Oakwood Island Series

Part 6 - "Fury Unleashed - Part 1 "

A collaboration By Angella Jacob & Pierre C. Arseneault

Willowisp Lane was a quiet street just on the outskirts of the populated area of Oakwood Island. Large oak and willow trees lined each side of the paved road, the branches overhead intermingling, creating a green canopy of leaves and vines. It was at the very end of this small stretch that stood an old two storey white house with black trim and antique style decorative shutters. On any normal day, the modest home would have blended well with the others and seamlessly sat among the rest of the nestled houses between the trees. Today was none a day to be named normal however, and the house at sixty-seven Willowisp Lane held more than its share of abnormal scenery. The yellow tape with large black print letters that read “Police Line – Do Not Cross” was draped across the oaks surrounding the property. The black and white police cars were scattered about in front of the residence. Two were directly parked in the driveway, no doubt belonging to the first officers to have arrived on the scene earlier that morning. There were three more along the side of the street, but these had their lights flashing, a beacon that seemed to attract onlookers to the scene. The closest emergency vehicle to the driveway was an ambulance. The paramedics were standing outside their white ghostly ride, waiting for the coroner to arrive from the mainland. The chill in the mid September air could be felt each time the wind would pick up and the breeze would create a sudden fluttering of leaves. They heaved simultaneously and then shook down in resounding ripples until the last of the fiery, fleeing breezes flowed through the crisp branches and cast itself further down in the direction it came. In the trees, there were several large, black crows perched in most of the branches. They sat silent, their beaks closed, and beady eyes peering down at the scene where the officers and the onlookers stood. There must have been hundreds of them, black feathers mingling with the green leaves of the large oak trees. Hardly any cawing was heard, as though a silent prayer was being said and the entire murder of crows was part of the mourning. The mailbox at the end of the driveway had the family name of “Watson” hand painted in bold white lettering which contrasted brightly against the deep burgundy red. The house belonged to tow truck driver Lawrence and his wife Kathleen Watson. The couple had a teenage son, Eddy, who had been showing a genuine interest in following his father's footsteps and stepping into the role of owner/operator of the tow truck service one day when his father could no longer be able to manage the company. The Watson family had been a small but very close family of three. They held an unwavering love for each other, as all families should. Today their togetherness did not flinch as they remained bonded in such tragic circumstances.

Just beyond the red mailbox, outside the yellow police tape that fenced in the home, the crowd grew by a few more curious passers-by and neighbours as time went on. Only half an hour had now passed since the first police cars had arrived on the scene, their sirens wailing. They had broken the early Saturday morning silence, sending it hiding in the dew coated blades of grass on the front lawn of the residence. Shelley Beers had been the one to call 911 when she'd walked by the Watson's home, on her way next door to Lawrence's garage to pick up her car. When she'd noticed the massive amount of blood smeared across the living room window, she had been terrified, but felt she had to go and take a closer look. When she peered into the living room through the bloodied window, she could see there was a body behind the couch. Only a leg and a hand were sticking out from behind it, but the crimson splatter was everywhere on the walls, on the furniture, even on the ceiling. Shaken and in a panic, she had called 911 using her cell phone, and ran next door to wait until the first police cars arrived on the scene.

A small crowd of about twenty onlookers had now gathered, wondering what was happening and asking each other if they had any idea what was going on inside the home. Nobody seemed to have any answers. When Officer Ryan stepped outside, he was bombarded with a flood of questions from the gathering, to which he completely ignored, as dictated police regulations. The crowd sensed something was terribly wrong inside the home, especially when they saw the paramedics coming out empty-handed. They feared the worse for their well-liked neighbours and friends. A grim foreboding enveloped the bystanders as the sun crept slowly upwards into the blue morning sky.

