Close the door. Wait until you hear the whoosh of the wood catching. Close the damper. Go back to bed. He had done it a thousand times.

Beyond the yard was an immense sycamore said to be the largest in Monroe County. Eddie loved the tree, and many a morning he watched the same three or four crows alight on its branches and raucously gossip before setting out on their daily rounds. On summer evenings the tree’s multi-colored bark and big lobed leaves shimmered in the setting sun. If he squinted just so the sycamore looked like a great jeweled ship with glittering sails.

At night, a solitary barred owl held vigil on its highest branches. The barred is the most elusive of owls, and Eddie had heard its distinctive barking cry many times before he finally saw it silhouetted in a rising full moon. Its “hoo, hoo, too-HOO hoo, hoo, too-HOO aw” sounded to him like “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” and was a counterpoint to the sound of traffic below The Fox on Interstate 80 at a toll bridge over the Delaware River, the dividing line between Pennsylvania and New Jersey and the beauty of the Poconos and sprawl of metropolitan New York. The city seemed a million miles away, not a mere 70.

The Minsi Indians, who farmed, hunted and fished the area long before white man arrived, had uses for almost everything in the verdant Pocono woodlands. But the Minsi passed sycamores by. Their corkscrew-shaped grain made the wood unsuitable for cutting and even the characteristic winged fruit lacked nutrition. Here was a tree that had no value other than its beauty, and Eddie loved that.

Eddie took a last drag on the cigarette, dropped it into a rusty can at the foot of the steps, pulled up the grayed collar of his green nylon bomber jacket and stepped out into the yard. He’d deal with the firewood after he fetched some things from the freezer in the cellar.



The Fox’s cellar was not a welcoming place. Cellars seldom are, but there was an indelibly creepy feeling about this one.

Maybe it had something to do with the legend that The Fox was haunted by the spirits of long departed souls because it had been built on a Minsi burial ground. It was a good story, but didn’t jibe with the fact that the Minsi, the northernmost tribe of the Lenni Lenape, interred their elders on high rock outcroppings so they would be a little closer to the heavens and not at the bottom of a hill like where The Fox was located. No one except Indian-smart Glenn Fisher paid much notice to this small but significant detail. No one was really sure if Eddie had Indian blood either, but he spoke proudly of having a Native American heritage and had hung a plaque over The Fox’s bar alluding to the Lenni Lennape that read:


Nor did Eddie’s friends inquire about the mysterious trips that he and Fisher took to tribal lands in upstate New York. They wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer if they had. Eddie was not inclined to wear jewelry. It could be a dangerous nuisance when using a chainsaw, but he usually wore a beaded Indian necklace set off with two bear claws that he had been gifted on one of the trips. He was wearing the necklace this evening. When asked about it he’d give the same answer: “It would lose its powers if I told you.”

The Fox’s regulars joked about the spirits, but there were nights when even Fisher had to admit that there might be something to the burial-ground tale. The employees called them “Dead Nights.”

On some days about the time that the day crowd had left and before the night crowd arrived, the bar would be empty and everyone who lived in the rented rooms upstairs was gone. There would be an oppressive feeling of heavy air, as one bartender described it.

The bartender would hear a voice:

Get out! Get out! Get out!

She sometimes would do just that and had closed early several evenings.

There also was joking about whether the spirits were good or evil. Fisher did have an answer for that: It depended on whether the energy at The Fox was good or evil. That view was about to be sorely tested.



The cellar stank of raw sewage from the Water Gap’s decrepit sewer system and the dark stone walls and earthen floor soaked up the meager light from a single naked light bulb. Eddie was only 5-foot-8, although his presence could be so commanding that people would swear he was much taller. Still, he had to duck to avoid walking into the cobwebs dangling from between the rafters.

