I once read a book of stories by a man named Fredric Brown. In one of them he quotes the tale of the peasant walking through the haunted wood, saying to himself, “I am a good man and have done no wrong. If devils can harm me, then there isn’t any justice,” and a voice behind him says, “There isn’t.”
361 by Donald Westlake, published by Hard Case Crime.
“When a fresh-faced guy in a Chevy offered him a lift, Parker told him to go to hell. The guy said, ‘Screw you, buddy,’ yanked his Chevy back into the stream of traffic, and roared on down to the tollbooths. Parker spat in the right-hand lane, lit his last cigarette, and walked across the George Washington Bridge.
The 8 A.M. traffic went mmmmm, mmmmm, all on this side, headed for the city. Over there, lanes and lanes of nobody going to Jersery. Underneath, the same thing.
Out in the middle, the bridge trembled and swayed in the wind. It does it all the time, but he’d never noticed it. He’d never walked it before. He felt it shivering under his feet, and he got mad. He threw the used-up butt in the river, spat on a passing hubcap, and strode on.” -Richard Stark (Donald E. Westlake), The Hunter