In the gathered group of people there stood Gertrude Dawson. She had been driving down Willowisp Lane on her way to work. She came upon the scene shortly after having picked up her husband's aunt Helen, who owned the nursery where she worked. Aunt Helen had not wanted to step outside of the car at first, worried of what she might see. But after a few minutes of watching the crowd growing larger, she decided to meet up with Gertrude again and wait to see if she could get a sense of what had happened. As she had been walking across the street from the car, Timmy Nolan had narrowly avoided her slow moving feet with his bike. He turned his face slightly and from his helmet-head called out “Sorry Mrs. Dawson!” and kept on his way until he had reached the closest spot to the yellow tape as possible. He was determined to not miss anything that came in or out of the Watson's house. Timmy had his own theory of what had happened. He had made up the alien abduction scene in his head already, tall green aliens with no clothes and large black soul-less eyes had come into the Watson's home. Of course this was from the mind of an eleven year old paper boy that spent the entire summer watching the Sci-Fi channel and reading science fiction comics. He waited patiently with the others in the crowd, glancing back and forth from the blood in the living room window, to the paramedics and to the yellow tape that wrapped up the scene like a bow on a morbid gift.

Among all the bystanders in the crowd, there was one that showed a different expression on his face. While others showed confusion, worry, and anguish, Jack Whitefeather's face showed a calm and collected expression. His dark wrinkled skin and long grey hair were a familiar sight on Oakwood Island. He wore the same type of clothes that made him easily recognizable. This faded red shirt, old and worn blue jeans and slightly beaten up brown wide brimmed hat had been one of his select few fashion choices for that past several years. He stood among the others in the crowd, his long hair tousling slightly with the breeze as it passed by. When Officer Ryan McGregor came out of the home, it wasn't long before he spotted Jack in the crowd who was standing with his arms crossed on his chest. He had stood there quietly, keeping to himself, not asking questions like most of them were doing. As soon as Ryan passed near Jack and made eye contact with him, Jack spoke up. “This is like the Stuart's killing, isn't it? Their bodies partially eaten as if it was done by an animal....aren't they Ryan?”. Jack uncrossed his arms and stood with his hands loosely on his hips now, his elbows jutting outward, exposing a few long feathers of brown, black and white that were looped in with his belt. Ryan's walk suddenly became rigid. His eyes shifted from Jack and then over to the others in the crowd. His body language told Jack that what he had said was true, so he continued on. “They are like the animals found dead all over the Island. The tracks…footprints in the blood are like nothing you've ever seen...” Jack was not asking Ryan, he was stating facts. He could tell by Ryan's expressions and body language that he had surprised the officer with this information that nobody else was supposed to know yet.

Jack already knew that Lawrence and Kathleen's bodies were sprawled out dead on their bedroom floor. He already knew that Lawrence had his throat torn out and his left arm had been ripped off at the shoulder, threads of skin, ligaments and nerves jutting out from the tear in his arm. His wife lay on the floor in a pool of blood with her chest and abdomen torn open. The bite marks were clear and apparently made with very sharp teeth. Large pieces of flesh had been ripped off the bodies, but not cast aside. They had been torn off the bodies and eaten by the creature that had attacked them. Eddy had been found in the living room, his arm and leg the only thing visible from the living room window. If Shelley had been able to see behind the couch, she would have also seen that half his torso was missing from his body. There was no way for Shelley to know these things though, as she did not have Jack's ways, and eyes that saw everything.

Jack knew and he wanted Ryan to know that he was aware of everything inside that house before Ryan could even process what he'd just seen with his own eyes. Once he was satisfied that Ryan's lack of expression held the answer to his questions, he walked away from the chaotic scene and climbed into his truck. He closed the door behind him and sat there quietly by himself, lost in thought. Others that had seen him go to his truck knew that there was no point in asking him if he was alright, as he'd done this so many times before that to locals, his odd behaviour was now considered normal. He sat with his head slung down in front of him, his breathing deep and even, he appeared to be sleeping, but his rigid form proved he was awake. When Ryan noticed Jack sitting in his truck, his mind brought him back to when he himself was but a kid. He had seen Jack doing this very same thing so many years ago as he had stood just a few feet away from the truck. What struck Ryan as odd with this memory was that it was during another horrible, tragic event that he had seen Jack doing this. It had been a day almost thirty years before when they had found a body in the river. Although Ryan had been a kid back then, Jack had not looked any different than what he looked like today. The old 1950 red Ford truck was also the same one he had been sitting in back then, though it had been much newer looking in those days. The old man and the old beat up truck sat in the morning sun, while Ryan stared them down with an air of curious confusion.