The cellar was entered through a door at the bottom of a ramp. Inside was a temperamental oil-fired furnace that had been converted to run on coal and a massive floor safe of unknown lineage that would not have been out of place in Wyatt Earp’s office in Dodge City, a chest freezer filled with soups, steaks, hamburger patties, flounder fillets and French fries, a washer and dryer, a woodworking shop, disused kitchen equipment and a 55-gallon drum filled to overflowing with empty beer bottles.

Eddie especially hated going into the cellar at night. The awful something had spooked him so badly that he had stashed a knife near the freezer for self defense in addition to a baseball bat and rifle that he kept behind the bar. He also rigged a short length of white insulated telephone wire over the door that would be disturbed if anyone tried to open it. Eddie told bartender Kate Holmes and one other trusted employee about the wire but not the reason for it. They were to let him know right away if it was even slightly out of place.



Although it was obvious to Eddie's daughter Cheryl and his closest friends that he was in fear for his life, he hadn't confided in the awful something to anyone except his dear friend Rosalie.

She was Rosalie Sorrels, a folk singer whom one critic has called “the hillbilly Edith Piaf” for her eclectic songwriting and vocal stylings. Sorrels had met Eddie while playing at a club in New Hope down the Delaware River near Philadelphia. He invited her back to The Fox, and although the Poconos were well out of her way there was something so charming about him that she agreed before she knew what she was doing. They stayed up all night drinking and telling stories, and as they watched the sun rise over the sycamore she knew that this was a place where she could get back in touch with her inner gypsy.

Sorrels fell in love with Eddie and the scene around The Fox. There was an unpretentiousness about he and his friends that she craved. Several were Vietnam veterans who were seriously into alcohol, marijuana, trips and anything else that would help them deal with – or blot out – their experiences. Having been deeply scared by a few wars of her own, Sorrels could relate.

Eddie and his friends loved Sorrels right back. She would have a big pot of jambalaya cooking for the musicians who would stop by late at night for jam sessions after playing up Main Street at the Deer Head, over in Stroudsburg at the Blue Note or at one of the resorts that were the backbone of Poconos tourism. Several jazz musicians, attracted by the low home prices, had moved to the Water Gap and nearby communities and also would drop in after they played at clubs in New York City, an hour and a half drive out Interstate 80.

Sorrels’ youngest son had just been paroled from a Colorado penitentiary and would be arriving in the Poconos on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Although Eddie had his hands full with one of his own sons, Sorrels thought that he might be able to talk some sense into hers.

Earlier in the week Sorrels had asked Eddie to drive her to Saratoga in upstate New York for Thanksgiving dinner with friends, including William Kennedy, who was working on the last book in his acclaimed Albany trilogy. Sorrels was sure that Joubert and the writer would hit it off, but Eddie hated holidays because they were when real families got together and his family seemed to be anything but. St. Patrick’s Day was the only exception because it was an excuse to let loose. He told Sorrels that he would think about it. But he never got back to her and she was unable to shake the feeling that something was very wrong as she hit the road on Thanksgiving morning.



Eddie briefly came out of his funk the next morning, a Friday. With the first snow of the season on the way, he and Fisher drove to Woodstock in upstate New York to cut firewood for a woman friend.

If they weren’t cutting firewood for themselves, Eddie and Fisher were cutting firewood for others. It sometimes was an adventure, like the time Eddie had driven through a blizzard to deliver wood and food to a woman and her children. They had just smoked some of Fisher’s potent homegrown marijuana when they came upon a state police roadblock south of Woodstock. The Volvo wagon reeked of pot, had a counterfeit state inspection sticker and stood out like a psychedelic rock poster on wheels, but they were waved through.

After cutting and stacking a cord or so of firewood, they had stayed up most of the night drinking. Eddie wanted to go back out to the woodlot to work off his hangover, but he had to get back to the Water Gap. Linda Fogel was getting married on Saturday afternoon. She had been a waitress at The Fox and her wedding was the social event of the season, a rare occasion when Water Gap outsiders and insiders mingled and could pretend how well they got along. He didn’t much care for the guy Fogel was marrying and he definitely didn’t care for weddings, his own being the most bittersweet of memories. Besides which, he had to work Saturday night because Holmes, who had made Fogel’s bridal dress, would be off.

