By this time he doesn't get stares or comments any more when he buys that much salt in bulk -- wrong kind for preserving what you hunt, which is what that much salt tends to get used for out here. Doesn't mean Bobby won't store it in old rusting tins labeled GASOLINE -- plays into the deception of his place. All part of the disguise.

It's the wrong kind of salt for preserving what you hunt; it's the great kind of salt for preserving you from what you hunt.

"I salted the door and windows." There's always been something a little comforting about a heavy tin with a rust-spotted handle. Blunt object, if it has to be. "If there are any demons out there -- they ain't getting in."