Overhead, there came a loud series of caws and wings fluttering about as the crows flew up and out of the oak and willow trees and off they went into the sky. Only one crow stayed behind on one of the higher branches. It cawed a few times and then swooped down onto the sill of the bedroom window. It peered inside, its head but a mere inch away from the glass, it stared and searched endlessly.

*

Inside the Watson's bedroom, detective Burke stepped around the bodies and over the pieces that had been ripped away from them. The blood was splattered across the walls, ceilings and furniture. The deep red contrasted brightly against the bright white bedding of the duvet that covered the couple's bed. Now it had a splash of red that the investigators on the scene were examining closely. The coroner, Harold Randolf, was also the only specialized crime scene investigator that serviced the island, and until this year, he had only been called in a handful of times in all his twelve years with the force. It seemed that over the past year or so, the calls had been coming in more frequently. Both investigators were from the mainland. Oakwood Island only had a small police presence, as it required very little service. At least, this was how it had been for a long time, up until this year. The string of gruesome findings, especially over the past few months, had kept both Burke and Randolf coming back to the Island frequently.

“There's some more of those weird brown hairs over here Burke...” Harold said as he squatted down close to what was left of Kathleen Watson's body. Her blonde hair was matted with thick chunks of flesh and bone fragments, some of hers and some of her husbands, whose body was sprawled about just a few feet away. “That sticky substance we found on the Stuart's bodies, there seems to be some here too. It's fresher, but just as sticky and foul-smelling.” Randolf collected a sample of the substance with a long swab stick. It coated the white cotton tip and formed a long sliver of thick, stringy saliva-like substance before the detective placed it inside a long plastic container to send for analysis. “The tests from the Stuarts' bodies came back and like I suspected the hairs have canine properties. But there's one thing about the evidence we can't figure out. The saliva found at the Stuarts' had plant enzymes within it, along with another unknown element.” Harold sealed the evidence bag in which he'd just placed the saliva swab and stood up. Burke chuckled and replied “So the thing had a salad as an appetizer first?”. With his back to Burke, Harold rolled his eyes at yet another one of Burke's jokes, the ones that always seemed to be in such poor taste. Suddenly there came a loud cawing sound from the window ledge and both investigators jumped, startled from the sudden noise. The bird pecked its strong beak at the window a few times before flying off. Burke exhaled loudly and exclaimed with an exaggerated tone, “Damn bird nearly scared the shit out of me!” Both men laughed nervously as neither of them had expected to be startled by the small pest, never less while standing knee deep in body parts and pools of blood. They continued working as the crow headed off, heeding its call to return home.

*

The early night resonated with the chill stirring of leaves that had started falling on the streets of Oakwood Island. The street was brushed with a light flurry of them, a few being cast upward every so often when the cool wind would swirl through the trees and down onto the ground. The creature carried itself with a quietness that was remarkable, always staying in the shadows, careful to not be noticed by the humans that were in the vicinity. It knew by instinct that it shouldn't wander into town like this. Feeding off smaller game and fish had been sufficient for his functioning and had allowed him to survive all this time on the Island. However since his very first taste of human flesh, the desire and want for that taste again had become overpowering. It was a hunger unlike any he had felt before. It had grown stronger and sharper after filling up on the people across the island. Instinctively it felt it shouldn't be out in the open, in the streets, hiding in the shadows, looking for more prey. The hunger won the battle every time though, and it looked with earnest for its next victim.

Prowling near some homes, it finally found her. She was wandering about aimlessly, her footsteps unsteady as she stumbled a few times. Her feet shuffled about, hitting the concrete sidewalk in an odd pattern. She appeared oblivious to the fact that there was a killer or wild animal on the loose on the island. The streets had been nearly emptied since news of the deadly attacks at the Watson's made its way around Oakwood. The woman seemed unafraid to be walking the streets alone, her frail body dressed only in a light cotton dress, all in white. She might have even appeared lost to some, her demeanour strange, aloof. It was like she didn't really have a destination, but rather a long, continual walk which would lead her nowhere but into her own forsaken soul.