Holmes had taped a note to the kitchen refrigerator for Eddie with phone messages, a list of who was supposed to be paid that night and what he needed to bring up from the cellar freezer. Among the messages was one from Sorrels, who had called to remind him that she and her son would be coming over.

Late in the afternoon, several people stopped by The Fox on their way to the wedding reception. Eddie smoked a joint with some of them and snorted a line of cocaine when offered some. He still felt a trace of a hangover as he descended the cellar ramp to fetch whatever Holmes had told him to bring up from the freezer.

He paused at the cellar door. Damn. He’d forgotten the list and started to turn around when he reflexively glanced at the top of the door. The wire wasn’t there. He looked closer. The wire still wasn’t there.

The wire has to be there, said a voice in his head.

His heart suddenly was racing. He went up on tiptoes, but only about halfway on the first try because his old work boots weren’t used to being stretched that way. He went up further on the second try. Still no wire.

Where’s the fucking wire?

His heart was now beating so hard that it felt like it was going to explode out of his chest.

Where’s the fucking wire? Sweet mother of Jesus! It’s happening!

Damned hangover.

Work brain work! Un-fucking-believable! Where’s the wire?

As he again looked for the wire in the dim light cast by a floodlight on the back wall of The Fox he sensed that he was not alone.

It’s happening!

He started to turn but was knocked against the cellar wall by a sharp blow to the head.

Ouch! No! Hurt! It’s happening! No hurt no!

He tried to fight back. There was a shovel at the top of the ramp, but it was too far away. The sheath knife on his belt was under several layers of clothing. He couldn’t get to the knife that he had stashed in the cellar because the door opened out. The ramp was too narrow for him to get past his attacker and too far below the yard to try to scramble up and out. There was no way for him to escape.

Trapped! It’s happening! Hurt! Hurt Hurt!

Now he heard a second voice in his head.

Get out! Get out! Get out!

He continued to turn.

The second voice called out again:

Get out! Get out! Get out!

Then his own voice:

Hot. Thirsty. Ouch! Get pipe! Hot. Thirsty. Pipe! Can’t get out!

He had spotted a length of PVC pipe leaning against the cellar wall, but it too was out of reach. As he turned a little more his legs gave out and he began falling backwards. His right knee hit the wall. He tried to pull himself up with his right hand but all he could do was grab a fistful of dirt and hemlock needles.

Hold on. Got to hold on! Get up. Hot. So thirsty. Can’t get out!

It felt like it was taking forever to fall. He threw his left arm over his head in another attempt to pull himself up and grabbed more dirt and needles as he finally landed on his back. His skull smashed into the ground, the voices in his head now barely audible.

Hot. Thirsty. Sweet Jesus! It’s happening! Dear God! Please! No! No! No! Please! Ple---, whispered the first voice.

Get out! Get ou-. Ge ---, whispered the second.

The attacker stood over Eddie gasping for air as he clenched an ax over his head with both hands. The business end twinkled every so slightly in the dim glow of the floodlight as it hurtled down into the center of his forehead. The attacker raised the ax again. It came down again, cutting deeper. Then a third time, nearly amputating his left hand at the wrist. And a fourth time, slicing through his jeans and into his thigh above the left knee.

The attacker peered down at him, the ax now at his side. His breathing became more measured. The only sounds were the blood gurgling from Eddie’s head and the thrum of traffic from down on the interstate.

A car door slammed. The attacker looked up, oblivious to the blood splattered over his face and body. He seemed reluctant to leave. Another car door slammed and there were voices. The attacker looked up again, sighed deeply, took another long look at Eddie, hoisted the ax over his shoulder and wearily walked up the ramp and disappeared into the darkness.

The barred owl peered down from the sycamore.

“Hoo, hoo, too-HOO hoo, hoo, too-HOO,” it cried. “Hoo, hoo, too-HOO hoo, hoo, too-HOO aw.”