The thing about Ed is his eyes.  They stare.  When I am away from him, I
swear to God I won't let him do it again, but there he is in front of me,
those eyes boring into me, and I find my will crumbling again.

"Yes, Mr. Hulver.  Yes, yes, of course.  Right away."

And then I'm off again, to do the unspeakable.

I could end it.  I could end it easily.  A shot to the head, and he'd be
dead.  Lying on the floor, bleeding.  I think of it often.  I convince
myself that I will do it.  I approach the field with a hand on my pistol in
my pocket and I think...now!  But he turns, and those eyes, those eyes
refuse to let me move as he says:

"Are they dead?"

Yes, yes they are.  I killed them because I could not kill Ed.  Sometimes I
hate the little bastards.  Because I can't kill him, I kill them.
Stomping, crushing, destroying their little homes as they scurry out
begging, pleading for their lives.  "Take our gold!  Take our gold!"  I'm
not here for your gold, I'm here for you, and you will pay the price for my
weakness.

What they did to him, I do not know.  I know nothing about him except the
eyes that compel me.  Did they trick him out of money?  Love ones?  A
life?  I do not know.  I only know that he found me, the one, the only one
he tells me, the one that can see them and find their homes.  The one
immune to their glamour.  The only one who can destroy them.

That should give me power over Ed Hulver, but it does not.  Instead, it is
my weakness.  It is what led him to me, and what forces me to kill them.
And I do, again and again.  I hate them for making me kill and I use that
hate to kill them.

It is all I see when I sleep.  The little ones running.  The eyes staring.
My hands and feet, like another man's, stomping and crushing and shooting,
against my will, I think, I hope.  I had a life, once.  Now I just kill and 
kill and then go to him to find where I must kill again.

Gold they want to give me.  Gold.  I cannot use gold.  Gold gives me no
power over him.  It gives me no power to be free.  A shiny metal to sit in
my safe while I go to face those eyes to tell him no, no, they aren't dead.
There is nothing he could do to me, and yet I cannot do that.

I cannot do that and I do not know why.  Why?  Why did I not laugh at him
when he came to me, a weak little man, shorter than me and going to fat.
He sat down at my table and just looked at me.  Looked at me until I asked
what, what he wanted, and he said, "I know you see them.  I want you to
kill them.  Kill them and come to me in the field with the cows
tomorrow.  Tell me how they died."  And I looked at him, this strange man 
sitting down across from me and my mind told me to laugh, laugh at this little 
weak man that asked me to do this for him.  But the eyes bore into me and 
that mind choked and gasped under their glare as I said, "Yes, yes of course.  
I will.  I will do that."

I did it for him and I came to him in that field with the cows and told him
how they had run and died and he said to me with no inflection in his
voice, "tomorrow you will go to Birmingham and do the same."  And so I did
and so more died and so have the last ten months gone.

I go to meet Mr. Hulver in the field.  I see him and I take the pistol from
my pocket.  I take the pistol from my pocket and fire.  I fire into his
eyes and watch him fall.  One, two.  I fire into his eyes and watch him fall, 
bleeding and dead.

And I wake up.

And I go to meet Mr. Hulver, to tell him how the little ones died.