The beast stalked the young woman with a deafening quietness. It crept up behind her, no sounds uttered neither from it nor from the ground underfoot. As it approached her, it felt satisfied with the stealth it carried through its hunt, its prey was his to have tonight. Just as it came up closer, the woman turned around and came face to face with the beast. In her eyes reflected the image of the brown furred beast, a large snout protruding from its head, mouth open, with long and sharp teeth exposed. As she opened her mouth to scream, the beast pounced onto her chest, its mouth tearing away at the flesh of her throat before her small body ever hit the ground. Death collected her sick soul, damned from birth; it escaped her frailness and was finally free to fly away from the life that had kept her prisoner all these years. As her spirit was carried away by Death, the beast continued tearing mouthfuls of warm flesh from her body.

*

The following Saturday morning, the Old Mill Restaurant was abuzz with chatter by the patrons having breakfast. About a dozen customers were seated in the dining area, being served by Shelley on her first shift back to work since her discovery of the Watson's bodies. Newlyweds Gertrude and Tommy were seated in the middle of the room, as were several other locals. Jack Whitefeather sat alone, drinking his usual cup of herbal tea, seemingly pondering the world and everything in it. Jack had deep creases and lines on his face, always appearing deep in thought, reflective and pondering. This morning was no exception to this.

“That must have been awful Shelley! Did you see Eddy's body?” Gertrude asked her waitress. Tommy locked eyes with Gertrude, trying to force a look of disapproval on his face. Gertrude noticed it, understood it, but kept on anyways, as she always had a very strong personality. Shelley topped up her clients cups of coffee as she answered: “Not really, but I knew he was dead. There was so much blood everywhere. I keep dreaming about it. The strange part is that when I have that dream, I always fly away at the end of it and land in the large oak tree with a bunch of crows.” She took a step back from the table and waited to be mocked by the young couple. Her guard suddenly up, she questioned herself if maybe she should of kept quiet about the dream. Tommy noticed her sudden shiftiness and sensed that she had become nervous. He reassured her by looking up at her and saying in the most sincere voice he could: “It's probably those meds the doc gave you to sleep. They're so strong and probably too strong for you...”. Gertrude smiled at Tommy as she understood his wanting to comfort Shelley. His compassion was a quality that she loved in her husband, and wished she could be more like him in that sense. Shelley nodded and quickly replied “You're probably right...” before she turned to go take an order a few tables over.

As Shelley turned to serve the older couple, the front door opened and Ryan walked in. Being raised courteous, he removed his hat as he entered the restaurant and said hello to a few other patrons who were enjoying their breakfast. He made his way to the counter, where he sat down on one of the stools. Shelley came around and passed a paper order to the cook through the service window. She returned to the counter and poured a cup of coffee for Officer Ryan. “Thanks Shelley...” he said softly, “How are you doing?” Shelley tried to force a smile but it was obvious she was still bothered by the events earlier that week. She replied “I'm ok...not sleeping all that great, but I'm ok”. Ryan nodded just before he brought the hot beverage to his lips, the coffee bitter on his tongue.

A few tables away, Jack got up and dropped a few dollars to pay his bill. His dusty and old hat slipped easily onto his head as he began making his way past the counter. When he reached Ryan, his pace slowed down a bit, and this made Ryan turn sideways on the stool to look at the old man. Jack made eye contact with Ryan and in a deep but yet gentle voice he said: “The body...it isn't Norah.” Ryan momentarily searched the old man's dark brown eyes. There he searched for a hint as to how he knew about the body they had only just discovered that morning. The police report wasn't even completed and typed up, yet Jack somehow knew they had found a body and that they had identified it as Norah. She had been missing for a while now, and although the remains had been badly disfigured, the resemblance was undeniable. Ryan stared at Jack for a few moments, shocked at the knowledge that he held before so many others. He cleared his throat and said in a hushed voice: “What? How did you even know we found a body?” Jack began walking again, his footsteps in rhythm with the delayed tone of voice he offered as a reply to Ryan's questioning. “I know. That's all. The body was like others...partially ....eaten...?” This sounded more like a statement than a question to Ryan, and he began wondering just how much Jack knew in this matter and how he was coming across this information. Ryan turned on the stool as Jack made his way to the door of the dining room. He put his hand on the door knob when Ryan called out to him and asked “Well what do you mean it's not Norah? I know her and that was definitely her.” The diner was quiet now, the customers listening to the conversation as best they could. Shelley looked eagerly at the two men and said “Did you know people are saying it's a werewolf? Little Timmy Nolan says he saw something in the back of the Watson house in the woods that morning. He said it was big and hairy and he didn't stick around to see what it was.” Somewhere from the back of the diner a man's voice piped in: “But it wasn't a full moon that night...so it couldn't be a werewolf...besides, werewolves aren't real, remember?” A few other men that were sitting with him chuckled loudly and kept eating their breakfast. A few tables over, an older lady spoke up: “Well whatever it is, it isn't human! The bodies were eaten too, not just torn up.” She pushed her plate away. Even though there was still about half of her breakfast left on it, it was obvious she had lost her appetite.

Jack looked at the lady and then the man sitting with his friends and said “No werewolf around these parts. It tasted man flesh and now it wants more. It gets braver with each kill. Be careful of the beast, it roams around even when we don't see it.” With this bit of advice given, Jack left the restaurant quickly. Refilling Ryan's coffee cup Shelley says “What did he mean, it's not Norah?” Ryan turned to face Shelley again; his eyes darted down to his lap before he replied “Beats me...” Shelley sensed something was wrong and she could tell Ryan wasn't being truthful with her. The two had dated for a few months a few years back, and she had always been able to tell when he was avoiding her. She wiped up some crumbs on the counter and a coffee stain that had never come out in the four years she worked there. She'd always rubbed it, trying to wash it away every time her hand happened upon it. She couldn't help but probe Ryan further, her questions proving too much for her to keep inside. “Is Norah dead? Ryan, what happened? Was it like the others?” Shelley stood with her eyes fixated on him, waiting for an answer. Ryan raised his hat and put it on as he got up to leave. Before he turned he simply replied “Sorry, but I can't talk about it. Jack is right though. Whatever it is, we gotta be careful. It's still out there.” Shelley watched Ryan walk out of the restaurant, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow in the morning sun as he opened the front door. “What is going on....” she muttered just before she made her way across the dining area to clear a table.

*

Behind the restaurant, Jack was sitting in his old 1950 Ford truck, the red paint faded, it matched the owner perfectly, his own lustre taking a beating these past few months. He appeared to be sleeping as he sat in the driver seat, eyes closed and his long grey hair falling down the sides of his head. Upon closer inspection, it would become apparent he wasn't sleeping, but rather in a sort of deep meditation. He uttered a low and faint chanting, native sounds and breathing abundant throughout his rhythmic calling. He appeared as though in a deep trance, his mind closed off to the external world surrounding him. Suddenly, a large black bird flew into the passenger side of the truck, landing on the seat next to Jack. Cawing, it awoke Jack from his trance-like meditation. As his eyes readjusted to the brightness of the morning light, he looked down at the crow and exclaimed joyfully “There you are my friend.” He reached into the pocket of his old brown jacket for the packet of crackers he had taken with him as he had left the restaurant. “We need to find it before it kills again. We need to find it soon.” Jack spoke to the bird, and the bird seemed to listen. Each time Jack spoke, the black bird stopped pecking at the cracker bits and peered at him with black eyes. He kept on feeding on the dry crumbs. Once he was done, Jack spoke again. “Go....Fly...Help me find it.” At these words, the bird flew off and Jack started his old Ford truck and drove away. As the crow vanished from his sight, past the buildings and over the trees, Jack whispered softly “Be my eyes old friend...Be my eyes...”

*

Ryan felt his feet become heavier as he walked over to extend his hand to both detective Burke and the coroner Harold Randolf. He had not been sleeping well over the past few weeks, thoughts of worry and despair overcoming him as he struggled to cope with the unsolved cases that were multiplying on the island. He felt a great amount of pressure to catch the killer, or killers. He had not ruled out that this may well be the work of a group of people, a cult perhaps, who had chosen certain members of their quiet community on the island. The remoteness of the community would certainly act in favour of any such cult, if that had been the case. Officer Ryan simply was no longer sure what to think or who to suspect anymore. This was the reason why this meeting with both the detective and the coroner held so much importance in both the case and to Ryan as well. He grasped detective Burke's hand firmly and they locked eyes for a moment, subconsciously extending not only a hand, but also their mutual trust and confidence in each other as men of law. Ryan spoke first. “Thanks for meeting me, detective. It's been a long few days for all of us, but I think this meeting is necessary if we want to start finding answers.” Detective Burke nodded in agreement and pushed his large plastic framed glasses back up, exchanging glances with Ryan and Harold. The coroner had his back to the two other men, looking through files that were spread out on his desk. From the files he removed several crime scene pictures as well as autopsy photos and handed them over to Ryan before asking: “I hope you don't mind meeting with us in my office?” Ryan replied “No, I don't mind. Saves me from having to look at those mangled bodies again.” Ryan sat down in one of the chairs near the coroner's desk and Burke did the same. “Well this isn't an episode of CSI where we talk over the bodies, kid.” Burke piped in, his sense of humour kicking in. Just when he finished saying this Harold passed him photos. He looked at the images with apparent morbid curiosity but also a touch of revulsion at the vileness of these crimes. “So Ryan, what do you want to know?” asked Harold as he tried to ignore Burke altogether. His infamous sense of humour had been taking its toll on Harold and he wished the detective would be able to remain professional throughout the rest of the investigation, but he knew this was a lot to ask of him. He placed his feet up on the corner of his small desk while his fingers interlaced behind his head as he carefully balanced his weight into position. “Well,” Ryan said, “I just want to know what's going on. The locals are getting too scared to go outside and people are talking about werewolves. Some are even pointing fingers, taking guesses as to who it might be.” Ryan glanced over at Burke who was now seated in the chair on his right. He raised an eyebrow at the police officer's last comment and said “You can't be serious? I know they are scared, with good reason to be, but werewolves?” Ryan nodded and continued “I don't know what to think myself Burke, so I have no idea what to tell them either. We got confirmation with the DNA analysis on the hair sample we sent out. They came back with canine characteristics. I'm at a loss as to what it is we are dealing with here.” Harold tilted back a bit more in his chair, his eyes closed now. When he sat back upright he looked at Ryan with a serious look on his face and said “Just tell them you can't discuss it in detail as it's an ongoing investigation.” The other two nodded in approval as this seemed to be the only thing they could do at this point in order to prevent a panic outbreak on the island. Coroner Randolf went on “If we can, let's please keep this between us, gentlemen. As you already know, the DNA analysis concluded there were canine properties, but there is something else about them we can't figure out. The saliva had plant secretions in it and some sort of spores, a fungus of sorts.” Ryan leaned his body forward some more in the chair, getting closer to the pictures that were now spread out on the coroner's desk. He examined the Stuarts' crime scene photographs as he asked “What does that mean?”. Burke got up from the desk and went over to the window where he opened it a few inches to let some cool fall air whisk into the small, stuffy office. “We have no idea what it means,” said Burke, “but we do know it isn't human for sure.” Ryan was perplexed by this news. “Have any of the locals contacted you about this?” asked Ryan. “Why would you ask that?” replied Randolf. Ryan got up and collected the images and placed them in the corresponding files, reorganizing the lot of graphic images into their respective resting places, within the beige file folders. He answered the question without looking up; avoiding the coroner's gaze “It's just something someone said to me. Seemed to know too much about all this, but he's just a nosey, old man anyways.” Burke and Randolf exchanged glances before Burke said abruptly “You need to let us know what you hear. Anything at all Ryan, you call me, understood?” Ryan stood up straight as he finished picking up the last photograph and replied “Of course, and I expect you guys would do the same for me. Anyways, I gotta go visit a certain old man and see why he knows so much. Thanks again, we'll be in touch.”

As Ryan left the small office, Harold Randolf looked at Detective Burke and said “He's a good kid. I hope he doesn't do anything stupid like trying to find this thing on his own. He might end up on my table if he does.” Burke chuckled and with his usual poor taste in humour he said “Hell, better him than me!” Randolf rolled his eyes dramatically as Burke left his office, smiling at his own joke.

*

The old dirt road on which the police cruiser travelled was bumpy and surrounded by large trees. The daylight was slowly burning away behind the forest, casting many shadows on the rough patch of road. This path led to and through the centre of the island, a shortcut of sorts for locals that didn't want to drive all around to get to the other side. It was rarely used, especially this time of year when heavy rains would often create bogs of mud and muck for vehicles to become trapped in. Most residents avoided using the road, unless absolutely necessary. Ryan had decided to come pay a visit to Jack Whitefeather at his home in these woods. He had been curious to know how he had known about Norah's body being discovered. As the police car trampled over small debris and rocks, Ryan finally noticed a clearing come into view on his right hand side. The trees in front of the small and old cabin were reduced to about a half dozen. The cabin itself could have easily been believed to be abandoned were it not for the small sliver of smoke coming out of the stone chimney that stood on the side. A large covered porch wrapped itself around the cabin, which stood very close to the ground as there was no foundation to this very old structure. It seemed to Ryan that this cabin must have been built when the loggers had first settled on the island, back in the early 1920's. No power lines led to the cabin and so no electricity came here. He concluded that the facilities were also primitive as he spotted an old outhouse in the backyard near the woods. Jack led a very simple life and that was obvious just by looking at him, but by looking over his property, it was a clear fact. Ryan pulled into the driveway, if that's what it could be called. The dirt was speckled with grass except for two lone tracks that were bare. At the end of the tracks sat an old beat up 1950 Ford truck, red in colour. He knew he was in the right place once he recognized the truck he'd seen Jack in so many times before. It seemed to Ryan he had always seen Jack in this truck, from as far back as he could remember, even as a child growing up on the island, he remembered Jack with his old dusty wide brim hat peering down at him with those large piercing eyes. Now, as Ryan drove slowly along those two lone dirt tracks, he somehow felt those eyes on him, rushing through him as would a cold winter wind. He looked around, searching for the source of the stare, but he couldn't see anybody on the property. He brought the car to a stop behind the old Ford truck and reached down to unbuckle his seat belt when suddenly, out of nowhere came a large shadow and a loud “CAW! CAW!” sound. Ryan jumped, spooked by the large crow that had just swooped down and perched itself atop the hood of his car. The crow kept cawing loudly, flapping its wings a few times, a sign that it was trying to alert others of Ryan's presence. Ryan stared for a few moments, spooked by the bird’s abrupt appearance. He stepped out of his car slowly, keeping his hands free in case the large crow would try to attack him. He kept his eyes on it, the strange bird holding Ryan's gaze. The bird cawed once more and Ryan jumped when he heard a voice at the same time coming from behind him. “Ryan, I was waiting for you.” Jack was standing a few yards away from him, emerging from the woods. He was carrying a small deer-skin satchel on a long strap over his shoulder and an arm load of dried wood. Small branches and twigs were among the load. When he got closer to Ryan he stated more than he asked “Come inside.” He ignored the fact that Ryan was nervous, hand on his gun as he stood watching the black bird on the hood, now seemingly disinterested in the officer.

As Jack walked off towards the cabin, the crow caught flight and flew off into tall trees behind the structure. The men walked up the decrepit porch steps, a soft creaking noise permeating the quietness of the surroundings. Once inside, Jack placed the twigs near a small wood pile next to an old potbellied wood stove and moved over to the cupboards with his satchel. As he began to speak, Ryan could sense a tone of relief in the man's voice. “You want to know about the beast, don't you? This is why you come to me?” This sounded more like a statement than a question to Ryan. The officer nodded a weak affirmation and Jack turned to become face to face with Ryan. “If you want to know what this thing is, you must sit with me and trust what I say is truth, as difficult as that will be. It must be told to be stopped, but only if you listen, Ryan.” The young officer stared at the old man for a few moments before nodding his agreement. Outside, the cawing of a large black bird echoed across the deserted woods, its cry a mournful song that played on until the sun set its last rays behind the tall trees on Oakwood Island.

To be continued....